[Illustration: Sir W. C. Rofs, R. A. A. B. RossTHE UNMARRIED BELLEEngraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine]

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. 

VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, OCTOBER, 1848. No. 4. 

THE UNMARRIED BELLE. 

BY ENNA DUVAL. 

[SEE ENGRAVING. ]

 Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection! Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike; Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven! LONGFELLOW'S EVANGELINE. 

I was loitering beside my mother's chair, in her drawing-room, one dayon my return from school, listening to the conversation between herand some morning visiters; they were discussing most earnestly themerits of a reigning belle. 

"She is, indeed, perfectly beautiful, " exclaimed my mother. "I lookedat her the other evening, when I saw her at the last concert, andthought a more lovely creature could not exist. The music excited her, and her cheek was delicately flushed, which heightened the brilliancyof her eyes; her lovely lips were just half apart and trembling withfeeling. Then she understands so well the art and mystery of dressing. While other young ladies around her were in the full pride ofbrilliant _costume_, the eye felt freshened and relieved when lookingat her--there was such a repose in her _demi-toilette_. The simplewhite dress was so pure and chaste in its effect, displaying only herlovely throat, and her beautiful chestnut-brown hair was gathered upcarelessly but neatly, while over one tiny ear fell a rich cluster ofringlets; then, with all her beauty and exquisite taste, she is sounconscious, so unstudied. That the world should call Mary Lee abeauty, I do not wonder; but that society should pronounce her abelle, is, indeed, a surprise to me--she is so unassuming, so freefrom art and _affectation_. "

"So unlike her mother, " exclaimed a lady, eagerly. "I think Mary'ssuccess in society is as gratifying as unexpected to Mrs. Lee. Shedelayed her _entrée_ into society as long as she could, and used tolament most piteously to me the trouble she expected to have with her, from her total want of animation and spirit. But now she seems to haveentirely forgotten her former misgivings, for she takes many airs onherself about Mary's popularity, talking all the while as thoughscarcely any one was good enough for the husband of the daughter shepronounced one year ago a stupid, inanimate creature. "

"Ah!" said a gentleman, laughing, "the tie now is between young Mortonand Langley, I believe. As Langley is the more _distingué_ of the two, I suppose the mother will favor him; but if one can judge fromappearances, the daughter prefers Harry Morton. "

"I can assure you, " interrupted Mr. Foster, an intimate friend of ourfamily, "the daughter has quite as much admiration for the rich Mr. Langley as the mother. There is a little incident connected with thatsame concert Mrs. Duval speaks of, that convinces me of the daughter'spowers of management. "

"Shame on you, Philip Foster!" said my mother, "you should not talkthus of any lady, much less of Mary Lee. "

"What was the incident, Mr. Foster?" eagerly inquired the otherladies. 

"Yes, do tell us, Phil, " urged his gentleman friend. 

My mother looked reproachfully at Mr. Foster, but he shook his headlaughingly at her, as he said, "Hear me first, dear Mrs. Duval, before you judge. I was at Mrs. Lee'stwo or three mornings since. Several visitors were in thedrawing-rooms, among them Harry Morton, as usual. I was looking at anew and costly collection of engravings on the _commode_ table, when Ioverheard Harry Morton ask Miss Lee if he should join their party atthe concert the next evening. She replied that she regretted theywere not going, for she had already promised her mother to dine andspend the evening quietly with an old friend. The next evening at theconcert the whole Lee party were there, and our belle, Miss Mary, wasbrought in by young Langley, just newly arrived from Europe. Theunconscious _demi-toilette_ Mrs. Duval speaks so admiringly of, hadthe desired effect. Langley's taste has been chastened by a voyageover the Atlantic; the noisy over-dressing of his countrywomen would, of course, annoy his delicate sense--therefore was the simple homecostume adopted in preference, and the "_available_" Mr. Langleysecured as an admirer. "

"I do not believe any such thing, Philip!" exclaimed my mother, indignantly. "I will answer for it, there was some mistake. Mary Leewould scorn a falsehood, and is entirely above all artifice or design. Mrs. Lee is said to be maneuvering and worldly; if she is, herdaughter is entirely free from such influences. "

"How did Morton take it, Phil?" asked the other friend, laughingly. 

"He was with me, " replied Mr. Foster, evidently enjoying with somelittle malice my kind mother's annoyance, "we had dropped into theconcert by chance together. He looked thunderstruck, but said nothing, and did not approach her during the whole evening. She knew he wasthere, however, for I saw her return his cold bow in a painfullyembarrassed manner. "

The entrance of some other visiters, connected with the Lees, put anend to the conversation. That night, when my nurse was undressing mefor bed, I said, "What's a belle, Katy?"

"A very rich and beautiful young lady, " replied my nurse, "who hasplenty of lovers, and gets married very soon. "

"Will I ever be a belle?" I innocently inquired, as she gathered up myrebellious hair under my cap. 

"No, " she replied, in impatient tones, "your hair is too straight, andyour skin too yellow; but you must do as you're told to, or elsenobody will even love you; so go to sleep right away. "

I was silenced, and thus obedience was obtained by appealing to mylove of approbation. Many years passed, bringing me to womanhood, whenI discovered the truth of Nurse Katy's reason why I should not be abelle. Other people decided that my "hair was too straight, and myskin too yellow, " to use Katy's homely, rough words; but her _brusque_admonition, that made me go to sleep so quickly when a child, actedupon me as a woman. My approbativeness once roused, I managed, despitemy want of personal attractions, to secure a host of friends; and thelesson I then learned, to please others rather than myself for thesake of gaining their love, has caused my life thus far to be verysunny and happy, even more so than if I had been the belle my childishfancy desired. 

One of Nurse Katy's principal attributes of a belle, however, Mary Leewas deficient in. She did not get married at all--and Mary Lee sheremained all her life. But she was one of the loveliest old maids inthe world, and quite as popular in our circle as she had been in herown. She had been confined many years with an invalid mother andparalytic father, but after their death some time, she re-enteredsociety; and her house was the favorite resort of the new set of youngpeople, as it had been in her young days. She gave the most delightfulparties, planned the most pleasant enjoyments for us, and althoughacknowledging herself to be an old maid, she still retained heryouthful feelings unimpaired. 

Her mind remained in a fresh, healthy state, and her disposition wasstill sweet and joyous. How we all loved her; she was our confidante, adviser and friend. She was still pretty, and might have proved a veryformidable rival had she chosen to enter society as a young lady; butshe preferred being regarded by us as an elder friend. The youngladies grouped around her as younger sisters; and one half the younggentlemen would have married her _instanter_, notwithstanding she wasten or fifteen years their senior. Old maid as she was, strange totell, she was a promoter of marriages. The ill-natured called Mary Leea match-maker. She certainly did interest herself very much withlovers, fathoming all the little mysteries of their love-quarrels, andsetting every thing quite straight, even when they seemed ininextricable confusion. 

Miss Lee had been very fond of my mother, and extended to me the sameregard, therefore I was, notwithstanding the difference in our ages, on a more intimate footing with her than her other young friends. Oneday, as we were discussing the merits of an approaching wedding, theconversation assumed a confidential tone. 

"Indeed, Enna, " she exclaimed, laughingly, "there is nothing moreinteresting to me than a couple of lovers full of romance, poetry, andperfectly blind and uncaring as to the future. I love to watch them incourtship, lend them a helping hand in the quicksands of thatdangerous but delicious season; and then it makes me so happy tocongratulate them after their troubles are all over, and they arehappily married. "

"Ah! if they only could be sure of happiness, " I replied. 

"Shame on you for that old maid's croak!" she said, with a brightlook; "those who are not happy in married life, would never be happyin any situation. There should be no old maids or old bachelors, Enna;we would all be happier married; we fail in fulfilling our missionswhen we remain single. Hunt up a lover, Enna; let me watch yourcourtship, and rejoice over your wedding. As a clever friend of mineonce said, we think poetry as lovers, but in married life we act truepoetry. "

I opened my eyes with astonishment, and innocently asked, "Why is it, then, you have never married?"

A shadow crossed over her face, and I felt a desire to recall thequestion, for I feared I had called up disagreeable reminiscences, butthe next instant her countenance was as beaming and calm as before. 

"I will tell you, Enna, " she said, as she caressingly rested her headon my shoulder, "why I have never married; but to do that I mustrelate the history of my rather uneventful life. My story has butlittle interest, but it will gratify the curiosity of one who lovesme. My childhood was spent with an old aunt. She took me when I was adelicate wee thing, and I remained with her until her death, whichtook place when I was nearly grown. She was a dear, good old lady, andwith her my life passed most happily; my short visits home gave melittle pleasure, for my mother was a very worldly, ambitious woman, and displayed but little tenderness for me, which, when contrastedwith my aunt's fondness and indulgence, made me feel quite as astranger in my family; and when Aunt Mary died, I wept as bitterly, and felt as lonely and bereft of friends, as though I did not possessa mother, father, and sisters. The two years after my aunt's deathwere spent in close attention to those accomplishments which had beenneglected in my education as unnecessary, and which my mother deemedso essential; and not a day passed without my poor mother'sexclamations of despair over me. 

"'One comfort there is, however, ' she would say, 'your aunt's littlefortune of a few thousands will be exaggerated in society, and peoplewill forget your _mauvaise honte_ in giving you credit for being anheiress. '

"But the report of my being an heiress was not needed, for when Ientered society, to my mother's amazement, I created quite asensation. I had been looked upon as a pretty girl always; but mymother had so often declared that I was so inanimate and innocent, shenever would be able to do any thing with me, and my pretty face wouldbe of no service to me, that I looked upon myself as quite an ordinaryperson, and was as much surprised at my belle-hood as my family. Iwonder my little head was not turned with the attentions I received, so unused as I had been to admiration; it might have been, however, had not a disappointment--a bitter, heart-aching disappointment, wearied me of all this adulation and attention. 

"Soon after my entrance into society, I became acquainted with a Mr. Morton--agreeable, good-looking, and attentive he was, ofcourse--quite an acquisition to me in my circle of admirers. Hisworldly qualifications were not of so brilliant a nature as to attractmy prudent mother's fancy, for he was only a young lawyer of slendermeans and moderate practice. I do not think she ever dreamed of theinterest he excited in me, but looked upon him as one of the crowd ofattendants necessarily surrounding a belle. But how differently Iregarded him. The piles of costly bouquets I received daily, gainedbut little attention from me, unless I discerned among them the tinybunch of sweet-violets, tea-roses, and mignonette, which he once in agreat while sent me. In my ball-tablets my eyes sought the dancesmarked down for him; and when he was my partner, the dance, generallyso wearisome, was only too short, too delightful; the reminiscence ofthat happy time makes a silly girl of me again. My mother neverimagined he aspired to my hand--she would have looked aghast at thebare mention of such a probability; but she regarded him as a friend, and he was a great favorite with her. She used to say young men likeHarry Morton, that knew their places, were invaluable acquaintancesfor a belle; thus were we thrown a great deal together. She was soblind to his real position with me, quick-sighted as she generally wasin other things, I was permitted to have him for my partner indancing, even for several quadrilles during an evening; he was myconstant attendant in my daily rides on horseback, and my mother neverhesitated to call upon him if we were at any time in need of an escortto a ball or opera. He was upon the footing of a brother or cousin inthe family; but, ah! how dear was he to me. Without any actualexplanation, I felt sure of Harry Morton's love. I never had anydoubts or jealousies--we seemed to perfectly understand each other. Inever looked forward to our future--I was too quietly happy in thepresent. I only dated from one meeting to another--from the dinner tothe party, when he would be ready to hand us from our carriage, totake me off my father's arm in compliance with my mother's constantinquiry and request of, 'Where's Harry Morton? Here, Harry, do takecharge of Mary, ' a request which he always seemed delighted to obey. Then, after the happy good-night, I would lie my head on the pillow todream of him and the morning ride we would take together. Why he neverspoke to me of his love I cannot tell. It might have been thatfeelings of delicacy restrained him; my father was rich, while he wasbut a poor young lawyer; then report had made me an heiress in my ownright, as well as a belle, to my worldly mother's great content. Thathe loved me I am sure, though he never told me with his lips. 

"One morning my mother said to me, 'Do not make any engagement forto-morrow, Mary; we must dine _en famille_ with dear old Mrs. Langley;we have not been there for a month. '

"Now this Mrs. Langley was a person of great consideration in mymother's eyes. She was very wealthy, and, moreover, had been at thehead of the fashionable world for many years. Since my entrance intosociety, she had been quite an invalid, and rarely appeared in public, but it gratified her exceedingly to have her friends around her, forshe dreaded yielding up her command in the world. My mother was anespecial favorite of hers; and after I had taken such a prominentsituation in society, she expressed great regard for me. Once in amonth or so we spent a day with her. She lived in great style--astately dinner, and a stupid, grand, heavy evening was the amount ofthe visit. How I used to dread the coming of the day; it was the onlytime I was separated from Harry, for Mrs. Langley being veryexclusive, and making no new acquaintances, he had no _entrée_ there. I used to sing for her, arrange her worsteds, tell her of the partiesand different entertainments, and read to her her son's last letter. She had only one son, and he had been in Europe for two or threeyears. He was her idol, and she never tired talking of him. Dear oldlady, my conscience smote me many times for the feelings of impatientweariness and _ennui_ I would give way to during one of her tediousdinner parties. 

"The following morning after my mother had announced the visit ofpenance, Harry Morton made his appearance in our drawing-rooms, asusual, with the other morning visiters. Every one was talking of a newsinger who was to make her _debût_ on that evening. 

"'May I join your party at the concert this evening?' Harry asked me, in a low voice. 

"'I regret exceedingly, ' I replied, 'that we are not going to theconcert. I have already promised mamma to spend a quiet day andevening with an old friend of hers. You must listen attentively tothis new _donna_, and tell me all about her voice if you go. '

"'I do not think I shall go, ' he replied, in low, earnest tones, 'forI could not enjoy the concert if not with you. ' A turn in the generalconversation drew us more into notice, and some ladies and gentlemenentering, put an end to all further intercourse between us; how long Iremembered and cherished those last words of his. When I made myappearance in my mother's room at 5 o'clock, shawl and hood in hand, she regarded me from head to foot smilingly. 

"'What new caprice to-day?' she said, 'and yet I must confess it isvery becoming to you. '

"I had felt too languid to dress much, and as the weather was warm, spring being quite far advanced, I had chosen a simple white mull robefor the visit to our old friend, knowing that we should meet with butfew visiters there. This I explained apologetically to my mother, whotapped me with her fan good-naturedly, saying that beauties werecunning creatures, they liked to show once in a while they could defythe aid of ornament. The first few months of my entrance into societymy mother superintended, with great attention, all my _toilettes_; butnear the close of the season she fell into the general opinion, thatwhat ever I did was exactly right; and poor little me, that one shorthalf-year before had no right to express an opinion upon so grave asubject as dress, was now constantly appealed to; and whatever style Iadopted was perfect in her eyes. Society had placed its stamp upon me, I could pass current as a coin of high value to her. 

"When I reached Mrs. Langley's, I found the old lady attended by butone gentleman, who, beside ourselves, was her only visiter. What wasmy surprise to hear her introduce him as her son, Templeton Langley. The dinner passed more pleasantly than usual, for Mr. Langley madehimself very agreeable. After dinner he proposed we should go to theconcert, as he felt an interest in the new _primadonna_, having heardher at her _debût_ in Europe. I made an objection, which was overruledby Mrs. Langley's expressing a desire--strange for her--to golikewise; and we went. I had not been ten minutes in the room when, onlifting my eyes, the first person I saw was Harry Morton lookingsternly at me. Foolishly, I grew embarrassed, my face burned, and mywhole frame trembled with nervous agitation. He did not approach me, but gave me only a cold bow. 'He thinks me guilty of falsehood, ' Isaid to myself. How wretchedly passed the evening, and yet I have nodoubt I was an object of envy to many of my young lady friends. Therich _distingué_, Templeton Langley showed himself my devoted admirer, while his mother, the acknowledged leader of _ton_, sat beside ussmiling approvingly. My indifferent, cold manner, my simple costume, and my beautiful face, completed that evening the conquest of thefastidious, fashionable young man. You cannot imagine the delight ofmy mother, when day after day found Templeton Langley constantlybeside me, she could scarcely restrain her exultation; while I, poorchild, listened with aching, throbbing senses for the approach of onewho never came near me. Two or three weeks passed in a whirl ofgayety. It was the close of the season, and one or two brides in ourcircle made the parties very constant. Mrs. Langley proposed that ourfamily should join her son and herself in their summer visit to theLakes; accordingly we did so, and we spent more than three monthstraveling. Ere the close of those three months, Templeton Langleyoffered himself to me. I could not describe to you the scene thatensued between my mother and myself when I rejected him. She was aworldly woman, and my conduct seemed perfectly wild to her. Sheremonstrated, persuaded, then reproached me in impatient, angry tones. My father was a quiet, amiable man, and rarely interfered with mymother in her management, but he fortunately shook off enough of hislethargy to come to my rescue at this time. 

"'If Mary does not love Mr. Langley, ' he said, 'why urge her to marryhim? Do not scold the poor child, ' and he drew me toward him tenderly. 

"Templeton Langley was rather an indifferent person in every way. Hiswealth, combined with his situation in the fashionable world, placedhim in a fictitious light; but he had little intelligence, nooriginality, and only a passable personal appearance. I was constantlydrawing the comparison between him and Harry Morton. Harry was sohandsome, so brilliant in conversation--and this thought rendered poorMr. Langley, with all his fastidious, elegant manners, quiteunbearable to me. To think of being tied to such a man for life wasperfect martyrdom for me; and although hitherto so yielding, I showedmyself on this occasion obstinate. Floods of tears I shed, and mymother fancied at first she could overcome my 'ridiculoussentimentality, ' as she called it, but in vain; and finding a friendin my father, I remained firm. I felt more sorry for old Mrs. Langley, who was, indeed, terribly distressed, but she treated me very kindly, and exonerated me from all blame. She was, however, really very fondof me, and had set her heart upon having me for a daughter. Mr. Langley returned to Europe, and for many months our circle of friendswere quite at a loss to know whether he had offered, been accepted, or refused, or whether he had only flirted with me. My mother felt toodisappointed to boast of the rejection; and, moreover, she was sooccupied in bringing out my sister, Emma, as to have little time tothink of me or my affairs. My sister was but seventeen, three yearsyounger than I, but much nearer my age in appearance. I found myselfnow of but secondary consideration in my mother's eyes. I fear shereally disliked me then. She was an ambitious woman, and had set herheart upon my making a brilliant match; this favorite hope of hers Ihad blighted, and feeling little interest in society, I became of lessconsequence, for my sad, absent manner made me, of course, uninteresting; therefore, as my reign as a belle was over, my poormother now sought to dismiss me from her mind and occupy herself withother objects. 

"Harry Morton had gone to the Southwest ere we returned from oursummer's journey, and we never met again. A year or so afterward Iheard of his marriage with a dashing southern belle, and he is now adistinguished man at the South. After these perplexing, unfortunatemisunderstandings, my health failed, and for a long while I was aninvalid, rarely appearing in society. My two sisters, Emma and Alice, were more lucky than I, for they married happily, and with my mother'sgratified approbation--for they each made the 'best match of theirseason. ' Neither one was so pretty as I had been, and as my motherused to ejaculate, "'Thank Heaven! neither Emma nor Alice are belles; they at least willnot trouble me with their exaggerated notions about love and all thatnonsense. '

"I passed a miserable, wretched existence for a year or more afterHarry and I were separated. How earnestly I prayed for death, socompletely prostrated was my spirit by my disappointment. I felt aslonely as I had at the time of dear Aunt Mary's death. In time, however, I aroused myself from my morbid feelings, and in reading andstudy found at first occupation, then strength and content. 

"The week after my youngest sister was married my father was strickendown with paralysis. I was the only one at home with my parents, formy bride sister had sailed for Europe the day after her wedding, andEmma was far distant in her Southern home, having married a wealthySouth Carolinian two years before. Faithfully I devoted myself to myfather, and when my mother, a year afterward, was seized with apainful, lingering disease, I made myself so necessary to her comfort, that she at last acknowledged, that what had appeared to be hergreatest trouble had proved her greatest blessing. She altered verymuch before her death, and lost entirely all those worldly feelingswhich had actuated her during her early life. She suffered for manyyears at times agonizing pain, and during this time I was solecompanion and nurse to my parents. Often I thanked Providence forhaving denied to me my early love, granting to me in lieu anopportunity of fulfilling the most holy of duties. See, Enna, to whatan unromantic and yet enviable state of mind I at last attained. Believe me, dearest, we never should grieve over unavoidable troubles, for many times they are but the rough husk of that sweet kernel--ahidden blessing. "

ZENOBIA. 

BY MYRON L. MASON. 

 'Twas holyday in Rome. Her sevenfold hills Were trembling with the tread of multitudes Who thronged her streets. Hushed was the busy hum Of labor. Silent in the shops reposed The implements of toil. A common love Of country, and a zeal for her renown, Had warmed all hearts, and mingled for a day Plebian ardor with patrician pride. The sire, the son, the matron and the maid, Joined in bestowing on their emperor The joyous benedictions of the state. Alas! about that day's magnificence Was spread a web of _shame_! The victor's sword Was stained with cowardice--his dazzling fame Tarnished by insult to a fallen woman. Returning from his conquests in the East, Aurelian led in his triumphant train Palmyra's beauteous queen, Zenobia, Whose only crime had been the love she bore To her own country and her household gods. 

 Long had the Orient owned the sovereign sway Of Rome imperial, and in forced submission Had bowed the neck to the oppressor's yoke. The corn of Syria, her fruits and wares, The pearls of India, Araby's perfumes, The golden treasures of the mountains, all Profusely poured in her luxurious lap, Crowned to the full her proud magnificence. Rome regal, throned on her eternal hills, With power supreme and wide-extended hand, Plundered the prostrate nations without stint Of all she coveted, and, chiefly thou, O Liberty, the birthright boon of Heaven. But Rome had passed her noon; her despotism Was overgrown; an earthquake was at work At her foundations; and new dynasties, Striking their roots in ripening revolutions, Were soon to sway the destinies of realms. 

 The East was in revolt. The myriad seeds Of dark rebellion, sown by tyranny, And watered by the blood of patriots slain, Were springing into life on every hand. Success was alternating in this strife 'Twixt power and _right_, and anxious Victory, With balance poised, the doubtful issue feared. Amid the fierce contention, 'mid the din Of war's sublime encounter, and the crash Of falling systems old, Palmyra's queen Followed her valiant lord, Palmyra's king. Ever beside him in the hour of peril, She warded from his breast the battle's rage; And in the councils of the cabinet Her prudent wisdom was her husband's guide. 

 Domestic treason, with insidious stab, Snatched from Zenobia's side her gallant lord, And threw into her hand the exigencies Of an unstable and capricious throne. Yet was her genius not inadequate. The precepts of experience, intertwined With intellectual power of lofty grade, Combined to raise Palmyra's beauteous queen High in the golden scale of moral greatness. Under the teachings of the good Longinus The streams of science flowed into her mind; And, like the fountain-fostered mountain lake, Her soul was pure as its ethereal food. The patronage bestowed on learned men Declared her love for letters. The rewards, Rich and unnumbered, she conferred on merit Her own refined, exalted taste betrayed. Her graceful and majestic figure, crowned With beauty such as few but angels wear, Like the rich casing that surrounds the gem, Heightened the splendor of her brilliant genius. Equally daring on the battle-field And in the chase, her prudence and her courage, Displayed in many a hot emergency, Had twined victorious laurel round her brow. Under her rule Palmyra's fortunes rose To an unequalled altitude, and wealth Flowed in upon her like a golden sea, Her wide dominion, stretching from the Nile To the far Euxine and Euphrates' flood-- Her active commerce, whose expanded range Monopolized the trade of all the East-- Her stately capital, whose towers and domes Vied with proud Rome in architectural grace-- Her own aspiring aims and high renown-- All breathed around the Asiatic queen An atmosphere of greatness, and betrayed Her bold ambition, and her rivalry With the imperial mistress of the world. 

 But 't is the gaudiest flower is soonest plucked; The sturdiest oak first feels the builder's axe. Palmyra's rising greatness had awaked The jealousy of Rome, and Fortune looked On her prosperity with envious eye. Under the golden eagles of the empire, Aurelian's soldiers swept the thirsty sands, And poured into Palmyra's palmy plains, A mighty host hot for the battle-field. Borne on her gallant steed, the warrior queen The conflict sought, and led her eager troops Into the stern encounter. Like the storm Of their own desert plain, innumerable, They rushed upon the foe, and courted danger. Amid the serried ranks, whose steel array Glowed in the noonday sun, and threw a flood Of wavy sheen into the fragrant air, Zenobia rode; and, like an angry spirit, Commissioned from above to chastise men, Where'er she moved was death. There was a flash Of scorn that lighted up her fiery eye, A glance of wrath upon her countenance-- There was a terror in her frenzied arm That struck dismay into the boldest heart. Alas for her, Fortune was unpropitious! Her fearless valor found an overmatch In the experienced prudence of Aurelian; And scarcely could the desert's hardy sons Cope with the practiced legions of the empire. The battle gained, Palmyra taken, sacked-- Its queen a captive, hurled from off a throne, Stripped of her wide possessions, forced to sue In humblest attitude for even life-- The haughty victor led his weary legions Back to Italia's shores, and in his train His fallen rival, loaded with chains of gold, Forged from the bullion of her treasury. 

 'T was holyday in Rome. The morning sun, Emerging from the palace-crested hills Of the Campagna, poured a flood of light Upon the slumbering city, summoning Its teeming thousands to the festival. A playful breeze, rich-laden with perfume From groves of orange, gently stirred the leaves, And curled the ripples on the Tiber's breast, Bearing to seaward o'er the flowery plain The rising peans' joyful melodies. Flung to the wind, high from the swelling dome That crowned the Capitol, the imperial banner, Broidered with gold and glittering with gems, Unfurled its azure field; and, as it caught The sunbeams and flashed down upon the throng That filled the forum, there arose a shout Deep as the murmur of the cataract. In that spontaneous outburst of applause _Rome spoke_; and as the echo smote the hills It woke the slumbering memory of a time When Rome was _free_. 

 A trumpet from the walls Proclaimed the day's festivities begun. Preceded by musicians and sweet singers, A long procession passed the city-gate, And, traversing the winding maze of streets, Climbed to the Capitol. Choice victims, dressed With pictured ornaments and wreaths of flowers, An offering to the tutelary gods, Led the advance. Then followed spoils immense, Baskets of jewels, vases of wrought gold, Paintings and statuary, cloths and wares, Of costliest manufacture, close succeeded By the rich symbols of Palmyra's glory, Torn from her temples and her palaces, To grace a triumph in the streets of Rome. With toilsome step next walked the captive queen; And then the victor, in his car of state, With milk-white horses of Thessalian breed, And in his retinue a splendid train Of Rome's nobility. In one long line The army last appeared in bright array, With banners high displayed, filling the air With songs of victory. The pageant proud Quickened remembrance of departed days, And warmed the bosoms of the multitude With deep devotion to the commonwealth. 

 High in his gilded chariot, decked in robes Of broidered purple, and with laurel crowned, Rode the triumphant conqueror, in his hand The emblems of his power. The capital Of his wide empire was inflamed with zeal To do him honor and exalt his praise. The world was at his feet; his sovereign will None dared to question, and his haughty word Was law to nations. Yet his heart was troubled. In the dim distance he discerned the flight Of Freedom, on swift pinions heralding Enfranchisement to the oppressed of earth. He knew the feeble tenure of dominion Based on allegiance with reluctance paid; And read the future overthrow of Rome In the unyielding spirit of his victim. Uncovered in the sun, weary and faint, Bowed to the earth with chains of ravished gold, With feet unsandaled, walked Zenobia, Slave to the craven tyrant's cruelty. Neither her peerless beauty, nor her sex, Nor yet her grievous sufferings could melt The despot's stony heart. She, who surpassed Her conqueror in all the qualities Of head or heart which crown humanity With nobleness and high preëminence-- She, whose _misfortunes_ in a glorious cause, And not her _errors_, had achieved her ruin-- Burdened with ignominy and disgrace For her resplendent _virtues_, not her _crimes_-- She who had graced a palace, and dispensed Pardon to penitence, reward to worth, And tempered justice with benevolence-- Wickedly torn from her exalted station, Now walked a captive in the streets of Rome, E'en at the feet of the oppressors steeds. Yet was her spirit all untamed. Disdain Still sat upon her countenance, and breathed Unmeasured scorn upon her persecutors. The blush of innocence upon her cheek, The burning pride that flashed within her eye, The majesty enthroned upon her brow, Told, in a language which the tyrant _felt_, That her unconquered spirit soared sublime In a pure orbit whither _his_ sordid soul Could ne'er attain. Had he a captive led Some odious wretch, whose sanguinary crimes, Long perpetrated under sanction of a strength No arm could reach, had spread a pall of mourning Over a people's desolated homes, He then had _right_ to triumph o'er his victim. But 't was not thus. Insatiable ambition Had led him to unsheath his victor sword Against a monarch whose distinctive sway Ravished from Rome no tittle of her _right_; And, to augment the aggregate of wrong, _That monarch was a woman_, whose renown, Compared with his, was gold compared with brass. As o'er the stony street the captive paced Her weary way before the victor's steeds, And marked the multitudes insatiate gaze, The look of calm defiance on her face Told that she bowed not to her degradation. Her thoughts were not at Rome. Unheeded all, The billows of the mad excitement dashed About her, and broke harmless at her feet. Dim reminiscences of former days Burst like a deluge on her errant mind; Leading her backward to the buried past, When in the artless buoyancy of youth She sat beneath Palmyra's fragrant shades And gleaned the pages of historic story, Red with Rome's bloody catalogue of wrong. Little she dreamed Palmyra's palaces Should e'er be scenes of Roman violence; Little she dreamed that _hers_ should be the lot (A captive princess led in chains) to crown The splendor of a Roman holyday. Alas! the blow she thought not of had fallen. A bloody struggle, like a dreadful dream, Had briefly raged, and all to her was lost, Save the poor grace of a degraded life. Her sun of glory was gone down in blood-- The glittering fabric of her power despoiled To swell the triumph of her conqueror. But in the wreck of her magnificence, With eye prophetic, she foresaw the ruin Of the proud capital of all the world. She saw the quickening symptoms of rebellion Among the nations, and she caught their cry For _freedom_ and for _vengeance_!

 * * * * *

 Hark! the Goth Is thundering at the gate, His reckless sword Leaps from the scabbard, eager to vindicate The cause of the oppressed. A thousand years The sun has witnessed in his daily course The tyranny of Rome, now crushed _forever_. The mighty mass of her usurped dominion, By its own magnitude at last dissevered, Is crumbling into fragments; and the shades Of long-forgotten generations shriek With fiendish glee over the yawning gulf Of her perdition. 

TEMPER LIFE'S EXTREMES. 

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. 

 'Tis wise, in summer-warmth, to look before, To the keen-nipping winter; it is good, In lifeful hours, to lay aside some store Of thought, to leaven the spirit's duller mood; To mould the sodded dyke, in sunny hour, Against the coming of the wasteful flood; Still tempering Life's extremes, that Wo no more May start abrupt in Joy's sweet neighborhood. If Day burst sudden from the bars of Night, Or with one plunge leaped down the sheer abyss, Painful alike were darkness and the light, Bearing fixed war through shifting victories; But sweet their bond, where peaceful twilight lingers, Weaving the rosy with the sable fingers. 

THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER. 

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15. 

BY HENRY A. CLARK. 

(_Continued from page 136. _)

CHAPTER V. 

_The Revenge. _

The report of the pistol fired by Julia had also been heard upon thepirate brig. To Florette it gave assurance of the safety of the fairfugitive. The pirate sprang to his feet, forgetful of his wound, butfell back helpless upon the companion-way, and soon relapsed into hisformer thoughtful state, supposing the sound had come from the deck ofthe Raker, though it had seemed much too near and distinct to appearpossible that such was the case. 

The escape of Julia was not discovered until the following morning. The wrath of the pirate was fearfully vindictive. Even Florette becamealarmed when he fiercely accused her of some share in thedisappearance of the captive girl. This she tremblingly denied, suggesting the opinion that Julia must have jumped overboard, in herdespair, induced by the threats of the pirate. The loss of the boatwas also noticed, but not connected with the escape of Julia, it beingsupposed that it had been carelessly fastened. As a very naturalconsequence of his anger, the pirate sought some person on whom hecould vent its fury. 

"Call aft the other woman, " shouted he, "unless she, too, has jumpedoverboard. "

A grim smile was interchanged between the men who heard this order. John's true sex had not been long kept concealed after he had reachedthe pirate brig, and he had nearly fallen a victim to the rage theunpleasant discovery excited in the men, but his ludicrous and abjectexpressions of terror, though they awoke no emotions of pity, yetexcited the merriment of his captors, and turned their anger intolaughter. A man's garments were thrown to him, in which he speedilyequipped himself, being indeed in no slight degree relieved by thechange. Since that time he had kept himself as much aloof as possiblefrom the crew, anxiously and fearfully expectant of some suddencatastrophe, either that his brains would be blown out withoutaffording him an opportunity to expostulate, or that he would becalled upon to walk the plank. 

He was roused by a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. 

"O dear, don't, " cried John. 

"The captain has sent word for'ard arter you, and faith ye had bettherbe in a hurry, for he's a savage when he's mad. "

"O! now I've got to do it. "

"Do what?"

"Why walk the plank to be sure. "

"Arrah, jewel! don't be onaisy now. "

"Wont I's, don't you think?"

"Not a bit of it, darling. I think he will be afther running you up tothe yard-arm. "

"But I can't run up it. "

"Ha! ha! but come along, honey. "

Half dragging John after him, the sailor led him to the quarter-deck. 

"Here's the lady, captain, an' faith she's a swate one. "

The truth of the case had already been explained to the pirate. 

"You cowardly fool, " said he, "did you expect to escape by such asubterfuge? Pat, run him up to the yard-arm. "

"Yes, captain, and that will be a relaif to him, for he was mightyafraid he'd have to walk the plank. "

"He was? well then he shall. "

The vindictiveness of the pirate commander, who had only changed themode of John's death because he thought that by so doing he shouldrender it more fearful and bitter to the victim, was the means ofsaving the poor cockney's life. So do revenge and malice oftenoverreach themselves. 

A long plank was laid out over the side of the brig and John commandedto walk out on it. He showed a strong disinclination to obeying, but ahuge pistol placed against his forehead quickly influenced hisdecision, and with a cry of anguish he stepped out upon it. As theboard tipped he turned to spring back to the brig, but slipping up, fell upon the board, which he pulled after him into the water. 

"Fool, " cried the captain to one of his men, "what did you let theboard loose for, he will float now till the chase picks him up--fireinto him. "

A dozen balls were fired at John, and it seems he was hit, for he letgo the board and sunk. 

"There, captain, he's done for. "

The brig by this time had reached a considerable distance from theplace where John had been committed to the deep, and when he rose tothe surface, as he soon did, he was out of danger from their shot. 

"O dear!" cried he, "I shan't ever get ashore; I never could swimmuch. "

The waves threw him against the plank. 

"O! a shark! a shark!" shouted John, "now don't;" and he grasped holdof the plank in a frenzy of fear. He soon discovered the friendly aidit would afford him, and held on to it with the tenacity of despair. 

In less than half an hour the Raker came up. John was noticed from itsdeck, and a brawny tar seizing a rope and taking two or three turns ofit round his left arm sprang overboard to rescue the half unconsciouscockney. 

As the sailor seized him, John, supposing it to be a shark, uttered aloud cry and lost all sensation. In this condition he was hauled up tothe deck of the privateer, where, upon recovering his senses, he foundto his great surprise and joy, that instead of being in the belly ofsome voracious fish, like Jonah of old, he was in safety, andsurrounded by the crew of his former vessel, the Betty Allen, including his master. 

The poor fellow was severely wounded by a pistol shot, in the arm, butregardless of this he was wild in his demonstrations of joy, especially when told that his young mistress had also escaped. 

Captain Greene found that he had gained little, if any, upon thepirate during the night, and became convinced that he must againcommence firing upon her, trusting to some lucky ball to carry away aspar, or failing, to allow the villains to escape the punishment theyso richly deserved, not only for their inhuman treatment of the crewof the Betsy Allen, but doubtless for numerous other crimes committedupon the seas, as savage in their conception, and more successful intheir execution. 

The long gun was again uncovered, and a shot dispatched from its hugeportals after the pirate brig. The first ball fired fell short of thebrig, striking the water directly in its wake, and ricochetting againthrew up the water beyond it. 

A succeeding ball, however, did some execution, crashing through hertop-gallant forecastle, but without in any degree lessening her speed. As every fire from the Raker lessened her speed, Capt. Greene becameexceedingly anxious that no balls should be thrown away, and commandedLieut. Morris to point the gun, having more confidence in his skillthan in that of the gunner. The young officer aimed the gun carefully, and as it was fired three cheers arose from his crew, as theyperceived the pirate's mizzen-mast fall away. 

"She is ours, " cried the lieutenant. 

"Stand by, men, to take in sail, " shouted the captain. "We will drawnear enough, " continued he to Morris, "to fire into her at ourleisure, a pirate is not entitled to a more honorable warfare, and heseems also to greatly outnumber us in men. "

As the privateer approached the pirate they could not but admire thesingular beauty of her build. She rose and fell upon the waters asgracefully as a free and wild ocean bird. The long red lines of herport-holes swept with a gentle curve from stem to stern, and her stemwas so sharp that the bowsprit seemed rather to terminate than to joinit. Twelve carronades occupied a double row of port-holes, and thedeck seemed crowded with men, all armed with cutlases and pistols. 

"A formidable looking set, " said Captain Greene, as he laid aside hisglass, "keep the gun lively. "

An ineffectual fire opened upon the privateer from the pirate, butthough they had a swivel of pretty heavy calibre, turning on its axisamidship in such a manner as to menace at will each point of thehorizon, it was evident that its force was far less than the long gunof the privateer. 

A well aimed shot brought down the pirate's fore topsail-yard, whichhung in the slings, and succeeding shots did much injury to her mastsand rigging, and at length the main-topmast fell over the side. 

The scene on board the pirate, during this unequal warfare, was oneapproaching perplexity and disorder. Their commander stood by thehelm, gazing at the privateer, his brow clouded with angry thought, and giving little heed to the movements of his crew. He was arousedfrom his abstraction by the voice of one of his officers. 

"Captain, this is bad business, what is to be done?"

The captain gazed at him in silence. 

"The crew are alarmed, and demand of you some relief from thisharassing state. Our guns will not reach the chase, and we cannotleave her in this crippled state. "

At this moment a heavy ball from the privateer whizzed by them andburied itself in the main-mast of the brig. 

The captain seemed fully aroused. His eyes flashed with their wontedfire. He turned toward his crew, and saw at a glance the state ofdepression which had fallen upon them all. He even overheard somemuttered words of complaint. 

"Pat, " says one, "this seems to be playing a rough game, where nothingis to be won on our side. "

"Faith, an' ye may say that, but we stand a chance to gain one thing. "

"What may that be, Pat?"

"O, a two-inch rope, and a run up to the fore yard-arm. "

"The devil! That's not a pleasant thought, Pat. "

"No, but they say it's an aisy death. "

"Silence, men, " was heard in the deep tones of the captain's voice. 

In a moment all was still, and every eye turned toward thecompanion-way, on which the captain stood, resting one hand upon themain-boom, as he was exceedingly weak from the wound inflicted by theball of Captain Horton. 

"My brave fellows, " said their leader, "do not be alarmed, we shallnot be hanged this time. Is our situation any worse than it has beenin times heretofore? Trust in me. Have I ever deceived you--have Iever failed yet? You know I have not. Where we cannot conquer by fairbattle, we must use stratagem. Be watchful and ready, and we will yetnot only escape yonder vessel, but stand upon her deck as masters. "

The confidence with which he spoke inspired his followers with likefeeling, and with countenances relighted by hope, they returned totheir several stations. Their reliance upon their commander wasunbounded. He had so often triumphed when even greater difficultiesopposed, that they already felt sure of ultimate delivery, now that hehad been restored to his former energy--they had mistaken the lethargyinto which pain and weakness had thrown him for the torpor of despair. Again the joke and laugh went round, and already they began to computetheir respective shares of booty in the vessel so soon to be theirs, they knew not how. 

"Haul down the ensign, in token that we surrender, " cried the captain. 

A murmur of indignation and surprise arose from the crew. 

"What, men, do you doubt me? 'Tis but a feint. Haul down the flag andtake in sail. "

The men obeyed with alacrity, for they already clearly comprehendedthe plan of their leader. It was his intention to entice the privateeralongside, and, well aware of his own superiority in numbers, to makea sudden onset upon her deck, and thus, contrary to all laws ofhonorable warfare, seize by foul means what could not be obtained inany other way. 

These pacific indications were viewed with some surprise on board theprivateer. 

"By Heaven!" cried Lieut. Morris, "she's tired of this game soon. "

"Well, she had no other way to do; as it was we should have sunk herwithout receiving a shot. "

"It was a losing game for her, true enough. "

"Lay the brig alongside of her, " shouted Captain Greene to his men. 

As his men with a cheer began to unfurl all sail, Captain Hortonapproached the commander of the privateer. He had up to this periodventured no interference, both from matter of delicacy, and because hesaw nothing to disapprove of in the course pursued by Captain Greene. 

"My dear sir, " said he, as he laid his hand upon the arm of thecaptain of the privateer, "allow me to say a word. "

"Certainly, sir, " replied the courteous commander. "I ought soonerthan this to have asked your advice. "

"I would not place too great confidence in the pirate's signal ofsurrender. "

"Do you apprehend foul play?"

"Recollect the savage brutality which the fiend has already evinced, and judge for yourself whether he is worthy of being trusted at all. "

"You are right, sir. Lieut. Morris, " continued he, turning to hisyoung officer. 

"Ay, ay, sir. "

"Load the long gun with grape and canister, and wheel it abaft--loadthe larboard guns the same way. Now, my men, don't run too near her. She must send a boat aboard. "

The privateer approached within half a cable's length of the pirate. 

"Ship ahoy!" cried Captain Greene. 

No answer came from the pirate, but her head was rounded to, so as tobear directly down on the Raker. 

"Answer me, or I'll fire into you. "

"Fire and be d--d, " came from the deck of the pirate, and at the sametime a broadside was poured into the Raker, which killed two or threemen at the guns, and severely wounded Captain Greene. 

"Lieut. Morris, " cried he, "take the command of the vessel, " andfalling on the deck he was immediately carried below. 

The young officer was fully equal to the emergency of the occasion. Ata glance he perceived that the pirate in the confusion which ensuedfrom his unexpected broadside, had fallen foul of the privateer'srigging, and the crowd of his crew in his bow and fore-rigging, allwith cutlases drawn, and ready to spring aboard the privateer, plainlyannounced the intention to board. 

"All hands to repel boarders, " shouted Morris, and drawing his cutlashe sprang forward, followed by his men. 

A well contested struggle ensued, the American seamen, indignant atthe foul deceit which had been practiced upon them, fought liketigers, and for a time kept the pirates at bay--they had indeed, notwithstanding their superior numbers, nearly driven them from thedeck, when the form of their commander appeared among them. Inconsequence of his wound he had, contrary to his custom, entrusted thecommand of the boarders to his first lieutenant, and had remained uponhis own vessel watching the fight. He sprung among his crew, with asword drawn, and a tight sash bound around his waist, from which thedark blood was slowly oozing, his wound having burst away from itsligaments. 

"Cowards!" he shouted, "do ye yield--ye are two to their one. "

Leaping to their front, he struck down a sailor and plunged into thethickest of the fight. Reanimated by the presence of their leader, whohad so often led them to victory, a new spirit seemed to light up thefainting courage of the pirates, and with a fierce yell they rushedforward. The American crew were compelled to fall back before thefierce assault. At the head of his men Lieut. Morris several timescrossed swords with the pirate captain, but the swaying of the fightseparated them. Perceiving that his men were slowly yielding, thoughin good order, Lieutenant Morris, cool and collected, cheered theircourage, and at this moment thought of the long gun which had beendrawn up, loaded to the muzzle with grape and canister, against thecompanion-way, and a man with a lighted match stationed by it. 

"Fall back to the quarter-deck, " cried the young officer. 

They retreated in close array, and uncovered the mouth of the hugegun. At the sight of this a cry of dismay broke from the foremost ofthe pirates, who broke the front rank, and many of them escaped forthe time by leaping into the sea. 

"Fire, " cried Lieut. Morris. In a moment he was obeyed. Wild cries ofagony arose amid the gathering smoke, which, as it rolled away, revealed a horrible sight. Not a living pirate stood upon the deck ofthe privateer. A dense mass of bodies, writhing in pain, lay upon thefore-deck, and many of the pirates who had jumped into the sea wereseen scrambling up the sides of their own vessel; the pirate chieflay dead at the head of his followers, foremost in death, as he hadbeen in life. It was a terrible and revolting scene--the scuppersliterally ran with blood, the bulwarks were bespattered with brainsand pieces of scalps; several limbs were strewn about, and the entiredeck covered with the dead or dying. 

While the crew of the Raker stood for a time awe-struck at thedesolation they had themselves made, the pirates, ferocious to thelast, had regained their own ship and cut her adrift, and as they paidoff fired a broadside into the Raker, which injured several of hermen. Roused by this, the privateersmen rushed to their guns. Thelarboard guns, in obedience to the order of Captain Greene, werealready loaded with grape; while with the starboard Morris commandedhis men to keep up a steady fire at the masts and rigging. 

A fortunate shot from the Raker struck the helms-man on board thepirate, shattering at the same time the tiller. In a moment the brigwas up in the wind, and taken aback, throwing the pirates intoconfusion. 

"Ready about, " cried Morris, leaping from the carronade-slide on whichhe had raised himself, and taking in at a glance the exposed positionof the enemy--"head her round, and stand ready to give the rascals ataste from our larboard quarter. "

The Raker ranged across the bows of the pirate, and before he couldregain his headway, raked him with a tremendous broadside of the samedeadly missiles which had already destroyed so many of their comrades. The wild cries of anguish which arose from the clouds of smoke toldwith what destructive effect the death-bolts had been hurled. 

The pirate now paid off and returned an ineffectual broadside, butrendered ungovernable by the loss of her head-sails and tiller, heimmediately broached-to again, and the privateer poured in anotherterrible discharge of grape and canister, raking him fore and aft, then heaving-to and taking up a position on his bow, she firedbroadside after broadside into him in rapid and deadly succession. Themain-mast now fell over the side, and the pirate at the same time felloff before the wind, and drew out of the deep mantle of smoke whichhad for some time covered both vessels. As the smoke slowly curled upfrom the deep it was seen that not a living man was visible upon thedeck of the pirate. Several of her guns were dismounted, and her mastsso cut away that she lay upon the waters a helpless and disabledwreck. Yet the red ensign of death, though rent into ribbons, stillfluttered from the peak, and the young lieutenant hesitated to board, having learned caution from the treachery of the pirate. 

While the crew of the Raker were thus occupied in watching theirenemy, a light female form was seen to issue from the hatchway andgaze around the deck of the pirate. She passed from body to body, butseemed not to find what she sought. At length she turned her eyes, streaming with tears, toward the Raker, and pointing to the flag aboveher, as if to indicate that there was no one to lower it, she kneltupon the deck, bowing her head upon her hands. Her long hair fellover her forehead and trailed upon the blood-stained deck, as sheknelt in mute despair among the dying and the dead. It was a mournfuland singular picture of wo, and there were eyes long unused to tearsthat filled to overflowing as they gazed upon her. 

A boat was immediately lowered, and Lieutenant Morris with a dozen ofhis crew were soon in possession of the pirate's deck. Upon examiningthe brig it was found that she was fast filling with water, and afterconveying to the Raker all that they could lay hands on of value, including a large amount of precious metal, she was left to her fate. Not one of her crew was found living, so destructive had been thecontinual discharge of grape from the Raker. Florette accompanied themon board, and wept bitterly as she saw the dead body of the piratecommander lying in front of his slaughtered followers, but sufferedherself to be led below by Julia, who received her with kindness andgratitude. 

All sail was now set upon the privateer, and she bore away from thesinking craft of the pirate upon her former course. The latter vessel, traversed in every direction by the Raker's terrible fire, was rapidlysettling into the ocean. Suddenly, with a sound like the gushing of animmense water-spout, a huge chasm opened in the waves--the doomed brigseemed struggling as if with conscious life, and then lashing thewaters with her shattered spars and broken masts, went down foreverbeneath the deep waters, over whose bosom she had so long rode as ascourge and a terror, with blood and desolation following in her wake. 

Among the effects of the pirate captain which had been conveyed onboard the Raker, a manuscript was found, which seemed to be anautobiography of his life. For what purpose he had written it cannever be known--most probably from an impulsive desire to give vent onpaper to thoughts and feelings which he could not breathe to anyliving person, and which he doubtless supposed would never be perusedby human eye--they show that, savage, and lawless, and blood-thirstyas he had become, strong and terrible motives had driven him into hisunnatural pursuit, and perchance a tear of pity may fall for him, asthe gentle reader peruses the private records of the scourge of theocean. 

CHAPTER VI. 

_The Pirate's Story. _

I am the youngest son of a gentleman of the northern part of England. My father's family is as good as any in the county, for without layingclaim to any title of nobility, our blood is as pure and our lineageas ancient as the most boasted in England. I had but one brother, whosucceeded at our father's death to the broad lands and rich heritageof our name. The accursed law of primogeniture, to which I owe all theevil that has befallen me, of course debarred me from all share in thefamily estate. I had refused to enter the army, the church or thenavy, though my inclinations were in favor of the latter profession;yet a stronger claim than ambition or a roving life kept me on thepaternal estate. It was not that I envied my brother the possession ofthe wide bounds over which he ruled, or that I found less happiness inwitnessing his, for I loved my brother, as God is my witness, here, inmy lonely cabin, with this great sea around me, and this broad skyabove me; here, though no eye may ever see these lines, I write, do Irepeat it, I loved my brother dearly and proudly. It was love thatkept me idle at home while other young men of England, belonging tothe same position in society as myself, and in the same unfortunatecategory of younger sons, were carving out for themselves fame andwealth in the service of their country. 

Helen Burnett was the loveliest girl I have ever seen, and I loved herwith all the passionate devotedness of a young and ardent heart; shewas to me the light of life, for all was dark when I was not with her. She was the only daughter of our village curate, and resided near ourfamily mansion. We had sported together beneath the venerable trees ofthe park from the earliest days of childhood. Until I left home forcollege she had seemed to me as a sister, and I had loved her as suchuntil, on returning home from a long absence at college, I found ablushing and beautiful young woman where I had expected, forgettingthe rapid work of time, to meet with the same playful and lovely childI had kissed at parting. She was, indeed, beautiful; tall, graceful, and even commanding in figure, while the mildness of an angel reposedin the glance of her deep-blue eyes, and the sweet smile that so oftenvisited her lips, while her pleasantly modulated voice was musicitself. 

 "A lyre of widest range, Touched by all passion--did fall down and glance From tone to tone, and glided through all change of liveliest utterance. "

Her hair was of the darkest shade of brown, resting in soft wave-likesmoothness above her high, pale forehead. Alas! that she was _so_lovely! had she been less so, either I might not have loved her, or Imight have been permitted by fortune to have been happy with her. 

After leaving college, my time was all devoted to Helen. She loved meno less than I loved her; and I looked forward to a quiet and happylife, picturing the future with colorings of the brightest hope andjoyfulness. 

It was at this time that my brother returned from a long tour of theContinent. He was one of the handsomest men of the day, and had beendistinguished by the appellation which had accompanied him from courtto court, of "the handsome Englishman. " He was of a medium stature, and faultlessly proportioned; his expansive and intellectual foreheadseemed the seat of lofty thought, and his dark flashing eye, intenselyexpressive, seemed to penetrate to the heart of all who met itsglance. I see him now--not in his glorious beauty, but pale--pale, touched by the cold fingers of death. 

I had too much of the pride of my race to live as a dependent on mybrother's bounty, yet I could not bear the thought of leaving Helen. Iwas in no situation to marry, and in an undecided state of mind Isuffered the days to glide away. 

My brother had just come back from a day's angling in the trout-streamthat flowed through his lands. He met me at the park-gate. 

"Well, John, " said I, "what luck to-day?"

"O, William, " said he, without heeding my question, "I have seen themost charming girl--the loveliest one that breathes. She outvies all Ihave seen in my travels; do you know her. She is the curate'sdaughter. "

I felt a sickness at heart, like the bitterness of death--was it apresentiment, a warning of evil to come. 

"Say, William?"

"Yes--yes, she is lovely. "

"She is an angel. "

Sir John passed into the park, and I proceeded, with a strangemelancholy I could not dispel, to meet Helen. She was at her father'sdoor, and greeted me with her accustomed kindness of voice and manner. 

"Why are you so sad this lovely evening William?"

"Sad!--am I sad?"

"You look so. "

"Well, I will be so no longer, then;" and I endeavored to shake off mydepression, but not succeeding, I bade her farewell at an earlier hourthan was my custom. 

From that day my brother's angling excursions became morefrequent--but he seldom returned with a full basket. He often spoke tome of Helen, but I always replied carelessly, and changed the topic ofconversation to something else, yet when alone, I was in continualtorment from my thoughts. I endeavored to console myself with thereflection that Helen's love was plighted to me, and that she wouldnot change, yet my thoughts were continually recurring to my brother'sgreat advantages over me in every respect, not only in fortune but inpersonal appearance; and I had already, in my suspicions, placed himin the light of a rival for the hand of Helen. I knew his high-mindedand honorable disposition too well to fancy for a moment that he wouldattempt her ruin; and I also knew that there was nothing in theinferior station of Helen's family that would prevent him from seekingher hand in marriage, if she had compelled his love. 

All that followed might perhaps have been prevented had I at firsttold my brother frankly of my love for Helen; but a foolish desire toprove her love for me, and a certain feeling of self-respect kept mesilent. 

It was not a long time before I either saw, or fancied I saw, a changein the manner of Helen toward me--the thought was torture. I was fordays undecided how to act, but at length determined to learn the truestate of things. I knew my brother was often at the parsonage, and Itrembled for the result. 

"Helen, " I asked her, "is not my brother a frequent visitor here?"

It was twilight, but I thought I observed a heightened color in hercheek. 

"Yes, he has been here several times since his return. "

"Dear Helen, answer me frankly, has he ever spoken to you of love?"

She hesitated, but at length replied, "He has. "

"And did you not tell him your vows were plighted to another?"

"My father entered the room before I made any reply at all. "

"Helen, do you love me now the same as ever you have done?"

"You have my plighted word, William. " Yet there was somethingbordering on coldness even in the sweet accents with which she spoke;the nice instinct of love detects each gradation of feeling with anunerring certainty. I was not satisfied, and when I left her, I wasmore unhappy than ever. I longed to speak to my brother on thesubject, yet some indescribable feeling prevented me; and I allowedthe days to glide away, growing more and more troubled in mind as theypassed by. 

I was now convinced that Helen's affection for me was not what it hadbeen; and after a short interview with her, in which she had againrepeated her love for me, but in such chilling tones that I felt itwas not from the heart she spoke, I sought the chamber of my brotherin a state almost bordering on madness. All of our race have been ofungovernable passions, but none more so than myself. I paused at hisdoor to regain in some degree my self-command, then lifting the latch, I entered. 

"Ah, brother!" said Sir John, in a cheerful tone. 

"Yes, your younger brother, " replied I, bitterly. 

Sir John started with wonder. 

"Why, William, what mean you?"

I paid no heed to the interruption, but continued growing, ifpossible, still more enraged as I proceeded. 

"Are not all the broad lands of our family estate yours--its parks, its meadows, its streams; this venerable mansion, where the _elderson_ has rioted for so many generations, leaving the younger to makehis way in the world as best he may. "

"Brother, are you mad? My purse is yours--I have nothing that is notyours. "

"You have every thing, and not content with that, you have sought towin away the love of my affianced bride. "

"Who mean you, William?"

"Helen Burnett. "

My brother turned pale, and gazing upon me for a moment withastonishment, he heaved a deep sigh, and covered his face with hishands. 

I folded my arms, and stood looking upon him scornfully, for mypassion had made me consider him in the light of one who had knowinglystolen away my bride. 

Sir John at length uncovered his face and spoke. 

"I would to God, William, you had told me this sooner. "

"Is it then too late?" I inquired, bitterly. 

"Too late--too late for my happiness, but not too late for justice andhonor. She is yours, William, I resign all pretensions to her hand, and will cease to visit the parsonage. "

I was touched by the generous spirit of my brother, and by themournful shadow which clouded his noble brow. I have ever acted fromimpulse, and seizing him by the hand, I said, "Not so, John--not so! She is, as I have told you, my affianced bride;her solemn and oft-repeated vows are mine, and I have thought that herlove was forever mine; but this very night I plainly perceived that achange has been wrought in her feelings. She treated me with coldnessinstead of warmth, and maddened by my interview with her, I rushedinto your presence, and have blamed you unjustly. "

"My dear brother--"

"No, no, John, I was wrong to accuse you. I should have better knownyour nobleness. Henceforth let us stand on equal ground; I do not wantan unwilling bride, and if you can win her love from me, take her, though it drive me mad. "

A gleam of pleasure passed over Sir John's countenance as he replied, "Be it so, my brother, it is but honorable; yet will I at once resignall hope, and leave the country if you but will it so. "

"Sir John, have you reason to think that Helen loves you?"

"She has never said so, but I did not think she looked coldly uponme. "

"She is 'false, false as hell!'"

"My dear William, however this suite terminate, any thing in my powershall be done for you. If the estates were not entailed, I would atonce give you a deed for half of them, and then I should have noadvantage over you in wealth or position. Here is an order for ahundred thousand pounds. "

"Sir John I will accept nothing; if I lose Helen, I shall have no moreto live for, and I warn you, if I become mad from disappointment, donot cross my path, or I know not the consequence. "

"You do not threaten me. "

I felt the turbulent passions of my nature rising within me, andfearing that I should lose all self-command, I rushed from the room, and entering the silent park, I wandered from grove to grove till thecool air of the night had calmed my raging spirit, when I sought myown chamber. 

I had never told the worthy curate of my love for his daughter, andHelen had never been accustomed to depend on him for advice orconsolation. It was to her mother that she had always turned for both, and that mother had died but a year before the return of my brother. Mr. Burnett was a quiet student, passionately fond of his books, asinnocent of the world as a child, only fretful and peevish when anything occurred to disturb the quiet monotony of his existence, andapparently unconscious that his little Helen had grown from a childto a woman. His mind was wholly wrapped up in his studies, even at hismeals it was abstracted, and he retired hastily to his closet. Helenhad no inclination to disturb the serenity of his life, until itbecame absolutely necessary that he should be made acquainted with herengagement to me; and I had been too thoughtless of all but my ownhappiness to intrude upon his privacy, confident that his sanction toour marriage would not be refused whenever demanded. 

I had yet to learn the lesson, bitter and agonizing, that no woman isproof against the captivating temptations of ambition, and the glareof wealth. I know but little of the sex; they are called angels, and Ihad thought Helen was an angel--alas! I found my mistake. I read mydoom in the averted coldness of her glance; I felt it in the unwillingpressure of her hand whenever we met, and I knew it when I gazed uponthe countenance of my brother, on which was a quiet glow of happinesshis expressive features could not conceal, even when he knew mysearching glance was upon him. O! the agony of feeling which oppressedme in those bitter days; I felt all the savage passions of my naturerising within me; there were moments when I felt as if I could gladlysee my brother and Helen stretched dead at my feet. Day by day thesevindictive thoughts increased within me. It wanted but the finishingstroke to make me completely mad--it came. Though I had long dreadedto make the trial, on which all my happiness for this world rested, Iat length determined to put it off no longer. 

The shadows of twilight were settling over the earth as I slowly andsadly approached the parsonage. My head was bowed upon my breast as Iwalked with a noiseless step upon the little path that led to theunpretending dwelling. I was not aware how near I had come, till a rayof light from the window fell across the path, and recalled me tomyself. As I stopped, I heard the tones of my brother's voice in lowand earnest conversation. I drew nearer, and beheld a sight whichrooted me to the spot, even though I was not wholly unprepared forsuch a scene. 

My brother and Helen were seated in the little arbor before theparsonage, as she and myself had often before sat when I fancied ourlove was lasting as life. In the dim light I could see that mybrother's arm was round her waist, and that her head rested upon hisshoulder. I could hear their conversation. 

"And you do love me, then, Helen?"

I heard no answer, but the long curls moved slightly upon my brother'sshoulder, and as he bent his head and kissed her, I felt that he wasanswered--I was answered--that he _was_ loved. 

My brain burned as if on fire--and I sunk to the earth with a lowgroan. How long I remained unconscious I do not know; when Irecovered, Helen and Sir John stood beside me. I sprung to my feet, and gazed upon them with the glare of a maniac. It was so--my brainwas crazed. 

"William, " said Helen. 

Her soft voice fell upon my ears with a singular cadence. With afierce laugh I struck my brother to the earth, and rushed forth intothe forest. All that night I must have wandered through its depths. Ifound myself at the break of day miles from our mansion, lying beneathan aged oak. I did not seem to know myself. I cannot now describe thefeelings and thoughts which raged within me. The wild storm which isnow lashing the ocean without my cabin is not more wild andfierce--the black sky above me is not more dark and gloomy. Theyseemed at length to settle into one stern, unchanging emotion, andthat was hatred toward my brother, and a stern determination torevenge upon him the cruel wrong which had driven me mad. 

My path led along the course of a mountain torrent, whose suddendescent as it hurried toward the river, formed successive water-fallsnot unmusical in their cadence. A few purple beech and droopingwillows with here and there a mountain ash, skirted the ravine thatformed its bed; their leaves had fallen before the blasts of autumn, they seemed emblematic of myself; like me their glory haddeparted--they were shorn of their loveliness by the rough storm, leftbare and verdureless in the chilling breath of autumn; the seasons intheir round would restore to them their beauty and their bloom, clothing their branches again in all the freshness of youth; but whatshould give back to me the freshness and youth of the heart? whatrestore the desolation of of the soul?

Weak and exhausted, I flung myself down in a rude grotto, whichcommanded a view of the foaming stream as it washed the rocks below;it was a scene fitted to my mood, for I turned in disgust from thebeautiful landscape an opening in the forest revealed--the beauty ofearth had forever passed away from me. That same opening, however, unfolded to the sight the gray towers of my family mansion, and atonce I started to my feet and bent my course toward them. 

At length I reached my home--how hateful every thing about thevenerable building seemed. I stole to my chamber, and falling upon mycouch, slept from pure exhaustion. 

It was night when I awoke. I arose, but did not leave my room; seatedby the window with the cold wind of November blowing upon my burningbrow, I nursed my thoughts of vengeance. I forgot that he against whomI harbored such thoughts was my only brother; I forgot my self-offeredtrial of our powers with Helen; I forgot every thing--every thing butthe fiery feeling of revenge. Yes, I was mad. 

Day after day I wandered around the old castle, shunning every one. Mybrother strove to converse with me, but glaring upon him like a maniacas I was, I rushed past him. I felt the poison of hatred workingwithin me, and I knew the time was coming when my revengeful spiritwould find its vent. 

I often wandered toward the parsonage, but never sought an interviewwith Helen. At times I caught a glimpse of her light form as it passedby a window or before the open door that led into the hall. Oneevening I saw my brother enter, and drawing near the window, I sawthrough the slightly-parted curtain, such evidence of their mutualaffection, that, if possible, I became more than ever crazy in myanguish and despair. I waited for him to come out long hours, hours tome of bitterest sorrow, to him of most intense delight. It was anexceedingly cold night. A slight snow had fallen during the day, andthe landscape around me glistening in the moonlight, seemed wrapped ina robe of the purest white. Yet as I gazed all seemed to turn into thedeep hue of blood--wherever I gazed, every thing presented the samefearful coloring. It was but the shadowy reflection of a coming deedthat should forever stain my soul with a deeper red, that the years ofeternity could never efface. 

At length my brother opened the door of the parsonage and came forth. Leaning against the trunk of an old tree but a little distance fromthem, I saw and heard the parting acts of endearment. At that terriblemoment the determination of my soul was made, and I heard the darkdevil within me whisper one of you must die. I shuddered at thethought, but when scarcely out of sight of the parsonage, almost assoon as the door had closed upon the form of Helen, I confronted mybrother. Sir John started back, surprised. 

"What, William, is it you?"

I laughed scornfully. 

"My poor brother!"

"Do you dare to pity me--ha! ha! ha! Sir John! one of us must die thisnight--here, upon this spot; here are two pistols, take one of them, and it will be soon seen which is the fated one. "

Sir John mechanically took the pistol; cocking my own, I retired a fewpaces, and turning, exclaimed, "Are you ready?"

My words recalled him to himself; flinging his pistol far into thewood, he exclaimed, "I will not fire at my brother. "

"Coward!"

"The name belongs not to our race; fire at me if you will, I will notat you. "

Enraged beyond expression, yet even in my madness ashamed to fire atan unarmed man, I hesitated. 

My brother spoke. 

"Come, William, let us go home. "

"Home!--ha! ha! ha! my home is the wood and the cave! Here, take mygood-night. "

Thus speaking I flung my pistol full at his face with all my strength;it struck him lengthwise, and being cocked, went off in consequence ofthe concussion. 

Sir John fell upon the cold snow. I rushed up to him, and beheld theblood flowing in torrents from a ghastly wound; the ball had taken adownward direction, and penetrated the abdomen. 

"William, " he said, faintly, "you have murdered me. God forgive you!"

It seemed as if my reason came back to me at that terrible moment assuddenly as it had left me. At the report of my pistol, I had heard aloud scream in the parsonage, and almost at the same time with myselfHelen rushed up to the side of my brother. 

"Oh!" she cried, in accents of agony, "who has done this?"

"Who!" said I, bitterly, "do you ask? You have done it; but no, Helen, I do not mean it--let us carry him into the parsonage. "

With difficulty we lifted the body of my brother, and bearing him intothe house, laid him upon a bed. Helen, who had up to this time beensustained by the necessity of exertion, fainted beside the body. Istood gazing upon them in stupid despair. The worthy pastor opened thedoor of the room; he had heard an unusual noise, and left his books tolearn the cause. 

I stopped not to converse with him, I could not trust myself to speak, but stooping to the lifeless form of Helen, I imprinted a last kissupon her pale lips, and burst from the chamber. I do not know theresult of that fatal night. It may be that my brother and Helen wereboth restored to life and happiness. God grant that it was so. It maybe that the spirits of both had already passed to another world when Ibroke from the room, leaving the pale and astonished pastor gazingupon the lifeless bodies of his only daughter and the young lord ofthe manor. Years have passed since then, and not a happy hour havetheir long ages borne to me; yet methinks if I could but know that mybrother and Helen are living in happiness in the mansion of myfathers, much that is dark and despairing in the remnant of life wouldbe taken from the future. 

That night I bade farewell to the haunts of boyhood, and the next dayI was out upon the broad ocean. I had jumped aboard of a little vesselwhich was just weighing anchor, without asking its destination orcaring where it bore me. I made brief reply to all interrogatories, merely showing a purse of gold, which was sufficient answer, inasmuchas it showed I was not to be an unprofitable part of the cargo. 

Seated upon the companion-way, that evening I watched the recedingshores of my native isle, and as the sunlight went out on its whitecliffs, leaving them in sombre shade, I felt that so had the light ofmy life gone out, leaving the darkness of despair forever. Reckless asI was of the future, and dark as was the past, I was not yet dead toall emotion, and I could not witness my native land fading from myview without experiencing those melancholy feelings which theendearing recollections of former years excite, embittered as theywere with me by the thought that even if I ever should return to thehome of my fathers, I should find no kindred to welcome me back. Nowonder, then, that I felt a chilling sickness of the heart as I caughta last glimpse of the Wicklow Mountains gleaming in the warm coloringsof the evening sun, as they mingled their hoary summits with the "dewyskies" of my native isle. 

The vessel on which I had chanced to take passage was bound for theWest Indies. It was a small merchantman, and fell an easy prey to thefirst pirate that gave chase. We were boarded and all consigned todeath. When the command was given to the pirates to shoot us allthrough the head, I stepped forward with a smile, and a heartpartaking more of gladness than it had felt for long months, a pistolwas at my temple, when the stern voice of the pirate captain commandedhis man to stay his hand. He stepped forward and gazed into my face. 

"My fine fellow, are you not afraid to die?"

"I have nothing to live for--blow away, and I will thank you. "

"By heaven, you are just the man for us! Now take your choice, I haveno objection to shoot you, indeed it would be rather pleasant thanotherwise, but one of my lieutenants was killed yesterday, and you canfill his place if you will. I give you five minutes to decide while weare dispatching these dogs. " I gazed upon the cruel work--it did notshock me; I even smiled at their agony, and had determined to sharetheir fate, when a momentary thought of the unknown, mysterioushereafter restrained my advancing step. Am I ready, thought I, toplunge into its mysteries. I shuddered at the thought. It was not thebeautiful blue sky unrolled above me, nor the broad, playful seaaround that wooed me to life. No, it was that fear of the "somethingafter death. "

"Are you ready to answer?"

"I am thine. "

"It is well, throw these carcasses into the sea, and set all sail forthe Bermudas. Well, lieutenant, " continued he, as the ship fell offbefore the wind, "give us your name, or it will be awkward workhailing you. "

"William--" I stopped, the pride of my race arose within me. 

"Well?"

"I will not give my name--call me William, I'll answer to that. "

"Very well--lieutenant William, my lads, your second lieutenant. "

The men seemed to like me from the first, and as I gazed upon themwith a proud, fearless eye, a hearty cheer arose that endorsed mycommand. 

Since then my home has been the pirate's deck; my heart has grownharder and harder with the lapse of time. I love the sight of bloodbetter than I love the flowing wine--the agonizing shriek of deathbetter than the sweetest music--like an emissary of evil I gloat overthe tortures of man. I have learned to hate the land of my birth, andall who first drew breath upon her detested soil. I have been foremostin every conflict, yet have I not met death--the only foe whom Icannot conquer by my fierce will and dark heart. 

I could not long remain a subordinate in command. I had become theidol of our lawless crew, and a single blow from my sword laid ourcaptain low in death upon his own deck; and I filled his place, smiling with a fiendish pleasure, as I saw his body thrown into thewaves, and the hungry sharks severing the limbs yet throbbing withlife. I have no feeling for my kind--yet I was not meant for this. Under happier auspices, I might have been a leader in the ranks of Godas I am now in those of Satan; my sword might have been drawn for mynative land with the purest and loftiest feelings of patriotism, instead of being turned against her and her children. Even now, in themidst of my crimes and desolation, my heart throbs when I think of thegreat and good of earth, and I feel that, like them, I might have lefta name of boast and pride to mankind; now, I shall perish, unknown andunwept; the annals of my house shall never record that one of itsscions led a pirate crew to deeds of bloody cruelty and death. Longsince I have buried my name in oblivion--I am dead to my kindred, deadto the world; the caves of ocean are yawning for the body of thepirate-chief, and there will he sleep with the howling ocean and theshrieking storm to sing his requiem and his dirge. 

 [_To be continued. _

DREAMS. 

 Yes, there were pleasant voices yesternight, Humming within mine ear a tale of truth, Reminding me of days ere the sad blight Of care had dimmed the brightness of my youth: Yes, they were pleasant voices; but, forsooth, They threw a kind of melancholy charm Around my heart; as if in vengeful ruth, Our very dreams have knowledge of the harm Ourselves do to ourselves, without the least alarm!

 I love such dreams, for at my couch there stood One who, in other lands, with magic spell, Had taught my untaught heart to love the good, The pure, the holy, which in her did dwell. It was a lovely image, and too well I do remember me the fatal hour, When that bright image--but I may not tell How deep the thraldom, absolute the power-- My very dreams decide it was her only dower. 

 _Sandwich Islands. _

 What are our dreams? A sort of fancy sketches, Limned on the mind's retina, with a grace More subtle than the wakeful artist catches, And tinted with a more ethereal trace. Our dreams annihilate both time and space, And waft us, with magnetic swiftness, back O'er an oblivious decade to the place Where youth's fond visions clustered o'er our track; Of youth's fond hopes decayed, alas! there is no lack!

 I love such dreams, for they are more than real; They have a passion in them in whose birth The heart receives again its beau ideal-- Its Platonized embodiment of worth. Call ye them dreams! then what a mortal dearth Throws its gaunt shadow o'er our little life! Our very joy is mockery of mirth, And our quiescence agony of strife: If dreams are naught but dreams, what is our real life?

 E. O. H. 

A LEAF IN THE LIFE OF LEDYARD LINCOLN. 

A SKETCH. 

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE. 

It was in the joyous leaf-giving, life-giving month of June, of 18--, after an absence of six years, that I found myself once more among myown dearly loved native hills. 

An intense worshiper of Nature, I had gratified to the utmost mypassion and curiosity by exploring all the accessible regions of theold world. I had studied every scene that was in any way famous, or_in_famous I might say with regard to some, if the necessity ofclambering down or up unclimbable precipices, or wading throughinterminable swamps, could render them so. 

With all the fatigue and hardships I had undergone my reward wasgreat, and had more than repaid me for the perilous dangers I hadcourted and conquered. I had gazed, and dreamed, and raved by turns. Ihad been melted into tears of tenderness by the perfect harmony andloveliness of some scenes, and had been frozen into awe by themagnificent grandeur and terrible sublimity of others. And, afterthose six years of travel in foreign lands, I had returned, my brainone endless panorama of hills, valleys and cloud-capped mountains, earth, skies, wood and water. Not one of those gorgeous scenes, however, had moved me as I was moved when once again I beheld myboyhood's home--the stately mansion of my fathers. Half hidden, itrose majestically amid the noble elms that surrounded it; there laythe velvet-green sloping lawn in front--down which, as a boy, I hadrolled in the summer and sledded in the winter--there the wild, night-dark ravine in the rear--fit haunt for elves and gnomes--thatterminated amid jagged rocks and tangled trees, in a rushing, roaringbrook of no mean dimensions, almost as large as many of the so-calledrivers of the mother country. Just at this point, at the turn of theold time-worn stage-road, where the venerable, picturesque oldhomestead of my sires burst thus suddenly into view, an opening in thetrees, whether by accident or design, revealed one of the verymerriest, maddest of musical water-falls, that went foaming andtumbling its snow-white, sparkling waters over a bed of huge rocks, and then, by a sudden wilful bend, that same loud-uttering brook waslost to view. 

As the rattling stage neared my home, my heart leaped within me, andevery fibre of it trembled with emotion. I could have hugged andkissed each familiar sturdy old tree, looking so grand and natural. Mysoul warmed and yearned toward the well remembered scene; and as Ithought upon my fond, doting mother and my loving, lovely sisters, andmy ever-indulgent father, I could have wept in the intensity of myjoy at finding myself so near them, and breathing the same free, pure, health-giving air that had nurtured my childhood. But was there notsitting directly opposite to me one of the most exquisitely beautifulof God's lovely women; and did not her saucy, demure eyes seem to readmy very soul? I therefore restrained a display of my feelings, for itwould not have appeared in the least dignified or proper in afine-looking young man (such as I imagined myself to be) offour-and-twenty, to be seen with eyes streaming like a young girl. 

More than once, during our short stage-coach ride had our eyes met;and hers had revealed to me a living well of spiritual beauty; andalthough they were withdrawn as soon as they encountered mine--notcoquettishly, but with true feminine modesty--still they were notturned away until our mutual eyes had flashed one electrical spark ofmutual understanding and mutual sympathy, that whole volumes of dullwords could never express either as vividly or as truly. What aheaven-born mystery is contained in the glance of an eye: it can killand can make alive; it can fill the heart with a sudden and deliciousecstasy, and it can plunge it into the deepest, darkest despair. 

I gave her one last look as the stage stopped before my father's door, and if it expressed one tithe of what I felt, it told her of my warmadmiration of her glorious beauty, and of my sorrow at leaving her, perhaps forever, without knowing more of her. 

For the time the matchless image of my stage-coach companion was lostin the loving embraces and tender greetings of my family. I felt ittruly refreshing, after six years of exile from my own kith and kin, to be caressed and made much of; to be told by three deliciouslybeautiful, exquisitely graceful sisters, hanging around one, andkissing one every other word, to be told how much the few last yearshad improved one, how handsome, &c. One was grown; was it not enoughto somewhat turn one's brain, and make one a little vain andconsiderably happy. 

In the still hush of the night, after finding myself once more in myown room--_my_ room, with its cabinets of shells and mosses, that Ihad collected when a boy in my various trips to the seashore, allreligiously left arranged as I had left them, its guns, fishing-rods, stuffed rabbits and birds, its preserved rattle-snakes and cases ofinsects, all of which had stood for so long a time in their respectiveplaces that they had become a part of the room--in the still hush ofthe night the divine image of my most beautiful stage-coach companionarose before me. The evening was warm and soft, and gleaming in thegorgeous moonlight lay that wild, weird ravine, and the ever downward, foaming water-fall. Its musical utterings, the delicious moonlight, and my own newly awakened and hitherto invulnerable heart, allconspired to make me poetical and inspired, or at least to imaginemyself to be so; and pardon me if I gave utterance in verse to some ofmy feelings. But do not in the least imagine that you are going by anymeans to be presented with a fatiguing copy of my passionate numbers;in the first place I am very diffident, and in the next--but nevermind the next, I will tell you in plain prose that I felt convinced inmy heart, I felt a rapturous presentiment that the unutterably lovelybeing I had that day beheld would ere long be my own dear little wife, forever and forever. An indistinct dream of having somewhere, at sometime before, known her haunted me and tormented me, but I racked mybrains in vain to recollect the spot or time, and finally came to theconclusion that it had been in another state of existence we had met. 

I had been home but a few days when business letters came, demandingthe presence of my father or myself in Philadelphia. My fatherexpressed a desire that I should go, and a certain internal promptingurged me to comply with his request. The next morning bright and earlyfound me seated in the same stage-coach in which I had met her. Thedue progress of steamboat and cars deposited me safely the day afterin the goodly city of Squareruledom. 

The first leisure moment at my command, I paid my respects to thefamily of my father's brother. I found my good uncle and aunt at home;but my little pet Emily--their only child--whom I had last seen a rosyromping little imp of twelve--was unfortunately out. My uncle urged mevery hard to make his house my home during my stay in Philadelphia;but I had taken up my abode in the family of an old college chum ofmine, who had lately commenced the practice of the art of healing, andwho I knew would be none the worse from a little of my help in apecuniary way. I therefore declined my kind uncle's request, with apromise to come and see them often. 

Judge of my inexpressible joy when, turning a corner of a street, after leaving my uncle's, who should I chance upon but the very beingof whom my brain and heart were full! Yes, there was the identicalshe, and bless her dear little heart! she gave me a bright half smileof recognition, which I returned with as profound a bow as evercourtier bowed to queen, or devotee to Pope's sublime imperial toe. 

An omnibus came rolling by, which she, with a motion of her neatlittle gloved hand, bid stop. She stepped lightly into it, while I, with my usual impetuosity, without knowing exactly what I was doing, sprang after her. I consoled myself for my apparent rudeness bythrowing the entire blame upon the elective affinities. 

On we went, and from time to time as I stole a glance at her sweetface, I thought I detected a sly, mischievous little devil playingaround the corners of her small dimpled mouth, and about the pure lidsof her downcast long-fringed eyes. She never vouchsafed me a look, however; and as we went on, and as I still watched her lovely face, adread vision arose up before me of a six-foot and well proportionedyouth, with fierce whiskers and a moustache of undisputable cut andstyle, that I remembered to have seen with the young lady during ourstage-coach ride together--that I remembered, with a terribleheart-sinking, was impressively attentive to her. I inwardly resolvedto let nature have her way, and let all the hair grow on my face thatwould; what if it did grow a little reddish or so--why I shouldresemble the rising sun, with my glory like a halo around me. Seriously, I have long been of the opinion that a shaved face is asmuch of a disgrace, and ought to be so considered, as a shaved headfresh from prison. Why do we not finish the half completed work andactually shave off the hair of our heads, our eye-brows and lashes, aswell as our beards, and thus go cool and comfortable through theworld? There would be this advantage in it, the disciples of Spurzheimwould have no trouble of making a map of our bumps at sight; and thenthink what an immense saving it would be in combs and brushes, to saynothing of pomatum, which some so freely use. I rejoice sincerely tosee the sudden rise in crops of hair, and most truly hope they willnot have as rapid a fall. Shaving is artificial and injurious, exposing parts to cold that Nature never meant should be exposed. Black, white or red--hair is a protection and ornament that no manlyface or head should be without. Rejoice ye, therefore, over everyrepentant sinner who tarrieth in Jericho and letteth his beard togrow. 

But to return to my little omnibus companion, who by this time wasgracefully moving over the smooth gravel-walks of Fairmount--for therewe had stopped--and exceedingly refreshing were its cool shades andsplashing fountains on that sultry June day. I kept as near her as Icould without appearing rude, especially as I had received one or twohalf glances from her bright eyes, that nearly annihilated me, such anunearthly fluttering and bumping in the region of my heart did theycreate. Mercy upon me! what would a whole glance do? And for a wholeglance I courageously resolved to strive, let the consequences be whatthey might. 

Now do you not expect an earthquake, or a roaring bull, or at least arabid dog? It was nothing more however than a refreshing shower ofrain--truly refreshing to my thirsty soul, for it gave me that coveted_whole_ glance. Heavens! I actually staggered, and would undoubtedlyhave fallen had it not been for a friendly sappling--you will sneer atwitless I--that grew near me. But just try the effect upon yourself--ashock of electricity is nothing in comparison to a shock from a pairof bright eyes--such eyes as hers. The truth of the case was here, ofa sudden, apparently from out the clear sky, came down, with not amoment's warning, a perfect avalanche of rain-drops--all expressly gotup, or down, for my benefit, else why did I happen to have an umbrellain my hand? "A Wise man--" you remember the rest. My beautifulincognito was away up those long stairs, and walking leisurely aroundthe immense basin, when the rain came down. I was not very far fromher, and in less than an instant my umbrella was over her prettylittle blue bonnet, with--

"Be kind enough to accept my umbrella, Miss"--in the most insinuatingmanner of which I was master. 

"Thank you! but I will not deprive you of its shelter, " with thatwhole glance of which I spoke. So on we went together, and somehowafter we found ourselves under shelter, it was the easiest and mostnatural thing in the world to fall into a pleasant conversation. Aftertalking about the scenery, weather, &c. , we had mutually enjoyedduring our short stage ride, I spoke of the beauty around us, andasked her if she often visited this lovely spot. 

"Not very often, " replied she. "It is very beautiful though, in spiteof all they have done to spoil it. "

"To spoil it!"

"Yes, by making it as much like a chess-board as possible, allstraight lines and stiffness. That is Philadelphia however. "

"Then you are not a Philadelphian, or it is not a favorite city withyou?"

"There you are mistaken. It is my native place, and a city I lovedearly--with all its formalities and inhospitalities toward strangers. Philadelphia is a prim matron, with a warm heart but a most frigid, repulsive exterior, until you become acquainted with her--one of herparticular children. "

"I have been told that there is a finer collection of works of arthere than in any other city in the Union. "

"I believe you have been told correctly. We have more time in ourquiet way to look after and admire the productions of the greatmasters. Our taste has wonderfully improved within a few years. "

"I have not been in town long enough to visit any of your show placesyet. "

"How I _should_ like to see that lovely water-fall and the whole ofthat beautiful scene on canvas. Do you know I almost envied you a homein that beautiful house with all its picturesque surroundings. "

"I am truly thankful you had the kind grace to think of me at all. "

"How could I help it? I had a feeling the first moment I saw you thatyou and I were destined to be friends. Is there not a certainmysterious something--call it magnetism or instinct--that either drawsus toward or repels us from every person we meet in either a greateror less degree? With me this instinct is very strong, and I obey itimplicitly, never in one instance having found it to fail. I know atonce who to trust and who to love. And would know, by the sameunerring law of my nature, who to hate if ever I felt the leastinclination to hate. The only feeling of hate I ever experienced is astrong desire to avoid all persons or things that are disagreeable tome. I love harmony the most perfect, and discord is a thing for me toflee from. I felt toward you a most decided drawing, and I felt aconviction then, as I do now, that we are to be very near and dearfriends. "

The little angel! I could have hugged and kissed her on the spot; butI hugged her in my soul, and inwardly vowed to consecrate my life toher, if the "drawing" she felt for me could be rendered sufficientlystrong to admit of such a thing. On a sudden I bethought me of thewhiskered incognito, her stage attendant. I mustered courage to askher in a half laughing way, if that fine-looking fellow she had calledCharles were her brother. 

Instantly her manner changed from that of sweet and almost tenderseriousness to an arch, quizzical one that puzzled me. 

"Oh no, not my brother, " said she. 

"_Not_ her brother--a sharp pang of pain shot through me--I wasgetting dreadfully jealous--I looked all manner of curiosity and allmanner of questions; she took pity on me and said--a smile stilllurking in the corner of her eye--

"He is no more nor less than the intended future husband of the oneyou see before you. "

"The future devil! I sincerely beg your pardon, but--you take me bysurprise--I regret--but really I do not feel that it can be so. "

"And why not?"

"Truly, why not!"

"He is very handsome. "

"That is as one thinks. "

"And very accomplished. "

"In flattery, most like. "

"And a most profound scholar. "

"In the art of making love, it would seem. "

"But I do not love him. "

"Not love him!"

"No, nor never can. "

"Then why, my dearest young lady, do you marry him?"

"You may well ask; why indeed?"

"You seemed very friendly with him the day I saw you together, andhappier than I could have wished you. "

"That was before I knew I was to be his wife. It has only been decidedupon a few days. "

"And now?"

"It is a long story, that I may tell you if we should meet again. Inever can love him, though I greatly esteem him, and--"

"_Esteem!_"

"A sad substitute for love; but what is love without esteem?"

"What is esteem without love?"

"Very true. It was not my own doing, although I reluctantly gave myconsent. If I can with honor release myself from this unfortunateengagement--I have thought more and more every day since, that love, true heart-love, is the only tie that should sanction the union of twobeings--but why should I talk in this way to you, a stranger? I cannotfeel, however that you are a stranger; we have surely met before insome other state of being. I am a firm believer in the beautiful faithof the transmigration of souls--of pre-existence. What is it thatbrings two congenial souls together, uniting them in one hour in moreperfect harmony than whole years could effect among ordinaryacquaintances?"

"Something unexplainable, " I answered, "as it is mysterious. We cancall it elective affinity, and can talk very learnedly upon thesingular attraction of the magnet, as applied to the poles as well assouls, and we can make vast and wise experiments, and in the end be asfar from the real cause as we were before the Solomonic experimentswere made. The school-boy's reasoning was more to the point--

 "I do not like you, Dr. Fell, The reason why I cannot tell. "

I love you dearly, Dr. Fell, the reason why, &c. , would be just asconclusive. We are so accustomed to seeing drops of water drawing nearto meet each other, and mingling in a loving embrace of perfect unity, that we cease to wonder at the occurrence, as we do also at the factthat oil and water will not mingle. "

"Just as my soul will _not_ mingle with the souls of some. There is anantagonism more or less decided between my inner self and many personsI know; people, too, that I am compelled to be friendly with, and wishto be friendly with, many of them my cousins and aunts. Then againtoward some am I as irresistibly attracted. "

Her beautiful eyes sought mine frequently during our conversation, andher glorious soul looked through them--earnest, simple and pure. 

"Just so, " resumed she, after a pause, during which her sweet, softeyes had been gazing on the dreamy waters. "Just so have I feltattracted toward you. I could sit down beside you and tell my wholesoul to you as freely as though you were my own brother. "

The word _brother_ sent a disagreeable shiver through me that all hersweet confidence could not banish. 

"But, " exclaimed she, starting up, "what am I doing? The rain hasstopped, and the waning sun warns me that it is time to be at home. And what _must_ you think of me? I hardly dare to ask the--"

"That you are the most lovely, most glorious of all Heaven's gloriouscreatures; that you--"

"There, there! if you talk in that way, I shall truly repent havingsaid all I have to you. "

"Forgive me; though I spoke sincerely, I hope--"

"I will forgive on condition of good behavior in future. But I mustnot stay for another word. Promise me that you will not leave thisspot until ten minutes after the omnibus I shall be in is out ofsight. "

"I promise, " said I, reluctantly. 

She gave me her little, soft, ungloved hand at parting; its gentlepressure sent a thrill of ecstasy through me, and I looked all theunutterable things that my full soul felt into her warm brown eyes. And, by the way, I may as well say that my own eyes are--they are adark, deep blue, and strangely expressive, if I believe my sistersand my friends, and--my own glass. 

For one week did I wander up and down the streets, and watch everyomnibus, and stare into the windows and doors of every house I passed. I peered under every pretty bonnet I met, and was, on the eighth day, giving full chase to a coquettish little blue one, in the earnest hopeof finding the sweet face of my beautiful incognita hidden under it, when some one laid a strong grasp on my shoulder, and looking around, I beheld the generous face of my good uncle. 

"Bless the boy! why, Led, what is your hurry? Your business must havebeen _very_ urgent this last week. Why, in the name of all the saints, have you kept away so studiously? There is poor little Emily actuallydying with anxiety to see you. Bless my soul! is this the way to treatyour friends? But now that I have fairly captured you, I do not intendto let you go. "

And he did not, and would not; so I had to go with him. And what doyou think? The first object that met my bewildered gaze, as my uncleled me into the drawing-room, was--herself! her very self! but soaltered, looking so cold and stately. My uncle introduced me to her as"My daughter Emily, nephew Ledyard. " "My daughter Emily" inclined herbeautiful head most graciously, and sweetly smiled, but not onerecognizing glance did she deign to bestow on poor "nephew Ledyard. "Lovely she was, and proud and majestic as a queen. What could it mean?I made several well-planned alluions to omnibuses and stages, &c. , notone of which did she seem to comprehend. 

Her exceeding beauty still charmed me in spite of her coldness; and Istayed to tea and then the evening. My cousin sung for me; her voicewas highly cultivated and exceedingly sweet, and full of feeling. Songafter song she poured forth into the listening air, and each songentranced me more than the last. 

We conversed gayly on several topics, and she grew more and morefamiliar with me, alluded playfully to our childish intimacy; still, to the very close of the evening, did she refuse to remember by lookor word that we had met since children. She evidently wished toforget, and wished me to forget the whole of that pleasant interviewthat had afforded _me_, at least, such soul-felt delight; yet sheacted her part so well, was so careless and unconscious, and withal socold and full of queenly dignity, that I went home in a perfectbewilderment of amazement. 

As I lay tossing on a sleepless bed, and in my heart bitterly railingagainst the perversity and incomprehensibility of women, I foundmyself incessantly repeating to myself, "Am I Giles, or am I not;" thetruth flashed upon me that I was the unhappy victim of an opticalillusion, that the Cousin Emily I had but a little before left wassimply my Cousin Emily, and not the beautiful being of whom my heartand life were full--that incessant thinking of her, and seeking her, had crazed my brain. I relighted my lamp and made my way into thedoctor's study. I read all I could find on the subject of opticaldelusion and maniacal hallucination until I convinced myself that Iwas laboring under a very alarming attack of one or both, and resolvedon seriously consulting my friend, the doctor, early the next morning. 

I went back to bed with the decided opinion that I was exceedingly tobe pitied--how would it appear in the papers? for I must undoubtedlygrow worse, and it must undoubtedly end in suicide. "Sad occurrence, ""nice young man, " "brilliant prospects, " "only son of--, " and"promising talents, " "laboring under incipient insanity, " "fatal causeunknown, " &c. , &c. I sympathized with myself until near morning, thenfell into a sleep, which lasted until the bell rung for breakfast. Idressed in a hurry, and got down before the muffins were quite cold. Iate a hearty breakfast, read a newspaper or two, and determining onseeing my cousin again before I made up my mind to ask advice, I soonfound myself at her door. The fresh morning air and the walk had soinvigorated me, that I laughed at my last night's fears, especially asmy lovely cousin came into the drawing-room to receive me, radiantwith health and beauty. I found her just the same as she was the nightbefore, gay, witty and charming, and as cold as marble. Still I couldnot be mistaken; for, with all her feigned coldness--for some goodreason of her own undoubtedly--there was no doubting her identity withthat of my glorious Fairmount vision. 

The day was a lovely one, soft and mild as a June morning could makeit. After conversing on indifferent subjects for a time, I asked her, remarking on the deliciousness of the morning, if she would not liketo go out with me to Fairmount. She assented with a quiet smile, asinnocently as though she had never in her life before heard of such aplace as Fairmount. 

"The little-deceiver!" thought I. "Which way shall we go?" said I, aloud, and very significantly, "shall we take the omnibus?"

"I will order the carriage, " replied she, with a slight shrug; "Inever ride in those omnibusses, one meets with such odd people. "

"_Never?_" asked I, emphatically. 

"Certainly, never!" answered she, with much apparent surprise. 

My drive was a delightful one. How could it be otherwise, with aglorious day surrounding me, and a gloriously beautiful cousin sittingbeside me, with whom I could not exactly make up my mind whether tofall desperately _in_ love, or desperately _out_ of love. I, too, suchan enthusiastic lover of beauty. But she chose to be so different fromwhat she was at our first meeting--so reserved, that I could notdecide whether I most loved or was most indifferent to her. 

We rode all the morning, and I left her, promising to call again inthe evening. I walked the streets until dark, the whole affair vexedme so much--I, such a hater of all mysteries, the most impatient ofall breathing mortals. I determined to come at once to anunderstanding with my perverse little cousin, and to decide at oncethe puzzling question whether to love or not to love. 

In the evening I found myself alone with my little tormentor. 

"Now, sweet Cousin Emily, " said I, playfully, "you have been teazingme long enough with your pretty affectation of ignorance andinnocence--not but that you are as ignorant as the rest of your sweetsex, and as innocent too--but, I beseech you, lay by thismasquerading, you have played possum long enough. I humbly implore ofyou to be the same to me that you were in our first visit toFairmount--the earnest, simple-hearted Cousin Emily you then were. "

"Mr. Lincoln speaks in enigmas; I must confess I do not understand hismeaning, nor his elegant allusion to 'playing possum. '"

This she said with so much haughtiness, that I was taken all aback. Rallying, however, in a moment I determined not to give up the point. 

"I beseech of you to pardon the inelegance of my expression, and alsomy pertinacity in insisting upon some explanation of your mannertoward me. It will all do very well for the stage, " continued I, bitterly, "but in real life, among cousins, and two that have met sofrankly, and in such sincerity, I feel that our acquaintanceship mustat once end, pleasant as it has been, as it might be to me, unless youlay aside this assumed coldness. It harasses me more than I canexpress. Emily, after seeing you in the stage-coach, I thought I hadnever met with one half so lovely, and I could think of nothing butyou. After remaining at home but one week, business called me toPhiladelphia. Judge of my delight when almost the first object thatmet my view was your beautiful, unforgotten little self. You were juststepping into one of those very omnibusses you have since seen fit todecry. What followed you must remember as distinctly as I--no _not_ asdistinctly, for the whole of that delicious interview is engraven onmy heart--one of the sun-bright scenes of my life that I can neverforget. And now, after that beautiful interchange of thought and soulthat promised--every thing, do I find you cold, impassive. If yourepent the trust you so freely reposed in me, in all frankness, sayso; but for the sweet love of heaven, do not pretend to such--"

"For the sweet love of heaven what is the man raving about? Are youmad, dear cousin, insane? Poor Cousin Ledyard! Or is it--?" her wholemanner changed, her brilliant eyes lighted up with intense fire. Howbeautiful she looked! I could have knelt and worshiped her, though, strange to say, my restless, ardent love for her had entirely abated. "Yes!" exclaimed she, "it must be so;" and with that she clasped hersmall white hands, and throwing back her fine head, laughed with allher heart, and strength, and soul. 

This was very pleasant for me; still I had to join her laugh, it wasso genuine and infectious. 

"Forgive me, dear cousin, forgive me for my rude laughter; forgive mealso for my folly in attempting to deceive you. You will hereafterfind me the same you found me in our first pleasant interview. Here ismy hand--I will not explain one other word to-night; I hear voices onthe stairs. Come here to-morrow evening at eight, and you shall knowall--all my reasons. "

"And why not to-morrow morning, cruel cousin?"

"I am engaged all of the day to-morrow. I go with mamma and papa outof town, ten miles or so, to dine; a stupid affair, but mamma wishesit. "

"But before you go--just after breakfast. "

"No, no--come in the evening. "

By this time the voices heard on the stairs had entered the room inthe shape of a merry half-dozen of my cousin's young friends. Feelingtoo agitated for society, I withdrew. 

And now another night and a whole day more of suspense--that palehorror, that come in what shape it will, even in the shape of abeautiful cousin, always torments the very life from my heart. 

All the clocks in town were striking eight as I rung my uncle's bell. I found the drawing-room full of company, at which I felt vexed anddisappointed. 

My lovely cousin came up to me and placed her arm within mine, and ledme through the next room into the conservatory, and there, seated amidthe rare eastern flowers, herself the queen of them, was, graciousheaven! I dared scarcely breathe, so great was my fear of dispellingthe beautiful illusion. It was she! none other; my stage-coachcompanion--my Fairmount goddess. The musical, measured voice of mystatue-like Cousin Emily brought me to myself. 

"Allow me. Cousin Ledyard, to introduce you to _my_ Cousin Emily. "

There they both stood, one Cousin Emily, calm, stately, serene; theother trembling and in blushes. 

I looked from one to the other in the most ludicrous bewilderment, yeteach glance showed me more and more what a wonderful fool I had beenmaking of myself for the last few days. Still they were strangelyalike; their own kindred could not at times distinguish one from theother. My heart could feel the difference. _My_ Emily was a child ofnature, the other bred in a more conventional school. My Emily was ashade less tall, less stately, less Grecian, and exquisitely morelovely, and loving. 

But that double wedding _was_ a grand one. By what means my Emilycontrived to disentangle herself from that handsome-whiskered"Charles, " and to entangle him fast in the chains of the other Emily, any one who wishes to know, and will take the trouble, can have alldue information on the subject, and can also learn how I wooed mypeerless Emily and won her, by coming to our lovely picturesquedwelling, situate in one of the most romantic spots in the country. Iwrite you all to come, one by one, and spend a month with me, and youshall know all the particulars. You will find my little Emily apattern housekeeper; you will also find a ready welcome. Bless hersweet face! There she sits, at the moment that I am writing this toyou, with her willow arms twined around the exquisite form of herlittle lily-bud boy, and bending low her graceful form over him, hushing to sleep the very bravest, noblest, merriest little specimenof babyhood--the exact image of his enraptured father. 

THE DEFORMED ARTIST. 

BY MRS. E. N. HORSFORD. 

 The twilight o'er Italia's sky Had wove a shadowy veil, And one by one the solemn stars Looked forth serene and pale; As quickly the waning light Through a high casement stole, And fell on one with silver hair, Who shrived a passing soul. 

 No costly pomp and luxury Relieved that chamber's gloom, But glowing forms, by limner's art Created, thronged the room: And as the low winds echoed far The bell for evening prayer, The dying painter's earnest tones Fell on the languid air. 

 "The spectral form of Death is nigh, The thread of Life is spun, Ave Maria! I have looked Upon my latest sun. And yet 'tis not with pale disease This frame is worn away, Nor yet--nor yet with length of years-- A child but yesterday"

 "I found within my father's hall No fervent love to claim-- The curse that marked me from my birth Devoted me to shame. I saw upon my brother's brow Angelic beauty lay, The mirror gave me back a form That thrilled me with dismay. "

 "And soon I learned to shrink from all, The lowly and the high; To see but scorn on every lip, Contempt in every eye. And for a time e'en Nature's smile A bitter mockery wore, For beauty stamped each living thing The wide creation o'er;"

 "And I alone was cursed and loathed; 'Twas in a garden bower I knelt one eve, and scalding tears Fell fast on many a flower; And as I rose I marked with awe And agonizing grief, A frail mimosa at my feet Fold close each fragile leaf. "

 "Alas! how dark my lot if thus A plant could shrink from me; But when I looked again I marked That from the honey-bee, The falling leaf, the bird's gay wing, It shrunk with pain and fear, A kindred presence I had found, Life waxed sublimely clear. "

 "I climbed the lofty mountain height And communed with the skies, And felt within my grateful heart Strange aspirations rise. Oh! what was this humanity When every beaming star Was filled with lucid intellect, Congenial, though afar. "

 "I mused beneath the avalanche, And traced the sparkling stream, Till Nature's face became to me A passion and a dream:" Then thirsting for a higher lore I left my childhood's home, And stayed not till I gazed upon The hills of fallen Rome. 

 "I stood amid the forms of light, Seraphic and divine, The painter's wand had summoned from The dim Ideal's shrine; And felt within my fevered soul Ambition's wasting fire, And seized the pencil with a vague And passionate desire"

 "To shadow forth, with lineaments Of earth, the phantom throng That swept before my sight in thought, And lived in storied song. Vain, vain the dream--as well might I Aspire to build a star, Or pile the gorgeous sunset clouds That glitter from afar. "

 "The threads of life have worn away, Discordantly they thrill, But soon the sounding chords will be Forever mute and still. And in the spirit-land that lies Beyond, so calm and gray, I shall aspire with truer aim-- Ave Maria! pray!"

A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY. 

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 

 Good-bye--good-bye, thou gracious, golden day: Through luminous tears, thou smilest, far away In the blue heaven, thy sweet farewell to me, And I, through _my_ tears, gaze and smile with thee. 

 I see the last faint, glowing, amber gleam Of thy rich pinion, like a lovely dream, Whose floating glory melts within the sky, And now thou'rt passed forever from mine eye!

 Were we not friends--_best_ friends--my cherished day? Did I not treasure every eloquent ray Of golden light and love thou gavest me? And have I not been true--most true to thee?

 And _thou_--thou earnest like a joyous bird, Whose sacred wings by heaven's own air were stirred. And lowly sang me all the happy time Dear, soothing stories of that blissful clime!

 And more, oh! more than this, there came with thee, From Heaven, a stranger, rare and bright to me, A new, sweet joy--a smiling angel-guest, That softly asked a home within my breast. 

 For talking sadly with my soul alone, I heard far off and faint a music-tone, It seemed a spirit's call--so soft it stole On fairy wings into my waiting soul. 

 I _knew_ it summoned me to something sweet, And so I followed it with faltering feet; And found--what I had prayed for with wild tears-- A rest, that soothed the lingering grief of years!

 So for that deep, perpetual joy, my day! And for all lovely things that came to play In thy glad smile--the pure and pleading flowers That crowned with their frail bloom thy flying hours--

 The sunlit clouds--the pleasant air that played Its low lute-music 'mid the leafy shade-- And, dearer far, the tenderness that taught My soul a new and richer thrill of thought--

 For these--for all--bear thou to Heaven for me The grateful thanks with which I mission thee! Then should thy sisters, wasted, wronged, upbraid, Speak _thou_ for me--for thou wert not betrayed!

 'Twas little--true--I could to thee impart-- I, with my simple, frail and wayward heart; But that I strove the diamond sands to light, In Life's rich hour-glass, with _Love's_ rainbow flight;

 And that one generous spirit owed to me A moment of exulting ecstasy; And that I won o'er wrong a queenly sway-- For this, thou'lt smile for me in Heaven, my Day!

SAM NEEDY. 

A TALE OF THE PENITENTIARY. 

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. 

Several years ago, a man of the name of Samuel Needy, a poor artisan, was living in London. He had with him a wife, and a child by thiswife. This artisan was skillful, quick, intelligent, very ill-treatedby education, very well-treated by nature--able to think, but not toread. One winter his work failed him--there was neither fire nor foodin his garret; the man, the woman, and the child were cold and hungry;he committed a theft; it is unnecessary to state what he stole, orwhence he stole it. Suffice it to know, that the consequences of thistheft were three days' food and fire to the wife and child, and fiveyears of imprisonment to the man. 

Sam Needy, lately an honest man, now and henceforth a thief, wasdignified and grave in appearance; his high forehead was alreadywrinkled, though he was still young; some gray lines lurked among theblack and bushy tufts of his hair; his eye was soft, and buried deepbeneath his lofty and well-turned eye-brow; his nostrils were open, his chin advancing, his lip scornful; it was a fine head--let us seewhat society made of it. 

He was a man of few words--more frequent gestures--somewhat imperiousin his whole manner, and one to make himself obeyed; of a melancholyair--rather serious than suffering; for all that he had sufferedenough. 

In the place where he was confined there was a director of thework-rooms--a kind of functionary peculiar to prisons, who combined inhimself the offices of turnkey and tradesman, who would at the sametime issue an order to the workman and threaten the prisoner--puttools in his hand and irons on his feet. This man was a variety of hisown species--a man peremptory, tyrannical, governed by his fancies, holding tight the reins of his authority, and yet, on occasion, a booncompanion, jovial and condescending to a joke--rather hard thanfirm--reasoning with no one--not even himself--a good father, anddoubtless a good husband--(a duty, by the way, and not a virtue;) inshort, evil but not bad. The principal, the diagonal line of thisman's character was obstinacy; he was proud of it, and thereincompared himself to Napoleon, when he had once fixed what he called_his will_ upon an absurdity, he went to its furthest length, holdinghis head high, and despising all obstacles. Such violence of purposewithout reason, is only folly tied to the tail of brute force, andserving to lengthen it. For the most part, whenever a catastrophe, whether public or private, happens amongst men, if we look beneath therubbish with which it strews the earth, to find in what manner thefallen fabric had been propped, we shall, with rare exceptions, discover it to have been blindly put together by a weak and obstinateman, trusting and admiring himself implicitly. Many of the smaller ofthese strange fatalities pass in the world for providences. Such washe who was the director of the work-rooms in the House of Correctionwhere poor Sam Needy was sent to undergo his sentence. Such was thestone with which society daily struck its prisoners to draw sparksfrom them. The sparks which such stones draw from such flints oftenkindle conflagrations. 

In a short time Sam found the prison air natural to him, and appearedto have forgotten every thing; a certain severe serenity, whichbelonged to his character, had resumed its mastery. 

In about the same time he had acquired a singular ascendency over allhis companions, as if by a sort of silent agreement, and without anyone knowing wherefore, not even himself. All these men consulted him, listened to him, admired and imitated him, (the last point to whichadmiration can mount. ) It was no slight glory to be obeyed by allthese lawless natures; the empire had come to him without his ownseeking--it was a consequence of the respect with which they beheldhim. The eye of a man is a window, through which may be seen thethoughts which enter into and issue from his heart. 

Place an individual who possesses ideas among those who do not, at theend of a given time, and by a law of irresistible attraction, alltheir misty minds shall draw together with humility and reverenceround his illuminated one. There are men who are iron, and there aremen who are loadstone. Sam Needy was loadstone. In less than threemonths he had become the soul, the law, the order of the work-room; hewas the dial, concentrating all rays; he must even himself havesometimes doubted whether he were king or prisoner--it was thecaptivity of a pope among his cardinals. 

By as natural a reaction, accomplished step by step, as he was lovedby the prisoners, so was he detested by the jailers. It is alwaysthus, popularity cannot exist without disfavor--the love of the slavesis always exceeded one degree by the hate of their masters. 

Sam Needy was, by his particular organization, a great eater; hisstomach was so formed, that food enough for two common men wouldhardly have sufficed for his nourishment. Lord Slickborough had one ofthese large appetites, and laughed at it; but that which is a cause ofgayety for a British peer, with a rent-roll of fifty-thousand poundsa year, is a heavy charge to an artisan, and a misfortune to aprisoner. 

Sam Needy, free in his own loft, worked all day, earned his fourpounds of bread, and ate it; Sam Needy, in prison, worked all day, and, for his pains, received invariably one pound and a half of bread, and four ounces of meat; the ration admits of no change. Sam wastherefore constantly hungry whilst in the House of Correction; he washungry, and no more--he did not speak of it because it was not hisnature so to do. 

One day Sam, after devouring his scanty pittance, had returned to hiswork, thinking to cheat his hunger by it--the rest of the prisonerswere eating cheerily. A young man, pale, fair, and feeble-looking, came and placed himself near him; he held in his hand his ration, asyet untouched, and a knife; he remained in that situation, with theair of one who would speak, and dares not. The sight of the man, andhis bread and meat annoyed Sam. 

"What do you want?" said he, rudely. 

"That you would do me a service, " said the young man, timidly. 

"What?" replied Sam. 

"That you would help me to eat this--it is too much for me. "

A tear stood in the proud eye of Sam; he took the knife, divided theyoung man's ration into two equal parts, took one of them, and beganeating. 

"Thank you, " said the young man; "if you like, we will share togetherevery day. "

"What is your name?" said Sam. 

"Heartall. "

"Wherefore are you here?"

"I have committed a theft. "

"And I too, " said Sam. 

Henceforth they did thus share together every day. Sam Needy waslittle more than thirty years old, but at times he appeared fifty, sostern were his thoughts usually. Heartall was twenty--he might havebeen taken for seventeen, so much innocence was there in hisappearance. A strict friendship was knit up between the two, rather offather to son than brother to brother, Heartall being still almost achild, Sam already nearly an old man. They wrought in the samework-room--they slept under the same vault--they walked in the sameairing-ground--they ate of the same bread. Each of these two friendswas the universe to the other--it would seem that they were happy. 

Mention has already been made of the director of the work-rooms. Thisman, who was abhorred by the prisoners, was often obliged, in order toenforce obedience, to have recourse to Sam Needy, who was beloved bythem. On more than one occasion, when the question was, how to putdown a rebellion or a tumult, the authority without title of Sam Needyhad given powerful aid to the official authority of the director; inshort, to restrain the prisoners, ten words from him were as good asten turnkeys. Sam had many times rendered this service to thedirector, wherefore the latter detested him cordially. He was jealousof him; there was at the bottom of his heart a secret, envious, implacable hatred against Sam--the hate of a titular for a realsovereign--of a temporal against a spiritual power; these are theworst of all hatreds. 

Sam loved Heartall greatly, and did not trouble himself about thedirector. One morning when the turnkeys were leading the prisoners, two by two, from their dormitory to the work-room, one of them calledHeartall, who was by the side of Sam, and informed him that thedirector wished to see him. 

"What does he want with you?" said Sam. 

"I do not know, " replied the other. 

The turnkey took Heartall away. 

The morning past; Heartall did not return to the work-room. When thedinner hour arrived, Sam expected that he should rejoin Heartall inthe airing-ground--but no Heartall was there. He returned into thework-room, still Heartall did not make his appearance. So passed theday. At night, when the prisoners were removed to their dormitory, Samlooked out for Heartall, but could not see him. It would seem that hemust have suffered much at that moment, for he addressed theturnkey--a thing which he had never done before. 

"Is Heartall sick?" was his question. 

"No, " replied the turnkey. 

"Why is it, then, that he has not again made his appearance to-day?"

"Ah, " replied the turnkey, carelessly, "they have put him in anotherward. "

The witnesses who deposed to these facts at a later period, remarked, that at this answer, Sam's hand, in which was a lighted candle, trembled a little. He again asked, calmly, "Whose order was this?"

The turnkey said "Mr. Flint's. "

The name of the director of the work-rooms was Flint. 

The next day went by like the last, but no news of Heartall. 

That evening, when the day's work ended, Mr. Flint came to make hisusual round of inspection. As soon as Sam Needy saw him, he took offhis cap of coarse wool, buttoned his gray vest, sad livery of thework-house, (it is a principle in prisons, that a vest, respectfullybuttoned, bespeaks the favor of the superior officers, ) and placedhimself at the end of his bench, waiting till the director came by. Hepassed. 

"Sir, " said Sam. 

The director stopped and turned half round. 

"Sir, " said Sam, "is it true that Heartall's ward has been changed?"

"Yes, " returned the director. 

"Sir, " continued Sam, "I cannot live without Heartall; you know thatwith the ration of the house I have not enough to eat, and thatHeartall shared his bread with me. "

"That was his business, " replied the director. 

"Sir, is there no means of getting Heartall replaced in the same wardas myself?"

"Impossible! it is so decided. "

"By whom?"

"By myself. "

"Mr. Flint, " persisted Sam, "the question is my life or death, and itdepends upon you. "

"I never revoke my decisions. "

"Sir, is it because I have given you offence?"

"None. "

"In that case, " said Sam, "why do you separate me from Heartall?"

"_It is my will_" said the director. 

With this explanation he went away. 

Sam Needy stooped his head and made no answer. Poor caged lion, fromwhom they had taken his dog!

The grief of this separation in no way changed the prisoner's almostdisease of voracity. Nor was he, in other respects, obviously altered. He did not speak of Heartall to any of his comrades. He walked alonein the airing-ground, in the hours of recreation, and sufferedhunger--nothing more. 

Nevertheless, those who knew him well, remarked something of asinister and sombre expression which daily overspread his countenancemore and more. In other respects he was gentler than ever. Many wishedto share their ration with him, but he refused with a smile. 

Every evening, after the explanation which the director had given him, he committed a sort of folly, which, in so grave a man, wasastonishing. At the moment when the director, in the progress of hishabitual duty, passed by Sam Needy's working-frame, he would raise hiseyes, gaze steadily upon him, and then address to him, in a tone fullof distress and anger, combining at once menace and supplication, these two words only--"_remember Heartall_!" the director would eitherappear not to hear, or pass on, shrugging his shoulders. 

He was wrong. It became evident to all the lookers on of these strangescenes, that Sam Needy was inwardly determined on some step. All theprison awaited with anxiety the result of this strife betweenobstinacy and resolution. 

It has been proved, that once Sam said to the director, "Listen, sir, give me back my comrade; you will do well to do it, I assure you. Takenotice that I tell you this. "

Another time, one Sunday, when he had remained in the airing-groundfor many hours in the same attitude, seated on a stone, his elbows onhis knees, and his forehead buried in his hands, one of hisfellow-convicts approached him, and cried out, laughing, "What are you about here, Sam?"

Sam raised his stern head slowly, and said, "_I am sitting injudgment!_"

At last, on the evening of the 1st of November, 1833, at the momentwhen the director was making his round, Sam Needy crushed under hisfoot a watch-glass, which he had that morning found in the corridor. The director inquired whence that noise proceeded. 

"It is nothing, " said Sam. "It is I, Mr. Flint--give me back mycomrade. "

"Impossible!" said his master. 

"It must be done though, " said Sam, in a low and steady voice, andlooking the director full in the face, added, "reflect, this is thefirst of November, I give you till the 10th. "

A turnkey made the remark to Mr. Flint that Sam Needy threatened him, and that it was a case for solitary confinement. 

"No, nothing of the kind, " said the director, with a disdainful smile, "we must be gentle with these sort of people. "

On the morrow, another convict approached Sam Needy, who walked byhimself, melancholy, leaving the other prisoners to bask in a patch ofsunshine at the further corner of the court. 

"What now, Sam--what are you thinking of? You seem sad. "

"_I am afraid_, " said Sam, "_that some misfortune will happen soon tothis gentle Mr. Flint_. "

There are nine full days from the 1st to the 10th of November. SamNeedy did not let one pass without gravely warning the director of thestate, more and more miserable, in which the disappearance of Heartallplaced him. The director, worn out, sentenced him to four-and-twentyhours of solitary confinement, because his prayer was too like ademand. This was all that Sam Needy obtained. 

The 10th of November arrived. On this day Sam arose with such a serenecountenance as he had not worn since the day when _the decision_ ofMr. Flint had separated him from his friend. When risen, he searchedin a white wooden box, which stood at the foot of his bed, andcontained his few possessions. He drew thence a pair of sempstress'sscissors. These, with an odd volume of Cowper's poems, were all thatremained to him of the woman he had loved--of the mother of hischild--of his happy little home of other days. Two articles, totallyuseless to Sam; the scissors could only be of service to a woman--thebook to a lettered person. Sam could neither sew nor read. 

At the time when he was traversing the old hall, which serves as thewinter walk for the prisoners, he approached a convict of the name ofDawson, who was looking with attention at the enormous bars of awindow. Sam was holding the little pair of scissors in his hands; heshowed them to Dawson, saying, "To-night I will divide those bars withthese scissors. "

Dawson began to laugh incredulously. Sam joined him. 

That morning he worked with more zeal than usual--faster and betterthan ever before. A little past noon he went down on some pretext orother to the joiner's workshop, on the ground-floor, under the storyin which was his own. Sam was beloved there as every where else; buthe entered it seldom. Thus it was--"Stop, here's Sam!" They got roundhim; it was a perfect holyday. He cast a quick glance around the room. Not one of the overlookers was there. 

"Who has a hatchet to lend me?" said he. 

"What to do?" was the inquiry. 

"Kill the director of the work-rooms. "

They offered him many to choose from. He took the smallest of thosewhich were very sharp, hid it in his trowsers, and went out. Therewere twenty-seven prisoners in that room. He had not desired them tokeep his secret; they all kept it. They did not even talk of it amongthemselves. Every one separately awaited the result. The thing wasstraight-forward--terribly simple. Sam could neither be counseled nordenounced. 

An hour afterward he approached a convict sixteen years old, who waslounging in the place of exercise, and advised him to learn to read. The rest of the day was as usual. At 7 o'clock at night the prisonerswere shut up, each division in the work-room to which they belonged, and the overseers went out, as it appears was the custom, not toreturn till after the director's visit. Sam was locked in with hiscompanions like the rest. 

Then there passed in this work-room an extraordinary scene, one notwithout majesty and awe, the only one of the kind which is to be toldin this story. There were there (according to the judiciary depositionafterward made) four-and-twenty prisoners, including Sam Needy. Assoon as the overseers had left them alone, Sam stood up upon a bench, and announced to all the room that he had something to say. There wassilence. 

Then Sam raised his voice, and said, "You all know that Heartall wasmy brother. Here they do not give me enough to eat; even with thebread which I can buy with the little I earn, it is not sufficient. Heartall shared his ration with me. I loved him at first because hefed me, then because he loved me. The director, Mr. Flint, separatedus; our being together could be nothing to him--but he is abad-hearted man, who enjoys tormenting others. I have asked him forHeartall back again. You have heard me. He will not do it. I gave himtill the 10th, which is to-day, to restore Heartall to me. He orderedme into solitary confinement for telling him so. I, during this time, have sat in judgment upon him, and condemned him to death. In twohours he will come to make his round. I warn you that I am about tokill him. Have you any thing to say on the matter?" All continuedsilent. 

He went on; he spoke (so it appears) with a peculiar eloquence, whichwas natural to him. He declared that he knew he was about to do aviolent deed, but could not think it wrong. He appealed to theconscience of his four-and-twenty listeners. He was placed in a cruelextremity; the necessity of doing justice to himself was a strait intowhich every man found himself driven at one time or other; he couldnot, in truth, take the director's life without giving his own for it;but it was right to give his life for a just end. He had thoughtdeeply on the matter, and that alone, for two months; he believed hewas not carried away by passion, but if it were so, he trusted theywould warn him. He honestly submitted his reasons to the just men whomhe addressed. He was about to kill Mr. Flint; but if any one had anyobjection to make, he was ready to hear it. 

One voice alone was raised to say, that before killing the director, Sam ought to make one last attempt to soften him. 

"It is fair, " said Sam. "I will do so. "

The great clock struck the hour--it was eight. The director would makehis appearance at nine. 

No sooner had this extraordinary court of appeal ratified the sentencehe had submitted to it, than Sam resumed his former serenity. Heplaced upon the table all the linen and garments he possessed--thescanty property of a prisoner--and calling to him, one after theother, those of his companions whom he loved best after Heartall, hedivided all amongst them. He only kept the little pair of scissors. Then he embraced them all. Some of them wept--upon these he smiled. 

There were moments in this last hour, when he chatted with so muchtranquillity, and even gayety, that many of his comrades inwardlyhoped, as they afterward declared, that he might perhaps abandon hisresolution. 

He perceived a young convict who was pale, who was gazing upon himwith fixed eyes, and trembling doubtless from expectation of what hewas about to witness. "Come, courage, young man, " said Sam to him, softly, "it will be only the work of a moment. "

When he had distributed all his goods, made all his adieux, pressedall their hands, he interrupted the restless whisperings which wereheard here and there in the dim corners of the work-room, andcommanded that they should return to their labor. All obeyed him insilence. 

The apartment in which this passed was an oblong hall, aparallelogram, lighted with windows on its two longer sides, and withtwo doors opposite each other at the two ends of the room. Theworking-frames were ranged on each side near the windows, the benchestouching the wall at right angles, and the space left free between thetwo rows of frames formed a sort of avenue, which went straight fromone door to the other, crossing the hall entirely. It was this whichthe director traversed in making his inspection; he was to enter atthe south door, and go out by the north, after having looked at theworkmen on the right and left. Commonly he passed through quickly andwithout stopping. 

Sam Needy had reseated himself on his bench, and had betaken himselfto his work. All were in expectation--the moment approached; on asudden they heard the clock strike. Sam said, "It is the lastquarter. " Then he rose, crossed gravely a part of the hall, and placedhimself, leaning on his elbow, on the first frame on the left handside, close to the door of entrance; his countenance was perfectlycalm and benign. 

Nine o'clock struck--the door opened--the director came in. 

At that moment the silence of the work-room was as of a chamber fullof statues. 

The director was alone as usual; he entered with his jovial, self-satisfied, and stubborn air, without noticing Sam, who wasstanding at the left side of the door, his right hand hidden in histrowsers, and passed rapidly by the first frames, tossing his head, mumbling his words, and casting his glance, which was law, here andthere, not perceiving that the eyes of all who surrounded him werefixed upon him as upon a fearful phantom. On a sudden he turnedsharply round, surprised to hear a step behind him. 

It was Sam Needy, who for some instants followed him in silence. 

"What are you about there?" said the director. "Why are you not inyour place?"

Sam Needy answered respectfully, "Because I have something to say toyou, Mr. Flint. "

"What about?"

"Concerning Heartall. "

"Still Heartall!" exclaimed the director. 

"Always, " replied Sam. 

"Be quiet, " said the director, walking on again. "You are not content, then, with your four-and-twenty hours of solitary confinement?"

Sam followed him--"Mr. Flint, give me back my comrade. "

"Impossible!"

"Sir, " said Sam, in a tone which might have softened the heart of afiend, "I entreat you, restore Heartall to me. You shall see how wellI will work. To you who are free, it is no matter--you do not knowwhat the worth of a friend is; but I have only the four walls of myprison. You can come and go, I have nothing but Heartall--give himback to me. Heartall fed me--you know it well. It will only cost youthe trouble of saying yes. What can it be to you that there should bein the same room one man called Sam Needy, another calledHeartall?--for the thing is simply that, Mr. Flint; good Mr. Flint, Ibeseech you earnestly, for Heaven's sake!"

Sam had probably never before said so much at one time to a jailer;exhausted with the effort, he paused. The director replied, with animpatient gesture, "Impossible--I have said it; speak to me no more about it, you wear meout. "

Then, as if in a hurry, he stepped on more quickly, Sam following. Thus speaking, they had reached the door of exit; the prisoners lookedafter them, and listened breathlessly. 

Sam gently touched the director's arm. "At least let me know why I amcondemned to death--tell me why you have separated him from me?"

"I have told you, " answered the director; "_it is my will_. "

He turned his back upon Sam, and was about to take hold of the latchof the door. 

On this answer Sam had retreated a step; the assembled statues whowere there saw him bring out his right hand, and the hatchet with it;it was raised, and ere the victim could utter one cry, three blows, one upon the other, had cleft his skull. At the moment, when he fellback, a fourth blow laid his face open; then, as if his frenzy, oncelet loose, _could not stop_, Sam struck a fifth blow; it wasuseless--he was dead. 

"Now for the other!" cried the murderer, and threw away the hatchet. That other was himself. They saw him draw from his bosom the smallpair of scissors, and before any one could attempt to hinder him, burythem in his breast. The blade was too short to penetrate. He struckthem in again and again, so many as twenty times. "Accursed heart!cannot I then reach you?" and finally fell in a dead swoon, bathed inhis blood. 

Which of these men was the victim of the other?

When Sam returned to consciousness, he was in bed, well attended, hiswounds carefully bandaged; a humane nurse was about his pillow, andmore than one magistrate, who asked him, with the appearance of greatinterest, "Are you better?"

He had lost a great quantity of blood, but the scissors with which hehad wounded himself, had done their duty ill--none of the wounds weredangerous. 

The examinations commenced. They asked him if it were he who hadkilled the director of the work-rooms. He replied, "It was. " Theyasked him why he had done it. He answered--_it was his will. _

After this the wounds festered. He was seized with a severe fever, ofwhich he only did not die. November, December, January, and February, went over in recovering him and preparing for his trial; physiciansand judges alike made him the object of their care--the former healedhis wounds, the latter made ready his scaffold. To be brief, on the5th of April, 1834, he appeared, being perfectly cured, before theCourt of Sessions. 

Sam made a good appearance before the court; he had been carefullyshaved, his head was bare; he was dressed in the sad prison livery oftwo shades of gray. 

When the trial was entered upon, a singular difficulty presenteditself. Not any of the witnesses of the events of the 10th ofNovember, would make a deposition against Sam. The presiding judgethreatened them with his discretionary power in vain. Sam thencommanded them to give evidence. All their tongues were loosed. Theyrelated what they had seen. 

Sam Needy listened with profound attention. When one of them, out offorgetfulness, or affection for him, omitted some of the circumstanceschargeable upon the accused, Sam supplied them. By this means thechain of facts which has been related was unfolded before the court. 

There was one moment when some of the females present wept. The clerkof the court summoned the convict, Heartall. It was his turn to comeforward. He entered, staggering with emotion--he wept. The policecould not prevent his falling into the arms of Sam. Sam raised him, and said with a smile to the attorney-general, "Here is a villain whoshares his bread with those who are hungry. " Then he kissed Heartall'shand. 

The list of witnesses having been gone through, the attorney-generalrose and spoke in these words: "Gentlemen of the jury, society wouldbe shaken to its foundation if public vengeance did not overtake suchgreat criminals as this man, who, etc. , etc. "

After this memorable discourse, Sam's advocate spoke. The pleaderagainst, and the pleader for, made each in due order, the evolutionswhich they are accustomed to make in the arena which is called acriminal court. 

Sam did not think that all was said that might be said. He arose inhis turn. He spoke in a manner which must have amazed all theintelligent persons present on the occasion. It appeared as if therewere more of the orator than the murderer in this poor artisan. Hespoke in an upright attitude, with a penetrating and well-managedvoice; with an open, sincere, and steadfast gaze, with a gesturealmost always the same, but full of command. There were moments inwhich his genuine, lofty eloquence stirred the crowd to a murmur, during which Sam took breath, casting a bold gaze upon the bystanders. Then again, this man, who could not read, was as gentle, polished, select in his language, as a well-informed person--at other momentsmodest, measured, attentive, going step by step over the irritatingparts of the argument, courteous to his judges. Once only he gave wayto a burst of passion. The attorney-general had proved in his speechthat Sam Needy had assassinated the director without any violence onhis part, and consequently _without provocation_. 

"What!" exclaimed Sam Needy, "I have not been provoked! Ay--it is verytrue--I understand you. A drunken man strikes me with his dagger--Ikill him, I have been provoked; you show mercy to me, you send me toBotany Bay. But a man who is not drunk, who has the perfect use of hisreason, wrings my heart for four years, humbles me for four years, pierces me with a weapon every day, every hour, every minute, in someunexpected point for four years. I had a wife, for whose sake I becamea thief--he tortures me through that wife; a child for whom Istole--he tortures me through that child. I have not bread enough toeat--a friend gives it me; he takes away my friend and my food. I askfor my friend back--he condemns me to solitary confinement. I speak tohim--him, the spy--respectfully; he answers me in dog's language. Itell him I am suffering--he tells me I wear him out. What would you, then, that I should do? I kill him. It is well--I am a monster; I havemurdered this man; I have not been provoked. You take my life forit--be it so. "

The debates being closed, the presiding judge made his impartial andluminous summing up. The results were these: a wicked life--a wretchin purpose. Sam Needy had begun by stealing--he then murdered. Allthis was true. 

When the jury were about being conducted to their apartment, the judgeasked the accused if he had any thing to say upon the questions beforethem. 

"Little, " replied Sam, "only this; I am a thief and an assassin. Ihave stolen, and have slain a man. But why have I stolen? Why have Imurdered? Add these two questions to the rest, gentleman of the jury. "

After a quarter of an hour's deliberation on the part of the twelveindividuals whom he had addressed as _gentlemen of the jury_, SamNeedy was condemned to death. 

Their decision was read to Sam, who contented himself with saying, "Itis well--but why has this man stolen? Why has this man murdered? Theseare questions to which they make no answer. "

He was carried back to prison--he supped almost gayly. 

He had no wish to make an appeal against his sentence. The old womanwho had nursed him entreated him with tears to do so. He complied outof kindness to her. It would appear as if he had resisted till thevery last moment, for when he signed his petition in the register, thelegal delay of three days had expired some minutes before. Thebenevolent old nurse gave him a crown. He accepted the money andthanked her. 

While his appeal was pending, offers of escape were made him. Therewas thrown, one after the other, in his dungeon, through its air-hole, a nail, a bit of iron file, and the handle of a bucket. Any of thesethree tools would have been sufficient to so skillful a man as SamNeedy to cut through his irons. He gave up the nail, the file, and thehandle to the turnkey. 

On the 10th of June, 1834, seven months after the deed, its expiationarrived. That day, at seven o'clock in the morning, the recorder ofthe tribunal entered Sam Needy's dungeon, and announced to him that hehad not more than an hour to live. His petition was rejected. 

"Come, " said Sam, coldly, "I have this night slept well, withouttroubling myself that I should sleep still better the next. "

It would appear as if the words of strong men always receive a certaindignity from approaching death. 

The chaplain arrived--then the executioner. He was humble to the one, gentle to the other. 

He maintained a perfect ease of spirit. He listened to the chaplainwith extreme attention, accusing himself of many things, andregretting that he had not been instructed in religion. 

At his request they had given him back the scissors with which he hadwounded himself. One blade, which had been broken in his breast, waswanting. He entreated the jailor to have these scissors taken toHeartall as from himself. 

He besought those who bound his hands to place in his right hand thecrown-piece which the good nurse had given him--the only thing whichwas now remaining to him. 

At a quarter to eight he was led out of his prison, with the customarymournful procession which attends the condemned. He was pale; his eyeswere fixed on the chaplain--but he walked with a firm step. 

He ascended the scaffold gravely. He shook hands with the chaplainfirst, then the executioner, thanking the one, forgiving the other. The executioner _pushed him back gently_, says one account. At themoment when the assistant put the hideous rope round his neck, he madea sign to the chaplain to take the crown-piece which he had in hisright hand, and said to him, "_For the poor_. " At that moment theclock was striking eight, the sound from the steeple drowned hisvoice, and the chaplain answered that he could not hear him. Samwaited for an interval between two of the strokes, and repeated withgentleness, "_For the poor_. "

The eighth stroke had scarcely sounded when this noble and intelligentcriminal was launched into eternity. 

THE ANGEL OF THE SOUL. 

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. 

 Una stella, una notte, ed una croce. _Antonio Bisazza. _

 Silence hath conquered thee, imperial Night! Thou sit'st alone within her void, cold halls, Thy solemn brow uplifted, and thy soul Paining the space with dumb and mighty thought. The dreary wind ebbs, voiceless, round thy form, Following the stealthy hours, that wake no stir In the hushed velvet of thy mantle's fold. Thy thoughts take being: down the dusky aisles Go shapes of good, and beckoning ghosts of crime, And dreams of maddening beauty--hopes, that shine To darken, and in cloudy height sublime, The spectral march of some approaching Doom! Nor these alone, oh! Mother of the world, People thy chambers, echoless and vast; Their dewy freshness like ambrosial cools Life's fever-thirst, and to the fainting soul Their porphyry walls are touched with light, and gleams Of shining wonder dazzle through the void, Like those bright marvels which the travele'rs torch Wakes from the darkness of three thousand years, In rock-hewn sepulchres of Theban kings. Prophets, whose brows of pale, unearthly glow Reflect the twilight of celestial dawns, And bards, transfigured in immortal song, Like eager children, kneeling at thy feet, Unclasp the awful volume of thy lore. 

 My soul goes down thy far, untrodden paths, To the dim verge of being. There its step Touches the threshold of sublimer life, And through the boundless empyrean leaps Its prayer, borne like a faint, expiring cry, To angel-warders, listening as they pace The crystal walls of Heaven. Down the blue fields Of the untraveled Infinite, they come: Beneath their wings one sweet, dilating wave Thrills the pure deep, and bears my soul aloft, To walk amid their shining groups, and call Its guardian spirit, as an orphan calls His vanished brother, taken in childhood home:

 "White through my cradled dreams thy pinions waved, Lost Angel of the Soul! thy presence led The babe's faint gropings through the glimmering dark And into Being's conscious dawn. Thy hand Held mine in childhood, and thy beaming cheek Lay close, like some fond playmate's, to mine own. Up to that boundary, whence the heart leaps forth To life, like some wild torrent, when the rains Pour dark and full upon the cloudy hills, Thy gentle footsteps wandered near to mine. Be with me now! Oh, in the starry hush Of the deep night, that holds the earthly down In all my nature, bring to me again The early purity, which kept thy hand From the entrancing harp it held in Heaven! Through the warm starting of my hoarded tears, Let me behold thine eyes divine, as stars Gleam through the twilight vapors of the sea!

 "Not yet hast thou forsaken me. The prayer Whose crowning fervor lifts my nature up Midway to God, may still evoke thy form. Thou hast been with me, when the midnight dew Clung damp upon my brow, and the broad fields Stretched far and dim beneath the ghostly moon; When the dark, awful woods were silent near, And with imploring hands toward the stars Clasped in mute yearning, I have questioned Heaven For the lost language of the book of Life. Oh, then thy face was glorious, and thy hair On the white moonbeam floating, veiled thy brow, But in the holy sadness of thine eye Which held my spirit, tremblingly I saw, Through rushing tears, the sign of angel-grief O'er the false promise of diviner years. From the far glide of some descending strain Of tenderest music I have heard thy voice; And thou hast called amid the stormy rush Of grand orchestral triumph, with a sound Resistless in its power. I feel the light, Which is thine atmosphere, around my soul, When a great sorrow gulfs it from the world. 

 "Come back! come back! my heart grows faint, to know How thy withdrawing radiance leaves more dim The twilight borders of the night of Earth. Now when the bitter truth is learned; when all That seemed so high and good but mocks its seeming-- When the warm dreams of youth come shivering back, In the cold chambers of the heart to die-- When, with the wrestling years, familiar grows The merciless hand of pain, desert me not! Come with the true heart of the faithful Night, When I have cast away the masquing garb Of hollow Day, and lain my soul to rest On her consoling bosom! From the founts Of thine exhaustless light, make clear the road Through toil and darkness, into God's repose!"

SCOUTING NEAR VERA CRUZ. 

A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN. 

BY ECOLIER. 

Hours before day, Lieutenant Rolfe and his party were threading themazes of the chapparal. The moon glistened upon their bayonets andbright barrels. Their path lay in a southwesterly direction, near theold road to Orizava. Here it passed through a glade or opening, wherethe moonbeams fell upon a profusion of flowers, there it reëntereddark alleys among the clustering trees, where the "trail arms" wasgiven in a half whisper. The boughs met and locked overhead, and thethick foliage hid the moon from sight. Now a bright beam escapingthrough some chance opening in the leaves, quivered along the path, and scared the wolf in his midnight wanderings. Out again upon theopen track through the soft grass, and winding around the wild maguey, or under the claw-shaped thorns of the musquit. A deer sprung from hislair among the soft flowers--looked back for a moment at the strangeintruders, and frightened at the gleaming steel, dashed off into thethicket. The woods are not silent by night, as in the colder regionsof the north. The southern forest has its voices, moonlit or dark. Allthrough the livelong night sings the mock-bird--screams the "loreto. "From dark till dawn, you hear the hoarse baying of the "coyote, " andthe dismal howl of the gaunt gray wolf. The cicada fills the air withits monotonous and melancholy notes. In all these sounds there is abreathing, a wild voluptuousness that tells you you are wandering inthe clime of the sun--amidst scenes like those rendered classical bythe pen of St. Pierre. They who have read the sweet French romance, will recognize his faithful painting of tropical pictures. The sunnyglades--and shady arbors--the broad green and yellow leaves--the tallpalm-trees, with their long, lazy feathers and clustering fruitswaving to the slightest breeze, and looking the same as in that seaisland where they flung their changing shadows over the loves of Pauland Virginia. Scouting at night, and to strangers (as were Rolfe andhis men) in the land, was not without its perils. Objects of alarmwere near and around. The nopal rose before you like the picket of anenemy. Its dark column gleaming under the false light of the moon iscertainly some sentinel on the outpost. A halt is the consequence, andsilent and cat-like one of the party, on his hands and knees, stealsnearer and nearer, through the thorny brambles, until the true natureof the apparition betrays itself, in the shape of a huge column ofprickly pear. He then returns to his comrades, and the obstacle ispassed, some one as he passes, with a muttered curse, slashing hissabre through the soft trunk of the harmless vegetable. 

The wild maguey grasps you by the leg, as though some hideous monsterhad sprung from the bushes. You start and rush forward, only to bedragged back among the elastic leaves. It is useless to struggle. Youmust either return and unwind yourself by gentle means, or leave thebetter part of your cloth inexpressibles in the ruthless fangs of theplant. The ranchero fences his limbs with leather, or with leggings oftiger-skin. It is not fancy or choice to wear leather breeches inMexico. Necessity has something to say in fixing the fashion of yoursmall clothes. 

When day broke, Rolfe and his party were ten miles from camp--tenmiles from the nearest American picket, and with only thirty men! Theywere concealed in a thicket of aloes and musquit. This thicket crownedthe only eminence for miles in any direction. It commanded a view ofthe whole country southward to the Alvarado. 

As the sun rose the forest echoed with sounds and song. The leavesmoved with life, as a thousand bright-plumed birds flashed from treeto tree. The green parrot screamed after his mate, uttering his wildnotes of endearment. They are seen in pairs flying high up in theheavens. The troupiale flashed through the dark foliage like a ray ofyellow light. Birds seemed to vie with each other in their songs oflove. Amidst these sounds of the forest, the ear of Rolfe caught thefrequent crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, and the otherwell-known sounds of the settlement. These were heard upon all sides. It was plain that the country was thickly settled, though not a housewas visible above the tree-tops. The thin column of blue smoke as itrose above the green foliage proved the existence of dwellings. 

At some distance, westward, an open plain lay like an emerald lake. The woods that bordered it were of a darker hue than the meadow-grassupon its bosom. In this plain were horses feeding, and Rolfe saw at aglance that they were picketed. Some of them had dragged theirlaryettes and were straying from the group. There appeared to be inall about an hundred horses. It was plain that their owners were notfar off. A thin blue smoke that hung over the trees on one side of themeadow gave evidence of a camp. The baying of dogs came from thisdirection, mingled with the sounds of human voices. It was evidently acamp of the "Jarochos, " (guerilleros. )

Suddenly a bugle sounded, wild and clear above the voices of thesinging-birds, a few notes somewhat resembling the dragoonstable-call. The horses flung up their heads and neighed fiercely, looking toward the encampment. Presently a crowd of men were seenrunning from the woods, each carrying a saddle. The few strays thathad drawn their pickets during the night, came running in at thewell-known voices of their masters. The saddles were flung on andtightly girthed--the bits adjusted and the laryettes coiled and hungto the saddle-horns, in less time than an ordinary horseman would haveput on a bridle. Another flourish of the bugle, and the troop were intheir saddles and galloping away over the greensward of the meadow ina southerly direction. The whole transaction did not occupy fiveminutes, and it seemed to Rolfe and his party, who witnessed it, morelike a dream than a reality. The Jarochos were just out of musketrange. A long shot might have reached them, but even had Rolfeventured this, it would have been with doubtful propriety. Rumor hadfixed the existence of a large force of the enemy in thisneighborhood. It was supposed that at least a thousand men were on theAlvarado road, with the intention of penetrating our lines, withbeeves for the besieged Veracruzanos. 

"They got off in good time, sergeant, " muttered Rolfe, "had they butwaited half an hour longer--Oh! for a score of Harney's horses!"

"Lieutenant, may I offer an opinion?" asked the sergeant, who hadraised himself and stood peering through the leafy branches of acacuchou-tree. 

"Certainly, Heiss, any suggestion--"

"Wal, then--thar's a town, " the sergeant lifted one of the leafyboughs and pointed toward the south-east--a spire and cross--a whitewall and the roofs of some cottages were seen over the trees. "Raoulhere, who's French, and knows the place, says it's Madalin--he's beento it--and there's no good road for horses direct from here--but theroad from Vera Cruz crosses that meadow far up--now, lieutenant, it'smy opinion them thieving Mexicans is bound for that 'ere place--Raoulsays it's a good sweep round--if we could git acrosst this yere stripwe'd head 'em sure. "

The backwoodsman swept his broad hand toward the south, to indicatethe strip of woods that he desired to cross. The plan seemed feasibleenough. The town, although seemingly near, was over five milesdistant. The road by which the guerrilleros had to reach it was muchfarther. Could Rolfe and his party meet them on this road, by anambuscade, they would gain an easy victory, although with inferiornumbers, and Rolfe wished to carry back to camp a Mexican prisoner. This was the object of the scout, to gain information of the forcesupposed to be in the rear of our lines. The men, too, were eager forthe wild excitement of a fight. For what came they there?

"Raoul, " said Rolfe, "is there any path through these woods?"

"Zar is, von road I have believe--oui--Monsieur Lieutenant. "

Raoul was a dapper little Frenchman, who had joined the army at VeraCruz, where we found him. He had been a sort of market-gardener forthe plaza, and knew the back country perfectly. He had fallen into badodor with the rancheros of the _Tierra Caliente_, and owed them nogood-will. The coming of the American army had been a perfect godsendto Raoul, who was now an American volunteer, and, as circumstancesafterward proved, worthy of the title. 

"Close teecket, monsieur, " continued the Frenchman, "but there be vonroad, I make ver sure, by that tree, vot you call him, big tree. "

Raoul pointed to some live-oaks that formed a dark belt across thewoods. 

"Take the lead, Raoul. "

The little Frenchman sprung out in front and commenced descending intothe dark woods beneath. The party was soon winding through the shadowyaisles of a live-oak forest. The woods were at first open and easy. After a short march they came to a small stream, bright and silvery. But what was the surprise of Rolfe to find that the path here gaveout, and on the opposite bank of the rivulet the trees grew closertogether, and the woods were almost woven into a solid mass, by thelianas and other creeping plants. These were covered with blossoms. Insome places a wall of snow-white flowers rose up before you. Pyramidalforms of foliage, green and yellow, over which hung myriads ofvine-blossoms, like a scarlet mantle. Still there was no path--atleast to be trodden by human foot. Birds flew around, scared in theirsolitary haunts. The armadilla and the wolf stood at a distance withglaring eyes. The fearful-looking guana scampered off upon thedecaying limbs of the live-oak, or the still more fearful cobra dicapella glided almost noiselessly over the dry leaves and brambles. 

Raoul confessed that he had been deceived. He had never traveled thisbelt of timber. The path was lost. 

This was strange. A path had conducted them thus far, but on reachingthe stream had suddenly stopped. Soldiers went up and down thewater-course, and peeped through the trellis of vines, but to nopurpose. In all directions they were met by an impenetrable chapparal. 

Chafing with disappointment, the young officer was about to retracehis way, when an exclamation from Heiss recalled him. The backwoodsmanhad found a clew to the labyrinth. An opening led into the thicket. This had been concealed by a perfect curtain of closely woven vines, covered with thick foliage and flowers. It appeared at first to be anatural door to the avenue which led from this spot, but a slightexamination showed that these vines had been trained by human hands, and that the path itself had been kept open by the same agency. Branches were here and there lopped off and cast aside, and the groundhad the marks of human footsteps. The track was clear and beaten, andRolfe ordering his men to follow noiselessly, in Indian file, took thelead. For at least two miles they traced the windings of this forestroad, through dark woods, occasionally opening out into green floweryglades. The bright sky began to gleam through the trees. Farther onand the breaks became larger and more frequent. An extensive clearingwas near at hand. They reached it, but to their astonishment, insteadof a cultivated farm, which they had been expecting to see, theclearing had more the appearance of a vast flower-garden. The roofsand turrets of a house were visible near its centre. The house itselfappeared of a strange oriental style, and was buried amidst groves ofthe brightest foliage. Several huge old trees spread their branchesover the roof, and their leaves hung around the fantastic turrets. 

What should have been fields were like a succession of hugeflower-beds--and large shrubs, covered with sheets of pink and whiteblossoms that resembled wild roses. This shrubbery was high enough toconceal the approach of Rolfe and his party as they followed thepath--apparently the only one which led to the house. 

On nearing this, the officer halted his men in a little glade, andtaking with him Heiss and the boy Gerry, (who might return for the menin case of a surprise, ) proceeded to reconnoitre the strange-lookinghabitation. 

A wall of ivy, or some perennial vine, lay between him and the house. A curtain of green leaves covered the entrance through this wall. Thisappeared to have grown up by neglect. As Rolfe lifted this festoon, topass through, the sound of female voices greeted him. These voicesreached his ear in tones of the lightest mirth. At intervals came aclear ringing laugh from some throat of silver, and then a plunging, splashing sound of water. Rolfe conjectured that some females were inthe act of bathing, and not wishing to intrude upon them sat down fora moment outside the wall. The sounds of merriment were still heard, and among the soft tones the officer imagined that he coulddistinguish the coarser voice of a man. Curiosity now prompted him toenter. Moreover, he reflected that if there were men there alreadythere could not be much impropriety in his taking a share in theamusement. 

Drawing aside the curtain of leaves he looked in. The interior was agarden, but evidently in a neglected state. It appeared the ruin of aonce noble garden and shrubbery. Broken fountains and statuescrumbling among weeds, and untrained rose-trees, met the eye. Thevoices were more distinct, but those who uttered them were hidden bya hedge of jessamines. Rolfe stepped silently up to this hedge andpeeped through an opening. The picture presented was indeed anenchanting one. 

A large fountain lay between him and the house filled with crystalwater. In this fountain two young girls were plunging and diving aboutin the wildest abandon of mirth. The water was not more than waistdeep, and the arms and bosoms of the young girls appeared above itssurface. They were strikingly alike, in all except color. In thisthere was a marked contrast. The neck, arms and bosom of one seemedcarved from snow-white marble, while the other's complexion was almostas dark as mahogany. There was the same cast of features, the sameexpression in both countenances, and their forms, just emerging fromthe slender figure of girlhood, were exactly alike. Their long hairtrailed after them, black and luxuriant, on the surface of the water, as they plunged and swam from one side of the basin to the other. Ahuge negress sat upon the edge of the fountain, seemingly enjoying thebath as much as those who partook of it. It was the voice of thisnegress that Rolfe had mistaken for that of a man. 

The young officer did not hesitate a moment, but stole gently back andregained his comrades. 

Then striking through the flowery fields that stretched away towardthe wood in the rear, he commenced searching for the path that ledfrom the woods in a direction opposite to that whence he had come, without disturbing the inmates of this peaceful mansion. Finding thispath on the other side, the party entered and hastily kept on, inorder to intercept the guerilleros, whom they still hoped to fall inwith. In these hopes they were not disappointed, for emerging from thewoods near Medellin they came upon the guerilleros, with whom they hada sharp skirmish. Rolfe and his party were successful, killing two ofthe guerrilla and taking the same number prisoners. 

The young girls continued their pleasant pastime, little dreaming hownear to them had been these strange and warlike visiters. 

I WANT TO GO HOME

BY RICHARD COE, JR. 

 "I want to go home!" saith a weary child, That hath lost its way in straying; Ye may try in vain to calm its fears, Or wipe from its eyes the blinding tears, It looks in your face, still saying-- "I want to go home!"

 "I want to go home!" saith a fair young bride, In anguish of spirit praying; Her chosen hath broken the silver cord-- Hath spoken a harsh and cruel word, And she now, alas! is saying-- "I want to go home!"

 "I want to go home!" saith the weary soul, Ever earnest thus 'tis praying; It weepeth a tear--heaveth a sigh-- And upward glanceth with streaming eye To its promised rest, still saying-- "I want to go home!"

THE HUMBLING OF A FAIRY. 

BY G. G. FOSTER. 

The Princess Dewbell was confessed to be the queen of the ball, notwithstanding that the beauty and grace and wit of the whole realmwere there, for it was the birth-night festival of the fairy princess, and her royal father, with all a parent's fond pride, had exhaustedinvention, and impoverished extravagance, to give _éclat_ to theoccasion. The walls of his ancestral palace were sparkled all overwith dew-drops, which a troop of early bees had spent all the summermornings in collecting and preserving in the royal patentdew-preserver, invented by one of the native geniuses of the realm. These brilliant mirrors, flashing in the light of ten thousandfire-flies of the royal household, whose whole lives had been expendedin learning how to carry their dainty lamps about so as to produce thefinest effects, reflected the forms of the ladies and the dazzlingmilitary trappings of the handsome cavaliers, (there was war at thattime between the glorious empire of Fairydom and the weak andinfatuated republic of Elfland on its southern borders, and theepaulette and spurs were the only pass to the hearts of the fair, )imbuing them with an infinitude of prismatic hues, all softened into akind of timed starlight, exquisite as the dying voice of music. Inthis gorgeous saloon, at the head of which sat, well pleased, thebenevolent old King Paterflor and his modest and still lovely queenSweetbine, all were noble and accomplished and beautiful and gay; butthe charms of the Princess Dewbell, just bursting into the richness offull-grown fairyhood, were so surpassing that none had ever been foundto question, even in their own hearts, her supremacy. This, perhaps, may appear strange to many of my pretty readers, but they mustremember that mine is a faithful chronicle of fairies--not of women. The princess was standing lightly touching--it could not be said thatshe leaned against--the slender stalk of a garden lily, that rose likean emerald column of classic mould above her lovely form, and expandedinto a graceful dome of transparent and crimson-veined cornelian aboveher head. Her eyes were cast pensively (at the Musical Fund Hall itwould have been called coquettishly) upon the ground, and ever andanon she tossed her proud head with an imperious gesture, until thestreaming curls waved and parted around her cheek and neck, likevine-leaves about a marble column as the south wind creeps among themsoliciting for kisses. The lady Dewbell, amid all this scene ofenchantment, which spread out before and around her, as if her ownloveliness had breathed it into existence, still was discontented;sad, perhaps, at the total absence of care in her bosom, and sighingfor a sorrow. Unhappy lady Dewbell! She had so many hundred times beentold, what she herself believed full well, that she was absolutelythe most beautiful creature in existence, that the tale had lost itsinterest. The champagne of flattery, its creaming foam long ago meltedinto the brain, stood untasted before her, dull and flat as thesubsided fountain poured by the last rain-shower into the tulip's cup. And so the fairy princess stood listless and apart from the joyousrevel, her little form swaying lightly to and fro, with theundulations of the lily-stem against which she more perceptiblyrested. It is well for Root and Collins and Plumbe that the royaldaguerreotyper was laid up in a cowslip, with a broken skylight whichhe had received in a rough-and-tumble with a gnat, about the ownershipof a particular ray of light, at last sunsetting. 

But if the lady Dewbell were queen of the ball, the noble knight SirTimothy Lawn was as undisputedly worthy of the post of honor among hergallant train of admirers. Indeed, it was universally known, of courseas a profound secret among the gossips of the palace, that Sir Timothywas the declared lover of the proud Dewbell, and it was even whisperedthat she had actually been seen hanging around his neck one brightJune morning, in a sweet clover-nook by the brook-side, while he benttenderly over her, his eyes filled with tears of rapture. But as thisstory could only be traced to a rough beetleherd, who said he saw thelovers thus as he was driving his herd of black cattle to water, itwas not generally believed. At any rate, all the ladies were decidedlyof opinion that Sir Timothy was in every way a match for the haughtybeauty, and that if she did not accept him while he was in the humorshe would be very likely to go farther and fare worse. In fact, several old maids and bluestockings, over their dishes of scandal andmarsh-fog, (both of which they made uncommonly strong, ) openly avowedit as their opinion, that he was a great deal too good for her, andthat, if the truth must be told, the princess was an impertinent, saucy and irreverent creature, who hadn't the slightest respect forher superiors. "As to her beauty, " said one of these crones, whoselittle face was very much of the size and complexion of a driedcamomile-flower, and who was shrewdly suspected of qualifying hermarsh-fog with pale pink-brandy--"As for her beauty, that is all in myeye. I have seen plenty of your plump, smooth-skinned pieces of paintand affectation fade in my time, little as I have yet seen of life. Mark my words--before we have reached our prime, my great ladyprincess will be as ugly as--"

"As ugly as yourself, granny! Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho! haw, haw, haw!"shouted a mirthful voice, while an indescribably comic face, half catand half baby, appeared for a single glimpse above the burdock leafbehind which the spinsters were holding their _conversazione_. 

"There's that imp Puck again, as sure as I am a woman!" exclaimed thegentle Mrs. Mullenstalk, rising hastily and spilling a dish of fog allover the front of her new green and yellow striped grass dress, as sheran toward the spot whence the voice had proceeded. "I'll to thepalace this very night, and lay my complaint against that wretch. We'll see whether virtuous ladies are to be insulted in this manner, and their helplessness trampled under foot!"

The intruder had already disappeared; but as the amiable Mrs. Mullenstock got her spectacles adjusted, she just caught sight of himthrowing a somerset into a pumpkin-flower; while his laugh stillsounded faintly upon the air, mingled with snatches of a wild refrain, of which she could only distinguish these lines:

 "Oh ho, Granny Mullenstock, how envious you be; I'll plague you to death, or the hornets catch me!"

The spinster shook her fist and grinned horribly at the broad-mouthed, innocent yellow flower, down whose throat the varlet had leaped--butchancing at that moment to catch a glimpse of her own face in a littlebit of mica, which served her for a toilet-mirror, she uttered theleast bit of a little shriek in the world and fainted--her companions, who had by this time gathered round her, exchanging sly winks andmalicious looks of gratification as she went off. 

But we must return to the ball-room, where the fire-flies have gotsleepy, and many of them had already put out their lamps and retired, and the brilliant company of dancers and promenaders has dwindled downto a few sets, composed of those ladies who had not been asked todance in the height of the evening, and some sour-looking gentlemen invery tight coats and pants, who had "got the mitten" from theirsweethearts at the door, and were desperately trying to do the amiableout of sheer revenge. At length even these disappeared; the saloonswere entirely deserted, save by the beautiful mother moonbeam, whoslept upon the fragrant turf, her babe, the silver starlight, foldedlovingly within her bosom. 

Yet no, the scene is not quite solitary. Carefully bending aside thetall, slender spears of diamond-tipped grass that perpetually guardedthe sacred domain of the imperial palace, a cavalier in full armorappears, making way for a lady, whose long veil of the finest spider'sweb completely conceals her head and form, making her seem like anexhalation, taking, as its highest gift of grace, the shape of woman. The two advance slowly and cautiously to the centre of the saloon, andthen the cavalier, throwing himself on his knees, (that's the wayfairies invariably make love, ) beseeches his companion to have pityupon him. The lady throws back her veil with a motion of indescribablegrace, and looking down into the upturned face of her lover, seriouslya moment, then lightly, utters a low laugh, and replies, "Very well, Sir Timothy Lawn, upon my word! Quite prettily done, indeed! You must have been taking lessons of Signor Sweetbriar, theroyal parson. Now do run and bring me a glass of geranium-dew--Iprotest I have drank scarcely a drop all the evening. "

"Not one word, then, for your poor lover and true knight, " sighed SirTimothy, in a tone of the deepest despondence. 

"I did not come here to listen to school-boy nonsense, " said the ladyDewbell, with a haughty and impatient motion of the head. "I came toget a glass of geranium-water. But, as you decline obliging me to thatextent, I suppose I must e'en get it for myself. Good-night to you, Sir Timothy! Pleasant dreams!" and she disappeared. 

The knight was for a moment confounded; then rising slowly, he pointedto a bright star that shone directly above him, winking and winkingwith all its might, as much as to say, "what a green-horn you are!"and swore an oath that no fairy should ever henceforth have power overhis heart, till she who had so wantonly scorned and insulted himshould beg to be forgiven. As he was turning sadly away, to seek hissolitary chamber in the upper branch of a bachelor's button, on theother side of the brook, the elf-clown Puck stood before him, lookingas demure as puss herself. 

"Well, fool, " said the knight, somewhat impatiently, "how long hastthou been listening here?"

"As long as my ears, your worship, " replied the urchin, undauntedly, "and they were long enough to hear that your worship's valiancy is avery much over-praised commodity--since a maiden's dainty veil ofknitted night-air has proved too strong for him. 

 The knight he sued, and the knight he sighed, But he went away without supper or bride. "

"Silence, imp! or I 'll make thine ears, of which thou hast had suchpestilent service, shorter by a span. "

"No, I thank your valiancy! my ears do very well as they are. And Icame to do you a good turn by offering you the use of them. But asyour worship is so high and dry in Dundrum Bay, as we say at sea, I'lle'en get back to my nap in the hazle copse again. "

"Nay, good Puck, I meant thee no harm, as thou knowest well enough. Since thou knowest my innermost grief, let me hear thy fool's advicein the matter. "

"If I gave thee advice, I were in truth a fool. But I'll verywillingly forgive thee this time, and tell thee what I overheardto-night at the palace. "

"Ah, that's a good Puck!"

"That depends on circumstances, your valiancy. I am somewhat like adish of toasted gallinippers--whether it is palatable or not dependingvery much in the way it is served. But this is what I heard hismajesty say to her majesty. 'Sweetbine, my dear, ' said he, 'don't youthink Dewbell has a fancy for our brave and noble knight, Sir TimothyLawn?' 'Why, my love, ' replied her majesty, 'I have long been almostcertain that she loved him. But she is such a confirmed flirt I amafraid she can never be brought to say so. I haven't the least ideathat she would not reject Sir Timothy, were he to propose. ' 'We mustcure her of this fatal pride and folly, ' replied his majesty, 'and Ithink that, with a little of your assistance, I can manage itcapitally. ' And then the dear old people passed into the royalbed-chamber, in the japonica wing, and I heard no more. "

"I'll to the king. "

"And I'll to a better friend than he; if you permit me, your worship, I take my _bough_ and _leave_. "

"Avaunt, vile punning Puck! Thou hast been to Philadelphia, where allthe streets rhyme, and every corner is a pun upon the next. May thefiend unquip thee! Away!'

"If thou I kest not jokes, thou hadst best stick to thybachelor's-buttonhood. I tell thee, marriage is a capital joke. "

"What knowest thou of marriage?"

"I am one of its fruits. "

"A bitter jest, indeed, and plucked ere half ripened. St. Bulwer! butthou wilt be a mother's blessing when thou art fully grown!"

"Better save thy wits, sir knight! Thou wilt have a plentiful lack ofthem ere the honeymoon be out of the comb. A pleasant roost in thybachelor's hall, and many of them!" and the vagabond sprung upon theback of a green lizard creeping silently through the grass, andsticking his heels into his astonished charger, dragoon-fashion, disappeared down the bank of the brook. 

The old king and his good wife, Sweetbine, were very much grieved atthe foolish trifling of their daughter, Dewbell--for they were wellassured that Dewbell loved the noble knight, Sir Timothy, and that itwas only a spirit of mere wantonness that led her to vex and tormenthim. Long into the night did the royal couple converse, striving todevise some means of bringing their wayward daughter to her senses. They at last hit upon a plan, which they fondly hoped might be themeans of securing the happiness of their child, and settling hercomfortably in life. 

The next morning his majesty sent for the dwarf, Puck, to his privatecabinet, and received him with an unusually grave and troubled aspect. 

"Venerable sire, " said Puck, making a mock reverence, and scarcelyable to suppress a chuckle at the solemn looks of his master, "whatfacetious dream hath been playing its mad pranks about thy sacredpillow? Never saw I kingly face so mirthfully beprankt. "

"Come hither, good Puck, " said the king, patiently, "and when thouhast made thy breakfast of fun upon thy poor master, listen to himseriously. "

"Dear prince", said the dwarf, suddenly running up to the king andcasting himself weeping at his feet, "art thou, then, really troubled?Forgive thy poor slave!" and he began blubbering in the most pitiablemanner, while he looked up into the face of the king with such a lookof wo-begone and ludicrous despair, that Paterflor himself couldscarce refrain from bursting into laughter. 

"Thou hast done nothing wrong, good Puck--handsome Puck, " said theking, chucking his favorite under the chin. "I have need of thee. Here is my signet-ring. Bring me straight hither a young and handsomepeasant, one who has never been seen by the court, nor any inhabitantof the palace. He must be intelligent, conscientious, and trustworthy. Dost thou know of such a one?"

"Yes, your majesty, I think I do. My friend, young Paudeen O'Rafferty, the son of the old forest-keeper, has just returned from Ireland, where he was carried by the fairies at his christening, and has beenkept ever since until now, trying to get through the rent made by Mr. O'Connell in the pockets of his relatives. He's as tight an Irish ladas your majesty ever saw; and as for his honesty, I'll endorse it withboth hands. The O'Raffertys are constitutionally honest. "

"Well, bring him hither at once. I shall be ready to receive him. "

Puck, with his funny face entirely restored to good humor, left thepalace by a private gate, and running across a beautiful meadow, disappeared in the dark green forest. Idle lingerer as he was, he felta strong inclination, at every hazel-copse he passed, to stop and havea chat with the rabbits he knew were hid beneath it; and more thanonce he was on the point of running up to a friendly deer and kissinghis cold, black nose, just for auld lang syne. But, for a wonder, hewas constant to his errand, and ran straight on--not stopping even tothrow stones at a squirrel by the way--till he came to the forester'shut. 

He found the old forester and his wife alone. They received himkindly, for, notwithstanding his mad pranks, Puck was a favorite everywhere, and especially among the poor and humble, who were always safefrom his mischievous propensities. The young Paudeen was out a littlebit in the forest, but would return directly. 

"And what brings good Master Puck from among the great lords andbeautiful ladies of the coort to our poor little shieling, not biggernor betther than the mud cabins of ould Ireland itself?" inquired theold woman, who had grown, with age and toil, wrinkled deaf and sour. 

"I'll explain all that as soon as Paudeen comes home, " replied thegrave and mysterious Puck; "but, in the meantime, how do you get onMr. O'Rafferty, and what is the news in the forest?"

"We get on but poorly, " said the old forester, "and the news is, thatthe people at the other side of the forest, where the potatoes haveall rotted, and the land is wore down to its bare bones, for want ofrest like, are very bad. Some of the women and childhers have alreadystarved, and the men have for the most part took to dhrinken andfighten, till things is in a mighty bad way. "

"Yes, " chimed in the old woman, who seemed to have caught by instinctthe subject of conversation, "and the poor stharven people say, too, that there is plenty of money squandhered upon extravagance by theking and his coort to give them all bread; and that the forests thatis kept for the deers and craythurs to be killed for the spoort of thebig folks, would give every man a bit of fresh land, and that thepotatoes would grow well enough then. "

"Auch, Peggy, will ye have us hung for parjery, out and out!"exclaimed the terrified husband, casting a deprecating look at Puck. "Poor craythur, she doesn't know what she is saying. "

At this juncture the young Paudeen made his appearance, and put a stopto a conversation that was becoming decidedly stupid. He made hisrespects cordially to Puck; and when he heard his errand, seemedamazed and delighted. After a good deal of difficulty, the old ladywas made to understand what was the desire of the king. 

"Hooh!" exclaimed the old crone, leaping from her seat and dancingabout the room, "the dhrame's come true at last! Och, hullybaloo!didn't I know that the pretty Paudeen wasn't born for the pig-stye!Bedad, but he'll ruffle the gentles! Wont you, darlint?" and the oldwoman fell upon her son's neck, smothering him with kisses, while thepoor youth could hardly keep his legs under the vigor of her maternalcaresses. 

PART II. 

In a few days after the interview of Puck and Paudeen in the hut ofthe forester, there was great excitement at the court of Fairyland. The fashionable milliners and dress-makers never had seen such atime--orders from the aristocracy poured in upon them by scores, andtheir doors were beset by fashionable carriages, and little fairyfootmen caparisoned in long coats with many capes, and broad, redbands fastened with shining buckles round their hats. The great_artistes_ who were at the head of these establishments saw themselvesamassing fortunes from the sudden influx of fashionable custom. Butthe poor little fairy seamstresses, who sat up all night, sometimeswithout time to eat or sleep, from sunset to sunset, so that all thesesplendid dresses might be finished in time--they did not fare so well. They grew pale and sick, and sat swaying and swinging about as theyworked, until one might have thought them the ghosts of fairy workers, come back for a ghostly midnight frolic in their old haunts. It wasmelancholy enough, truly; but then nobody knew any thing about it. Therich ladies, when their splendid robes came home, did not stop tothink that good, earnest, faithful fairy hearts had embroidered theroses that adorned the skirts from their own cheeks, and spangled themwith the broken fragments of their youth's faded dreams. If they had--

Well, and if they had?

That is not at all to the purport of my story; and so I will proceedto let the reader into the secret of all this flutter and fluster. Agreat prince had made his appearance at the court of Paterflor, andhad created almost as great an excitement in Fairyland as a new primadonna with bright eyes and a _sfogato_ voice among mere mortals. Nobody knew exactly who he was, but he came from a great way off, andhad a name as long as a province, and, beside being incalculablywealthy, it was universally voted (ladies vote in Fairyland) that hewas the very handsomest love of a fairy knight that ever jingledspurs, or sighed at the feet of beauty. He had come to court evidentlywith the "highest recommendations" to the king, such as would haveprocured him immediate access into the first "circles, " even inPhiladelphia, where society lives behind barred doors, and goes aboutarmed cap-a-pie against encroachment or intrusion. He had been at oncereceived at the royal table, and a splendid suite of apartments hadbeen assigned him in the palace itself. Such extraordinary attentionsfrom the imperial family, of course, made the stranger a favorite anda welcome guest wherever he appeared; and there was not a lady atcourt who would not have given her eyes--if it would not have spoiledher beauty--for a smile from his magnificent mouth. 

It was discovered, however, at a very early stage of the proceedings, that the chief object of the prince's admiration was the lady Dewbell, who, proud as she was, could not help feeling flattered by the evidentand special devotion of one for whom the whole of her sex were dying. Sir Timothy Lawn, who, from pique or melancholy, or from some unknowncause, had left the court the very day after the arrival of the newprince, was not entirely forgotten, but was laid away carefully on aback shelf of her heart; and the lady Dewbell never had been sobeautiful, so fascinating, so joyous and irresistible. Courts are asfickle as coquettes; and before the month had passed, in a series ofbrilliant _fêtes_ and entertainments, at all of which the prince andprincess were the reigning toast, it was regarded as a settled thingthat there would, ere the maple leaves grew red in the dying gaze ofthe year, be a royal marriage in Fairyland. 

But while to all around the beautiful Dewbell was ever the samecareless, saucy and happy creature as ever, in her heart she nursed abitter sorrow. After many and severe struggles, she was forced at lastto make to herself the humiliating acknowledgment that she deeply andtruly loved Sir Timothy Lawn, that noble and chivalric spirit, whomher unworthy trifling had driven--so her frightened heart interpretedit--in disgust from her. Compelled in common courtesy to receive thedevoted attentions of the stranger prince, and to hear every day andevery hour repeated the earnest solicitations of her father that sheshould school herself to regard the stranger as her future husband, her little fairy heart was quite broken with its ceaseless struggles. Her pride and self-will were entirely vanquished, and she felt herselftruly the most miserable of fairy maidens. Suicide is of course athing strictly prohibited among immortals; but had it been otherwise, I sadly fear that one of the lady Dewbell's spider-web silk hose wouldsome morning have been found without a garter, and she herself hanginglike a beauteous exhalation among the elm-leaves in the morningsunshine. Oh, had Sir Timothy been there then, he would have found, instead of his imperious and tantalizing coquette, the tenderest andtruest of disconsolate maidens, ready to melt into his arms betweenthe delicious pause of a sigh and a kiss. "Naughty, cruel Sir Timothy!Horrid creature! to take all my nonsense for real earnest, and to goaway and leave me to be persecuted to death!" exclaimed the ladyDewbell, with an uncontrollable burst of tears, as she threw herself, her toilet half finished, and her hair all strewn over her face andshoulders, upon her little praying cushion. "What will become of poorBell!"

"What ails my daughter?" said the sweet, soft voice of the queenmother, as she knelt tenderly over her child, and pressed her head toher bosom. "Tell your sorrows to your mother. "

"Oh, mother, _I_ am the most wretched fairy that ever existed. I don'twant to marry that odious, red-haired stranger; and my father has mademe promise that the wedding shall take place on Halloween--and I--Ihave consented. But I love Sir Timothy; and I wont marry any body buthim, " sobbed the poor creature, convulsively, as she cast herself uponthe floor, and looked up to her mother, terrified and half frantic. 

"But, dearest, you know you laughed at poor Sir Timothy's vows--and heis so sensitive. "

"Oh, yes, I know I did, but I'll never do so any more. _If_ SirTimothy will only come back and forgive me, and marry me, just thisonce, I will never, never offend him again as long as I live--never, never, never! Do, mamma, do make him come back!"

"Poor child! I will certainly do all I can. But you have promised tobe married on Halloween. "

"Oh, yes, but that is a good fortnight off, and you can bring SirTimothy back before then, you know, and he can kill this horridstranger, and then every body will be _so_ happy!" and the face of thevolatile creature began already to re-clothe itself in smiles. 

"I fear you are mistaken, love, " said her mother, solemnly, andshaking her head in an impressive manner, she added, "do not deceiveyourself with such fallacies, my daughter; your princely word ispassed, your father's royal honor is pledged, and you must be marriedon Halloween. "

The lady Dewbell, sobbing hysterically, again looked up. She wasalone; at the same moment the cat-and-baby face of Puck glanced by thewindow, and a wild, mischievous laugh melted away into a song, ofwhich the lady only caught the two last lines:

 "He rideth fast, and he rideth well, But his heart still clings to the pretty Bell. "

"Oh, bless thee, dear Puck!" sighed the haply wondering lady, risingand leaning from the window. "May thy sweet prophecy come true!"

PART III. 

'T is Halloween midnight. Through the tall windows of the venerablechurch streamed in the broad moonlight, in bright silver floods, thatlost themselves in the profound recesses of the distant aisles, orfell like many-colored snow-flakes upon the marble floor. Enteringwithout sound, came up the middle aisle the royal wedding-procession. First walked the father, the royal Paterflor, looking stern anddetermined, yet, it must be confessed, a little roguish about thecrowsfeet. Upon his arm leaned his pale and stricken daughter, theonce proud, joyous and imperious Princess Dewbell. She was pale as alily's cup, and drooping as its stem. She never raised her head fromher bosom, and her eyes, once sparkling like fountains of light, werehidden beneath their willowy lids. Next comes the "red-haired prince, "as the lady Dewbell had scornfully denominated him, (his head _was_ alittle inclined to flame, dear reader, between you and me, )respectfully conducting the ever sweet and placid Queen Woodbine; andafter them a troop of merry and gayly-dressed fairies, both ladies andgentlemen, but very demure and solemn; while Puck, in the unitedcapacity of Hymen and Grand Usher, was dodging about with his flamingtorch, now in front, now in rear, now here, now there, and every whereimparting an air of grotesqueness to the whole affair. 

At the altar the party stopped, and ranging themselves in the approvedorder for such occasions, the priest--a grave and reverend bullfrog, whose surplice was scrupulously neat and tidy--proceeded with theceremony. When he came to the question, "dost thou, my daughter, freely and voluntarily bestow thy hand and thy affections upon thisman, Paudeen O'Rafferty, commonly called Pat?"

The pale and shrinking lady raised her head and opened her greatox-like eyes; the bridegroom looked sheepish and hung his head; KingPaterflor seemed suddenly troubled with a severe fit of coughing, andthe priest could scarcely forbear a chuckle. 

"Father, dear father, what is the meaning of this cruel joke?"exclaimed the poor lady Dewbell, running to her father and catchinghold of his arm. But the old king's cough was still very troublesome. She then appealed to the priest, but he seemed deaf, and only made agrum kind of noise in his throat, that sounded a good deal like "PatO'Rafferty. "

"Who, then, are you, sir?" demanded she, at last, of the groom, turning suddenly and imperiously upon him her piercing gaze. 

"So plaze yer ladyship, I am Paudeen O'Rafferty, the son of theforester--at yer ladyship's sarvice. "

The fairy princess was about to faint, in the most approved manner, and had already selected a convenient cushion upon which to fall, whena tall and noble form crossed the moon-ray, and Sir Timothy Lawn stoodbefore her. 

"Beloved princess, " said he, kneeling, and respectfully taking herhand, "I hope my presence is not disagreeable to the queen of myheart, for whose love I have so long pined. Speak to me frankly, sweetlady Dewbell, tell me, can you love me? Will you permit me to call youmine forever?"

The lady Dewbell changed her intention respecting the cushion uponwhich she had intended to faint, and, somehow, found herself beforeshe was half conscious of it, in her lover's arms. An explanationensued; the prince Paudeen gave up his post of honor to Sir Timothy;the ceremony was concluded on the spot; and as the gay and joyousparty left the church, Puck was seen sitting at the organ accompanyinghimself in a sort of wild yet sweet chant, of which the lady Dewbelleasily distinguished--

 "Oh, a merry tale will the gossips tell, Of the happy mishap of the proud lady Bell. "

A NIGHT THOUGHT. 

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

 Long have I gazed upon all lovely things, Until my soul was melted into song, Melted with love till from its thousand springs The stream of adoration, swift and strong, Swept in its ardor, drowning brain and tongue, Till what I most would say was borne away unsung. 

 The brook is silent when it mirrors most Whate'er is grand or beautiful above; The billow which would woo the flowery coast Dies in the first expression of its love; And could the bard consign to living breath Feelings too deep for thought, the utterance were death!

 The starless heavens at noon are a delight; The clouds a wonder in their varying play, And beautiful when from their mountainous height The lightning's hand illumes the wall of day:-- The noisy storm bursts down--and passing brings The rainbow poised in air on unsubstantial wings. 

 But most I love the melancholy night-- When with fixed gaze I single out a star A feeling floods me with a tender light-- A sense of an existence from afar, A life in other spheres of love and bliss, Communion of true souls--a loneliness in this!

 There is a sadness in the midnight sky-- An answering fullness in the heart and brain, Which tells the spirit's vain attempt to fly And occupy those distant worlds again. At such an hour Death's were a loving trust, If life could then depart in its contempt of dust. 

 It may be that this deep and longing sense Is but the prophecy of life to come; It may be that the soul in going hence May find in some bright star its promised home; And that the Eden lost forever here Smiles welcome to me now from yon suspended sphere. 

 There is a wisdom in the light of stars, A wordless lore which summons me away-- This ignorance belongs to earth which bars The spirit in these darkened walls of clay, And stifles all the soul's aspiring breath;-- True knowledge only dawns within the gales of Death. 

 Imprisoned thus, why fear we then to meet The angel who shall ope the dungeon-door, And break these galling fetters from our feet, To lead us up from Time's benighted shore? Is it for love of this dark cell of dust, Which, tenantless, awakes but horror and disgust?

 Long have I mused upon all lovely things; But thou, oh Death! art lovelier than all; Thou sheddest from thy recompensing wings A glory which is hidden by the pall-- The excess of radiance falling from thy plume Throws from the gates of Time a shadow on the tomb. 

THE BARD. 

BY S. ANNA LEWIS. 

 Why should my anxious heart repine That Wealth and Power can ne'er be mine, And Love has flown-- That Friendship changes as the breeze? Mine is a joy unknown to these; In Song's bright zone, To sit by Helicon serene, And hear the waves of Hippocrene Lave Phoebus' throne. 

 Here deathless lyres the strains prolong, That gush from living founts of song, Without a cross; Here spirits never feel the weight Of Wrong, or Envy, or of Hate, Or earthly loss; The pomp of Pelf--the pride of Birth-- The gilded trappings of this earth Return to dross. 

 Oh, ye! who would forget the ills Of earth, and all the bosom fills With agony! Come dwell with me in Fancy's dream, Beside this lovely fabled stream Of minstrelsy; And let its draughts celestial roll Into the deep wells of thy soul Eternally. 

 God always sets along the way Of weary souls some beacon ray Of light divine; And only when my spirit's wings Are weary in the quest of springs Of Song, I pine; If I could always heavenward fly, And never earthward turn mine eye, Bliss would be mine. 

THE WILL. 

BY MISS E. A. DUPUY

PART I. 

 There is peace in the Night of the Early Dead-- It will yield to a glorious morrow! _Clarke_. 

Amid all the brightness and bloom which the imagination conjures up, when we think of the sunny islands lying within the tropics, manymournful associations arise and cast a sadness over the picture. Veryfew have not had within the circle of their relatives, or friends, some cherished one, who has vainly sought the balmy breezes of thosefavored spots, with the feverish hope that amid their loveliness Deathwould forget to launch his arrows for them. 

Alas! to die among strangers is usually the fate of those who are thuslured from their homes by a deceitful hope. There, where Nature wearsa perpetual verdure--where the fervid sun brings forth a luxuriance ofvegetation unknown in more northern regions, the wearied spirit sinksto repose, soothed, or saddened, by the glow of existence around. 

A spacious apartment on the southern side of a highly ornamentedvilla, opened into a magnificent garden, filled with orange-trees, oleanders, and many other gorgeous flowers peculiar to the climate ofCuba; while in the distance the sunlight gleamed upon a row oftowering palms, whose stately columns, crowned by their verdantcoronal, resembled the pillars of some mighty temple, which found afitting canopy in the blue arch of heaven, glowing with the gorgeoushues of a tropical sunset. 

The floor of this room was inlaid with marble of different colors, andthe couch and windows were draped with snowy lace, lightly embroideredat the edges, and looped with cords of blue and silver--tables withmarble tops, supporting porcelain vases filled with flowers, wereplaced between the windows, for these ephemeral children of sunshinewere dear to the heart of the dying one. Beside one of these stood alarge cushioned chair, in which reclined a young man of delicatefeatures and wasted form. He appeared in the last stages of his felldisease, and the friends who had received him beneath their roof todie, wondered that he should have been deluded with the hope thathealth could ever again reanimate his bowed and shrunken form. Therewas an expression of care upon his sharpened features--a feverishrestlessness in his manner, which betrayed the spirit's unrest. 

At his feet sat a young girl, whose brilliant complexion andpale-brown hair betrayed her Saxon origin; the finely rounded figure, the delicately formed feet and hands, and the gracefully turned headand bust, were all evidences of the grade of life to which shebelonged. She held the burning hand of the invalid between her ownsoft, cool palms, and sung in a sweet low voice an old ballad whichtold of the ancient greatness of the Saxon race. At a short distancefrom them sat an elderly lady, clad in deep mourning, and her saddenedcountenance corresponded well with her weeds. 

The young man made an impatient movement, and said--"Sing not to meEngland's former prowess, dear Edith. What to the dying can suchthemes be but a bitter mockery? Take your guitar, my sister, and throwyour soul into its vibrating strings, while you sing me such a lay asI can fancy the angels of Heaven to be pouring forth around the throneof God. "

"Shall I sing the chants of our church, dearest Edgar?" said Edith ina subdued voice. 

"Yes--yes--they breathe peace and resignation into my restless soul. When I am dying, my sister, stifle your own feelings as you love me, and pour into my failing senses those magnificent strains. If God seesfit to tear me from you before I can legally provide for you and mybeloved mother, I shall be enabled to forget the bitter truth inlistening to your sweet voice. You promise me this, Edith?"

"I do--Heaven will sustain me even then, my darling brother, and giveme power to forget my own anguish in soothing your last moments. "

Edith Euston pressed his hand to her lips, and raising from the floora guitar which lay beside her, she poured forth a strain of melodywhich seemed to soothe the senses of the invalid to rest. His eyesclosed, and an expression of repose rested on his worn features. 

Twilight deepened over the earth--a single ray of light, from thereddened sky, fell through the open window upon the figure of theyoung girl, and the mother, who sat silent and abstracted, thought asshe glanced upon her that even in a higher world her beloved Edithcould wear no lovelier outward semblance than was now hers. There wasan expression of elevated feeling, of pure tenderness in her upturnedface which revealed the high and noble soul within. One fitted tosuffer and conquer in the dark struggle which she felt awaited her. 

Hers were not the only eyes which contemplated that lovely picture ofsisterly devotion upon that twilight eve. Another stood without, beneath the shadow of a high hedge, and gazed upon the unconsciousmusician with even deeper admiration; and his dark, expressivefeatures lighted up with an emotion almost of reverence. The starscame forth in the translucent depths of ether; the young moon cast hertremulous light over the garden, yet still the intruder lingered inhis place of concealment. Twice he put the boughs aside, as if toapproach the room and announce his presence, but again receded, as ifirresolute and uncertain as to the effect his presence might produce. 

At length all became silent. The tones of the instrument died slowlyaway, and the voice of the singer ceased to pour forth its song. Thewindows were still unclosed, for the invalid had reached thatdistressing stage in his malady, when his oppressed breathing requireda constant circulation of free air. A lamp burning beneath analabaster shade was swung from the centre of the ceiling, and itsmellow lustre diffused a faint moonlight radiance throughout theapartment. 

With suppressed breathing the two ladies watched the sleep of the sickyouth, and he who had so earnestly observed every movement of Edith, ventured to approach so near the open window that the heavy andinterrupted respiration of young Euston was distinctly audible to him;while his eagle eye sought to penetrate the shadow in which hisfeatures reposed, that he might read upon them the ravages made byapproaching dissolution. 

As he stood thus, the moonlight revealed a tall, well proportionedfigure, clad in a suit of black, well fitted to his form. Hisprominent features and flashing black eyes were half concealed by alarge straw hat, which was carelessly placed upon his head. As hegazed upon the sleeping form, his lips curled, and a strangeexpression of exultation came to his face; his eye wanderedtriumphantly to the fair brow of Edith. 

"Twice rejected, " he muttered half audibly--"twice rejected, and withscorn, by yon dainty girl; now methinks my vengeance is almost withinmy grasp. I hold her future destiny in my power; for this boy _cannot_drag out his existence another week. Yes, Edith--to labor you have notbeen bred--to beg you will be ashamed, and he who vainly hopes thattime will be granted him to deprive me of my inheritance, will perishfrom my path, just as he believes himself on the verge of consummatinghis hatred to me. "

Edith softly arose, and making a sign to her mother, glidednoiselessly from the room by a distant window, which opened to thefloor. The intruder hesitated a moment, and then followed her withlight and rapid steps. The flutter of her white dress guided him tothe retreat she had chosen, and she had scarcely thrown herself upon arustic seat beneath the shelter of some orange-boughs, and given ventto her painfully repressed emotion, by a burst of tears, when the darkstranger stood before her. She started up and would have fled, but hespoke, and the sound of his voice seemed to bind her to the spot as bya spell. 

"Why would you fly from me, Edith?" he asked. "I come in the spirit ofgood-will to you and yours. "

A struggle seemed to be passing in the mind of the young girl. Shewiped her tears away, and after a pause answered in a tone whichfaltered at first, but grew firm, and even haughty as she proceeded, "What has brought you hither, Mr. Barclay? Yet why do I ask? To exultin the fate of your unfortunate victim; to watch each painful breathwhich brings him nearer to his grave, with the certainty that thevery eagerness with which he desires a few more days of existence, that he may fulfill a sacred duty, is fast wearing away the faintthread that yet binds him to life. Oh false, unfeeling man! depart, Ipray you, if one human instinct yet remains within your callous heart, and leave my unhappy brother to die in peace. "

She turned to depart, but Barclay stepped forward and placed his handon her arm, as if to detain her. She shrunk from his touch with anexpression of loathing, which called the crimson to his cheek, but hesuppressed his emotion, and said calmly--

"I knew that you would soon need a protector, Miss Euston, and I camehither with the faint hope that I might be able to overcome your cruelprejudices against me--that I might become to you a friend at least, if no dearer title were allowed me. "

"You a friend to _me_!" exclaimed Edith impetuously. "You, who luredmy brother from his home, to wreck his existence in the life ofdissipation to which you tempted him. Ever feeble from his boyhood, you knew that little was needed to destroy his frail constitution--yet, because he stood between you and the possession of wealth, his lifewas offered as the sacrifice to your criminal cupidity. And now youcome hither to watch the last fluttering throes of existence, fearfulthat Death may delay his arrows until he shall have passed that hourwhich entitles him to dispose of his property--and disappoint yourhopes, by bequeathing his wealth to those who are dearest to him. "

"You are excited, Edith. You judge me too severely. Edgar's ownheadlong passions destroyed him. I merely urged him to do as others ofhis years and station, without foreseeing such fatal results. My lovefor you would have prompted me to save your brother. "

"Speak not to me of love--dare not approach the sister of your victimwith proffers of affection. The death of Edgar may leave mepenniless--nearly friendless--I have been tenderly nurtured, but Iwould sooner embrace a life of sternest self-denial, of utter poverty, than link myself with infamy in your person. Leave me--and dare notapproach the room of my brother, to imbitter his last hours by yourpresence. "

"And your mother, my fair heroine?" said Barclay, in a tone of sarcasmbordering on contempt. "What will become of her if you persist in therejection of the only person in the wide world on whom you have anyclaim? She is old, feeble, broken in health and spirit. Ah! will notyour proud heart faint when you behold her sharing this life ofpoverty and self-denial, which seems to you so much more attractivethan the home and protection I offer you?"

Edith stifled the tears that sprung anew to her eyes, and after abrief struggle said with composure--

"My mother is too honorable--she has too bitter a disdain of meannessever to wish her child to sacrifice the truth and integrity of hersoul, by accepting the hand of one for whom she has no respect. "

"By Heaven!" said Barclay passionately, "you force me to throw awaythe scabbard and declare war to the knife. Be it so, then. Yonder weakboy cannot survive five of the ten days yet required to complete hismajority. Then comes to me--yes to _me_--all his wealth; and only as_my_ wife shall one ray of my prosperity shine upon you. The grayhairs of your only parent may be brought to the grave by want andsorrow, and unless you relent toward me my heart shall be steeled toher sufferings. "

At this picture, which was only too likely to be realized, the courageof the unhappy Edith forsook her, and she exclaimed in falteringtones--

"My dear, dear mother! for her sake any other sacrifice might beborne--but not this--not this. My brother yet lives, and Heaven may inpity prolong his existence beyond the hour he so anxiously prays tosee. Then we escape your power. "

Barclay laughed mockingly. 

"This is the fifteenth, and he is not of age until the twenty-fifth, exactly at the second hour of the morning. One moment only before thattime should Death claim his victim the estate is mine, and youdependent on my bounty. Think you that the frail and wasted ghost of aman who struggles for breath in yonder room can live through anotherweek? Hope--yes, hope for the best, for despair will come soon enough. I feel as secure of my inheritance as though it were already mine. "

Edith proudly motioned him from her path, and fled toward the house, with his mocking words still ringing in her ears. Her brother yetslept, and as she gazed upon his sunken features it seemed to her asif death were already stamped upon them, and she bent her head abovehis still face, to convince herself that he yet breathed. 

Barclay and Euston were distantly related, and had both been educatedby an eccentric kinsman, with the belief among their connections thathe designed dividing his ample fortune between them. To the surpriseand chagrin of Barclay, he found on the death of Colonel Euston thatthe whole of his estate was bequeathed to his young cousin, encumberedwith an annuity to himself, which appeared to one of his expensivetastes, and lavish prodigality, as absolute poverty. 

Edgar Euston was then but seventeen years of age, and of a delicatebodily organization, which did not promise length of days. A clause inColonel Euston's will offered a temptation to Barclay, which he hadnot sufficient principle to resist. If Euston died before attaininghis majority the estate was to pass into the hands of his kinsman, andno mention was made of the mother or sister of the young heir. Barclayreflected that if he could remove Euston from his path, before heattained his twenty-first year, the coveted wealth would yet be his. 

From that hour he made every effort to win the confidence andaffection of young Euston. He was his senior by nearly ten years, andpossessed a knowledge of the world, and a fascination of manner whichwas extremely attractive to a youth who had passed the greater portionof his life, at a country residence, in the society of his mother andsister. Euston entered one of our Northern colleges, and under theauspices of his kinsman he soon achieved a reputation which was farmore applauded by the wild students than agreeable to the professors. He blindly followed wherever Barclay led, and before he entered histwenty-first year he returned to his early home, with a constitutioncompletely broken by the reckless life he had led, and the symptoms ofearly decay in his flushed cheek and hollow cough. Vain had been theentreaties and remonstrances of his mother and sister; under theinfluence of his tempter, they were utterly disregarded--until thehand of disease was laid upon him, and he felt that the only atonementhe could offer for all the suffering he had inflicted upon them wouldprobably be denied to him. 

He earnestly desired to live, that he might reach that age which wouldentitle him to make a legal transfer of his property to those who weredeservedly dear to him, for in the event of his death without a will, his mother and sister would be left entirely dependent on the tendermercies of his successor. An unfortunate lawsuit had deprived hismother of the property which had become hers on the death of hisfather, and his own reckless extravagance had dissipated more than theannual revenue of his own property since it came into his possession. 

Too late he discovered the baseness of Barclay's motives, andrenounced all intercourse with him--but he would not thus be cast off. He had seen and loved the noble-hearted Edith, and he forced hishypocritical offers of service upon the afflicted family, until Edithdistinctly assured him that he need never hope for a return to hispassion. 

Euston had long since abandoned all hope of recovery, but he soughtthe mild climate of Cuba, trusting that the fatal day might bedeferred until he had secured independence to his family, but hisphysician feared that the very eagerness of his wishes wouldeventually defeat them. It was mournful, and deeply touching, towitness that clinging to existence in one so young, not from love oflife itself, but from a desire to perform an act of justice. Thatcompleted, his mission on earth was ended, and Death might claim himwithout a murmur. 

The hours dragged heavily on toward the desired day, and each one asit passed appeared to hurry the poor invalid with rapid strides towardthe grave, that seemed eager to claim its prey. Barclay had not againventured to intrude on Edith, but he nightly hovered around the roomof the dying youth, and gloated on the wasted and death-like formwhich held his earthly fortunes in his hands. 

A skillful physician had accompanied Euston from his native land, andhis unremitting attention, aided by the tender nursing of hisaffectionate sister, seemed as if they would eventually reap theirreward in the preservation of life beyond the hour of his majority. 

In pain and weariness time slowly waned, but it still left him lifeand an unclouded mind; and the bold, bad heart, that nightly watchedhim, feared that the wealth he so ardently coveted, might yet eludehis grasp. 

The evening of the twenty-fifth at last arrived. Euston reclined inhis chair as we first beheld him, wrapped in a brocade dressing-gown, whose brilliant colors made his extreme pallor the more remarkable; atable was drawn close beside him, and on it, at his own desire, wasplaced his repeater, from which his eyes scarcely wandered. His breathcame slowly and gaspingly, and at brief intervals his physicianmoistened his parched lips with a restorative cordial, and murmuredwords of encouragement in his ear. 

As before, Edith sat at his feet, with her guitar, ready to stifle herdeep emotion, and fulfill her promise to sing to him while his partingsoul was struggling for release from its earthly tenement. His motherleaned over his chair, and bathed his cold brow with her burningtears; in the back-ground sat a clergyman, gazing on the scene withabsorbing interest. 

Each one in that hushed room felt the approach of the stern tyrant, and all prayed fervently that his dart might be stayed yet a fewhours. 

"My sister, sing to me. Soothe me into quietness by the loved tones ofyour voice. It is my _only_ hope for life beyond the desired hour, "murmured the dying youth. 

With tremulous fingers Edith touched the chords, and poured forth thesolemn strains to which he loved to listen, and he sunk back andclosed his eyes. At first her voice faltered, but she graduallyregained her self-command, and never had those clear, rich tonesuttered a sweeter strain, than that which floated around thefluttering spirit, which struggled to release itself from theattenuated form of the early doomed. 

Barclay stood without, watching the scene with breathless interest, and a terrible struggle was passing in his dark and stormy soul. Euston might live beyond the hour of two, and he would then be abeggar. His eye wandered toward Edith, so nobly devoted, so purelybeautiful; and the tempter whispered, "She might save you--ennoble you; the love, the sweet influence ofsuch a woman are all powerful. Once yours, you could surround her withsuch an atmosphere of care and tenderness, that her heart must be wonto love you--to forget the past. Without her, you are doomed--doomed. What matters a few more moments of existence to one like him, when theeternal welfare of a human being hangs trembling in the balance?Deprived of the means of living, Edith will have no choice--she mustmarry you, or debase her pride of soul before the iron sway ofpoverty. Her mother is old--infirm; and for her sake, the daughterwill listen to your proffers of love. Take your destiny into your ownhands. Cowardly soul! why falter now? It is but completing your ownwork. He is _your_ victim--you know it, and feel it in every pulse ofyour throbbing heart. Years of usefulness might have been his, but foryou; then complete the sacrifice without hesitation. What avails itto have accomplished so much, if the reward escapes you at the lastmoment?"

Such were the wild thoughts that oppressed his soul during thoseterrible hours. He saw that the parchment which disinherited him wasplaced beside Euston, and the pen stood in the inkstand, ready to doits service, so soon as the hand of the watch pointed to the hour oftwo; and he ground his teeth in impotent rage, as the moments flittedby, and Euston yet continued to breathe. 

Terrible is the watch of love beside the flitting soul which parts inpeace; but how much more awful was that vigil, in which the anguish ofbereavement was doubly embittered by the fear of future want to thosewho had been reared amid all the refinements of luxury. The motherlooked upon her remaining child, and felt that she was not formed tostruggle with poverty and neglect, and the daughter bent her earfuleyes on that venerable form, and in the depths of her soul, prayedthat her old age might be spared the grinding cares of want. 

The watch struck the half hour--then the quarter--and a feeble motionof Euston stopped the hand of Edith as she swept it over the stringsof her instrument. She arose and stood beside him; a breathlesssilence reigned throughout the apartment, only broken by themonotonous ticking of the watch, which struck upon the excited nervesof those around with a sound as distinct as the reverberations ofthunder. 

Not a word was uttered until the hand pointed to the hour, then, as ifendued with sudden energy, the dying man stretched forth his hand, andgrasping the pen, said in a firm, distinct voice, "Now let me sign my name, and yield up my spirit to the angel that hasbeen beckoning me away for hours. My mother--my sister, God hasvouchsafed to me a mercy I did not deserve. Thank Heaven! yourinterests are safe. You are free from _his_ power. "

At that instant a strange cry was heard; a bird flew into the room, and, dazzled by the light, flapped his wings against the shade of thelamp, overturned it, and left the apartment in utter darkness. In theconfusion of the moment, a figure glided through the open window, andstood beside the chair of Euston. He noiselessly placed his firm graspupon his laboring breast, and held it there a single instant. A faintrattling sound was heard, and Edith wildly called for lights. 

Noiselessly as he had entered glided that dark form from the side ofhis victim, and buried itself in the shadows of the trees without. Many lights flashed into the room--they glared coldly on the face ofthe dead, and the mother sunk senseless in the arms of her daughter. 

PART II. 

Several months have passed away, and Mrs. Euston and her daughter havereturned to their native land. A single room in an obscureboarding-house in the heart of a southern city was occupied by both. The expenses of their voyage to New Orleans, and a few months sojournin their present abode, humble as it was, had nearly exhausted theirslender resources. Edith had made many efforts to procure a fewscholars to instruct in music and drawing, but the departure of thegreater portion of the wealthy, during the unhealthy season, haddeprived her of those she had been able to obtain. She thought ofgoing out as a daily governess, but the feeble health and deepdejection of her mother, offered an insuperable objection to such anarrangement. When she left her alone even for an hour, she usuallyfound her in such a state of nervous excitement on her return, as waspainful to behold. 

Edith is seated near the only window of their sordid apartment in theafternoon of a sultry summer day; the sun is shining without withoverpowering splendor; a heated vapor rises from the paved streets andseems to shimmer in the breathless atmosphere. Edith had lost all thefreshness and roundness of youth; her cheek was deadly white, and heremaciated form seemed to indicate the approach of the terrible diseaseof which her brother had died. She was sewing industriously, and herair of weariness and lassitude betrayed the strong mastery of thespirit over the body, in the continuance of her employment. 

Mrs. Euston was lying on the bed; and twenty years seemed to havepassed over her since the night of her son's death. The oppressiveheat had induced her to remove her cap, and her long hair, white asthe snows of winter, lay around her wasted and furrowed features. Frominfancy the respect and observance due to one of high station had beenbestowed upon her, and the reverse in their fortunes was more than shecould bear. At first, her high-toned feelings had shrunk fromobligations to the new heir, and she approved of Edith's rejection;but as time passed, amid privations to which she had never beenaccustomed, her very soul revolted against their miserable mode ofliving. 

To a woman of refined feelings and vivid imagination, the coarse andsordid realities around her were sufficiently heart-sickening, withouthaving the terrible fear forced upon her that her only child washurrying to the grave through her exertions to keep them literallyfrom starvation. Her daughter now thought she slept, but her mind wasfar too busily occupied to permit the sweet influences of slumber tosoothe her into a momentary forgetfulness of her bitter grief. Suddenly she unclosed her eyes, and spoke. 

"Edith, my child, lay aside that work--such constant employment isdestroying you. Is it not time that we heard from Robert Barclay?Surely he will not be relentless, when he hears that your health isfailing. After all, Edith, you need not be so averse to receivingassistance from him; the property he holds is rightfully ours. "

"Mother, " replied Edith, a faint flush mounting to her cheek, "foryour sake I have submitted to humiliate myself before our ruthlesskinsman, but I fear it will be in vain. Only as his wife will myclaims on his humanity and justice be acknowledged. Would you notshrink, dearest mother, from condemning your child to such a doom?Could you not better bear to stand above my grave, and know me atpeace within it, than to behold me wedded to this unprincipled man, towhose pernicious example my brother owed his early doom?"

"Speak not of dying, my daughter, " said the poor mother, hysterically, "I cannot bear it; I am haunted by the fear that I shall at last beleft on earth alone. I daily behold you fading before my eyes withoutthe power to avert the fate I see written upon your pale cheek andwasted form. As Robert's wife you would have a luxurious home, themeans of gratifying refined tastes, and of contributing to thehappiness of others. He may atone to me, by the preservation of onechild, for the destruction of the other. "

"Mother, your fears for me blind you to the truth. Are not mentalgriefs far more difficult to bear than the privations of poverty, galling as they are? As Mr. Barclay's wife, I should loathe myself forthe hypocrisy I should be compelled to practice toward him; and thewealth for which I had sold myself, would allow me leisure to broodover my own unworthiness, until madness might be the result. No, no, mother--come what may, I never can be so untrue to myself as to becomethe wife of Robert Barclay. "

"God help us, then!" said Mrs. Euston, despondingly. 

A carriage drove to the door, and a gentleman alighted from it. Edithheard the bustle, but she did not look out to see what occasioned it, and she was startled from her painful reverie by a knock on the door. She opened it, and started back with a faint cry as she recognizedBarclay. 

"The landlady told me to come up, " he said, as he glanced around thewretched apartment, and a slight twinge of remorse touched his heartas he remarked the changed appearance of Edith. She motioned him toenter, while Mrs. Euston arose from the bed, and offered him a seat. 

"I concluded it would be best to reply to your communication inperson, " said he to Mrs. Euston, as he took the offered chair. "I comewith the most liberal intentions, provided Miss Euston will listen toreason. I am grieved to see you in a place so unsuited to your formerstation as this wretched apartment. "

"And yet, " said Edith, "I have passed some pleasant hours in thisroom, comfortless as it looks. So long as I had the hope of being ableto provide for our wants by my own exertions, I found contentment inits humble shelter. "

"Your happiness must then be truly independent of outwardcircumstances, " replied Barclay, with a touch of his old sarcasm. "Isupposed, from the tenor of your mother's petition, that you had begunto repent of your high-toned language to me in our last interview, andwould now accede to terms you once spurned, as the price of myassistance to you and yours. "

Edith curbed her high spirit, and calmly replied, "You misunderstoodmy mother's words. As the mother of the late heir, she justlyconsiders herself entitled to a pittance from your estate, and sheclaimed from your humanity, what she was hopeless of obtaining fromyour sense of justice. For myself, I hoped for nothing from either, but I acquiesced in her application. I am sorry that you have foundedon it expectations which must prove fallacious. "

"Then, madam, I need remain no longer, " said Barclay, addressing Mrs. Euston. "Your daughter remembers our interview previous to, and after, the death of her brother; the only terms on which I would assist youwere then explicitly expressed. "

Mrs. Euston caught his hand, and bowed her venerable head upon it. 

"Have mercy, Robert, upon my gray hairs--my daughter; look at her--sheis dying by inches--she is stifling in this wretched spot. The moneythat was my son's should surely buy a shelter for us. Leave us nothelpless, hopeless. My God! my God! give me eloquence to plead for mychild!" and she threw herself upon the floor, and raised her claspedhands to heaven. 

"Madam, " said Barclay, "it only rests with your daughter to have mercyupon you and herself. Where, I ask you, is her filial piety, when shebeholds you suffer thus, and relents not toward one who offers her alove that has survived coldness, contempt, contumely. "

Edith approached her mother, and assisted her to rise. 

"My dearest mother, calm yourself. Humble not yourself thus before ouroppressor. God is just--is merciful. He will not forget the widow andthe orphan in their extremity. Leave us, Mr. Barclay; had my wishesalone been consulted, you never would have been called on thus towitness our misfortunes. "

Barclay bowed, and haughtily strode from the room. 

"Another month of privation, " he muttered, "and she will surely bemine or Death's. It does not much matter to which she belongs. Ah, ifshe only knew all!" and he sprung into his cabriolet, and dashed offtoward the more aristocratic portion of the city. 

In the hope that Edith would be forced to relent, Barclay had remainedin New Orleans thus late in the season, and he resolved to linger yeta little longer, until want and suffering should leave her no choice. His passion for her was one of those insanities to which men of hisviolent character are often liable. He desired her as the one greatgift, which was to purify, to exalt him in the scale of humanity. Thedelicate beauty of her person, the sensibility of her soul, the graceof her manner, rendered her irresistibly attractive to him; but soselfish was his love, that he would sooner have seen her perish at hisfeet, than have rendered her assistance, except at the price proposed. 

Another month passed by, and still there was no news of Edith or hermother. He grasped the daily paper, almost with a sensation of fear, and glanced at the column of deaths, which at that season usuallycontains a goodly array. Their names were not yet among them, orperchance in their poverty and obscurity they would not findadmittance even among the daily list of mortality. 

The yellow fever had commenced its annual ravages, and Barclayretreated to a country-house in the vicinity, owned by a friend, anddispatched a confidential servant to inquire concerning Mrs. Eustonand her daughter. They were still in the same place, but the motherhad been ill, and was still confined to her bed. 

One morning, about two weeks afterward, Barclay was seated in adelightful little saloon, over a late breakfast. The room wasfurnished with every appliance of modern luxury, and the morning airstirred the branches of noble trees without, whose verdant shadecompletely shut out the glare of the sun. A servant entered, andpresented to him a letter which had just been left. The irregular handwith which it was directed, prevented him from recognizing the writingof Edith, and when he opened the missive, which had evidently beenblotted with her bitter tears, a flush of triumph mounted to hischeek, and he exclaimed with an oath, "Mine at last!--I knew it must end thus!"

The letter contained the following words:

 "After a night of such suffering as casts all I have previously endured into the shade, I address you. My mother now lies before me in that heavy and death-like sleep which follows utter exhaustion. Her state of health for the last month has demanded my constant care, and the precarious remuneration I have been able to obtain for sewing, I have thus been compelled to give up. We have parted with every souvenir of our better days--even our clothing has been sacrificed, until we have but a change of garments left; and now our landlady insists on being paid the small sum we owe her, or we must leave her house to-day. She came into our room last evening, and the scene which ensued threw my mother into such a state of nervous excitement, that she has not yet recovered from it. 

 "I cannot disguise from myself that she is very ill. If she awakes to a renewal of the same anguish, I dare not contemplate the consequences. You know that I do not love you, Mr. Barclay. I make no pretension to a change in my feelings; repugnant as it must be to a heart of sensibility, I must view this transaction as a matter of bargain and sale. I will accept your late offer, to save my mother from further suffering, and to gain a home for her declining years. 

 "For myself, I will endeavor to be to you--but why should I promise any thing for myself. God alone can give me strength to live after the sacrifice is completed. 

 "EDITH. "

There was much in this letter that was wounding to his vanity, andbitter to his feelings; but he had triumphed! The stately pride ofthis girl was humbled before him--her spirit bowed in the dust beforethe gaunt spectre she had thought herself capable of braving. Shewould be his--the fair, the pure in heart, would link herself to vice, infamy and crime, for money. Money! the world's god! See the countlessmillions groveling upon the earth before the great idol--the goldencalf, which so often brings with it as bitter a curse as was denouncedagainst the people of old, when they forsook the living and true Godfor its worship. 

Can it not buy every thing--even woman's love, or the semblance of it, which would serve him just as well? He, the murderer of the brother, would purchase the compliance of the sister with this magical agent;but--and his heart quailed at the thought--could it buy self-respect?Could it enable him to look into the clear eye of that woman he wouldcall his wife, and say, "My soul is worthy to be linked with thine inthe realms of eternity. "

No--he felt that the sacrilegious union must be unblessed on earth, and severed in heaven, yet he shrunk not from his purpose. 

He lost no time in seeking Edith; Mrs. Euston was yet buried in theleaden slumber produced by a powerful narcotic. The unhappy girlreceived him alone, and he remarked that his words of impassioned lovebrought no color to her marble cheek--no emotion to her soul; sheseemed to have steeled herself for the interview, and it was not untilhe pressed the kiss of betrothal upon her pallid lips, that shebetrayed any sensibility--then a thrill, a shudder pervaded her wholeframe, and he supported her nearly insensible form several momentsbefore she regained power to sustain herself. Could he have lookedinto that breaking heart, and have read there all the bitter loathing, the agonized struggles for self-control, would he have persisted inhis suit? Yes--for this was a part of his vengeance for the slightsshe had put upon him; and in the future, if she did not play the parthe thus forced upon her, with all the devotion he should exact, had henot bitter words at his command to taunt her with the scene of thatmorning?

A physician was called in, who advised the removal of Mrs. Eustonwhile she slept; and arrangements were soon made to accomplish it. Thefamily to whom Barclay's present retreat belonged, were spending thesummer at the north, and their house had been left at his disposal. Hedetermined to remove Mrs. Euston and her daughter thither, while hetook up his own abode, until the day of his marriage, with a bachelorfriend in the neighborhood. 

Edith demanded an interval of a week before their union took place, which he reluctantly granted. Naturally prodigal, he employed the timein ordering the most elegant _trousseau_ for his bride. She who solately was struggling with bitter want, was now surrounded by servantseager to anticipate every wish, while Barclay played the devotedlover. Edith prayed earnestly for power to regard him with suchfeelings as alone could hallow the union they were about to form. Vainwere her lonely struggles--her tearful supplications; a spectral formseemed to rise ever between them, and reproach her that she had beenso untrue to herself, even for the preservation of a mother. 

The only thing that consoled her for her great sacrifice, was that herbeloved mother seemed to revive to some sense of enjoyment, when sheagain found herself surrounded by that comfort to which she had beenaccustomed. Weakened in mind as in body, Mrs. Euston fondly flatteredherself that her daughter might yet be happy amid the splendors ofwealth; and the poor mother welcomed the arbiter of their future fatewith smiles and courteous words, to which he listened with politeness, and scorned as the hollow offspring of necessity. 

The dreaded day at length arrived, and with the calmness of exhaustedemotion, Edith prepared herself for the ceremony which was to consignher to the protection of Barclay. She believed her earthly fatesealed, and resignation was all she could command. 

Amid all her suffering, there was one thought which arose perpetuallybefore her; there was one human being on earth who would have riskedhis life to serve or save her, and she knew that a heart worthy of herlove would hear the history of her enforced marriage with bitterdisappointment and anguish. 

Near the home of her infancy dwelt a family of sons and daughters withwhom she had been reared in habits of intimacy. Between herself andthe eldest son a strong attachment had grown up; it had never beenexpressed in words, yet each felt as well assured of the affection ofthe other, as if a thousand protestations had been uttered. About thetime that Mrs. Euston and her daughter left their own home to travelwith their beloved invalid, Walter Atwood bade adieu to his paternalhome, on a tour to Europe, where he was to complete his professionaleducation as a medical man. 

Mrs. Euston's place passed into the hands of strangers, and after afew months all intercourse by letter ceased between their formerfriends and themselves. After the death of her son, the bereavedmother would not consent to return to their former neighborhood, andthus all trace of them was lost to the Atwoods; but Edith knew in herdeep heart that Walter would return--would seek her; and it was thisconviction which gave her firmness to resist so long the overtures ofBarclay. 

Now all was at an end; another hour and the right even to think of himwould no longer be hers. Her mother entered her room, folded her toher breast, and whispered, "The hour has arrived, my child. Robert is here with the clergyman. Donot keep them waiting. "

"I am quite ready, mother, " said Edith, calmly, and she advancedwithout hesitation toward the door, for she heard an impatient stepwithout, which she well knew. Barclay awaited her in the hall--heimpetuously seized her hand and drew it beneath his arm. 

At that moment the door-bell was violently pulled, and both turnedimpulsively to see who made so imperious a demand for admittance. 

At the open door stood two figures, one of a young man, who appeareddeeply agitated, for his features, beneath the light of the lamps, seemed white and rigid, as if cut from marble. Over his shoulderappeared a swarthy face, with a pair of bright, keen eyes, gleamingfrom beneath overhanging brows. 

Edith and Barclay both uttered an exclamation--but they were verydifferent in their character. In the impulse of the moment, the formerdrew her hand forcibly from him who sought to retain it, and with onebound, was in the arms of the foremost stranger, as she exclaimed, "Walter--my saviour--my preserver! you have come at last!"

The face of Atwood lost its unnatural rigidity as he pressed her tohis heart, and said, "Thank Heaven! I am not then too late!"

Barclay advanced threateningly, "What does this mean, sir? Are you aware that such conduct in my houseis not to be tolerated--that you shall answer for it to me with yourlife?"

"It means, Mr. Barclay, that I come with authority to prevent theunholy alliance you were about to force upon this helpless andunprotected girl, to place the seal upon your crimes, by clasping inwedlock the hand of the sister with that which is red with thebrother's blood. "

"'T is false--the boy killed himself, as Edith herself knows fullwell. Am I to be held accountable for the dissipation of a young fool, who, when once the curb was removed, went headlong to destructionwithout the necessity of any prompting from me. "

"We will waive that part of the question, if you please, Mr. Barclay. I have brought with me one who can prove much more than that. Comeforward, Antoine. "

The Frenchman advanced, and Barclay grew pale as he recognized him. 

"Let us retire to a private room, " continued Atwood, in a lowertone--"I would not have Mrs. Euston and her daughter hear toosuddenly the developments I am prepared to make. "

Then turning to Edith he said--

"You are saved, my dear Edith. Retire with your mother, while I settlewith Mr. Barclay. "

Mechanically Barclay led the way into an adjoining room. When there, he turned haughtily and said--

"Now, sir, explain yourself--tell me why my privacy is thus invaded, and--"

Atwood interrupted him. 

"It is useless to attempt bravado with me, sir. Your whole career istoo intimately known to me to render it of any avail. You know thatfrom my boyhood I have loved Miss Euston, for you may remember aconversation which took place between us several years since, when youwere received as a visiter at her mother's house. Jealousy enabled youto penetrate what had been carefully veiled from others, and you taxedme with what I would not deny. Do you remember the words you used tothe boy you then spoke to? That you would move heaven and earth to winEdith Euston. "

"To what does all this tend?" asked Barclay, in an irritated tone. 

"Patience, and you will see. I returned from Europe and found thatMrs. Euston's family had left for Havanna. Her lawsuit had goneagainst her, and she had lost her home. Nothing more was known of her. I lost no time in following her. I reached Cuba, and after manyinquiries, traced her to the house of the family which had receivedher beneath their roof. There I heard the history of her son's unhappydeath, at the moment he was about to confer independence upon hismother and sister. _You_ were mentioned as a visiter after his death;your _generous_ offer to share with Miss Euston as your wife thewealth which should have been hers was dwelt on. All this aroused avague suspicion in my mind. I made minute inquiries, and traced youthrough all the orgies of your dissipation. One night I was followingup the inquiry, and I entered a tavern much frequented by foreigners. A man sat apart in gloomy silence. One of his comrades said--

"'Antoine grieves over the loss of his bird. All the money theAmerican paid him does not make him forget that he sold his bestfriend!'

"By an electric chain of thought, the incident which attended poorEuston's last moments, occurred to me. I approached the man, andaddressed him in French, for I saw that he was a native of thatcountry. I spoke of his bird. He shook his head and said--

"'It is not the loss of the bird, monsieur, but the use that was madeof him, that troubles my conscience. '

"In short, to condense a long story, I learned from Antoine, that heremained in your lodgings several days, until the mackaw he sold toyou became sufficiently accustomed to you to be caressed withoutbiting. During that time you had a room darkened, and required him totrain the bird to fly at a light and overturn it. When he wasdismissed, his curiosity was excited, and he watched your movements. He nightly dogged your steps, and traced you to the garden of thevilla. He stood within a few feet of you on the night of Euston'sdeath, and beheld the use to which you put his bird. His eyes, accustomed to the gloom without, beheld your dark form glide to theside of your victim. He saw your murderous hand pressed upon thebreast of the dying youth. "

"'T is false--false. I defy him to prove it. "

"It is true, sir--the evidence is such as would condemn you in anycourt; and now listen to me. I offer you lenient terms, inconsideration of the ties of relationship which bind you to those youhave so cruelly oppressed. One third of the fortune for which you havepaid so fearful a price shall be yours, if you will sign a paper Ihave with me, which will restore the remainder to Mrs. Euston. If yourefuse, I have in my pocket a writ of arrest, and the officers are inthe shrubbery awaiting my orders to execute it. Comply with my termsand I suffer you to escape. "

Thus confronted by imminent danger, Barclay seemed to lose his courageand presence of mind. He measured the floor with rapid steps a fewmoments, and then turning to Atwood motioned for the paper, to whichhe affixed his signature without uttering a word. 

"There is yet another condition, " said Atwood. 

"Leave this country within forty-eight hours. If, after that time, Iam made aware of your presence within the jurisdiction of the UnitedStates, I will have you arrested as a murderer. The peace of mind ofthose I have rescued from your power shall not be periled by yourpresence within the same land they inhabit. " Barclay ground his teethwith rage. 

"I _shall_ leave it, be assured, but not to escape from this absurdcharge. "

"Go then. I care not from what motive. "

Another instant, and Barclay had passed from the room. Edith and hermother traveled to their former home in the beautiful land of Florida, under the protection of Atwood, and there, amid rejoicing friends, surrounded by all the happy associations of her bright youth, she gaveher hand to her faithful lover. 

Barclay perished in a street brawl, in a foreign land, and the wholeof her brother's estate finally devolved upon her. 

A VOICE FOR POLAND. 

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER. 

 Up, for encounter stern While unsheathed weapons gleam; The beacon-fires of Freedom burn, Her banners wildly stream; Awake! and drink at purple springs-- Lo! the "White Eagle" flaps his wings With a rejoicing scream, That sends an old, heroic thrill Through hearts that are unconquered still. 

 Leap to your saddles, leap! Tried wielders of the lance, And charge as when ye broke the sleep Of Europe, at the call of France: The knightly deeds of other years Eclipse, ye matchless cavaliers! While plume and penon dance-- That prince, upon his phantom steed, In Ellster lost your ranks shall lead. 

 Flock round the altar, flock! And swear ye will be free; Then rush to brave the battle shock Like surges of a maddened sea; Death, with a red and shattered brand Yet clinging to the rigid hand, A blissful fate would be, Contrasted with that darker doom A branded brow--a living tomb. 

 Speed to the combat, speed! And beat oppression down, Or win, by martrydom, the meed Of high and shadowless renown; Ye weary exiles, from afar Came back! and make the savage Czar In terror clutch his crown; While wronged and vengeful millions pour Defiance at his palace-door. 

 Throng forth with souls to dare, From huts and ruined halls! On the deep midnight of despair A beam of ancient glory falls: The knout, the chain and dungeon cave To frenzy have aroused the brave; Dismembered Poland calls, And through a land opprest, betrayed, Stalks Kosciusko's frowning shade. 

TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND IT. 

BY MAYNE REID. 

 They tell me, lady, that thy heart is changed-- That on thy lip there is another name; I'll not believe it--though for life estranged-- I know thy love's lone worship is the same. The bee that wanders on the summer breath, May wanton safely among leaves and flowers, But by the honied jar it clings till death-- There is no change for hearts that loved like ours. 

 You may not mock me--'tis an idle game-- The lip may lie, the eye with bright beguiling May, from the world, conceal a suffering flame, But 'tis the eye and not the heart is smiling; And I, too, have that power of deceiving, By the strong pride of an unfeeling will, The cold and cunning world in its believing-- What boots it all? The heart will suffer still. 

 Comes there not o'er thy spirit, when 'tis dreaming In the lone hours of the voiceless night, When the sweet past like a new present seeming, Brings back those rosy hours of love and light? Comes there not o'er thy dreaming spirit then Delicious joy--although 'tis but a vision-- That we have met, caressed and kissed again, And revel still among those sweets Elysian?

 Comes there not o'er thy spirit when it wakes, And finds, with sleep, the vision too hath parted A lone depression, till thy proud heart aches, And from thy burning orb the tear hath started? And with sad memories through thy bosom thronging, Within thy heart's most secret deep recesses Feel'st thou not then an agony of longing To dream again of those divine caresses?

 To dream them o'er and o'er, or deem them real, While penitence is speaking in thy sighs-- For this, unlike thy dream, is not ideal-- It brings the pallid cheek, the moistened eyes: Then, lady, mock not love so deeply hearted, With that light seeming which deceit can give-- The love I promised thee, when last we parted, Shall never be another's while _you_ live. 

[Illustration: Engraved by W. E. TuA PIC NIC ON OLDEN TIME. Engraved Expressly for Graham's magazine]

A PIC-NIC IN OLDEN TIME. 

BY QUEVEDO. 

[SEE ENGRAVING. ]

Joy is as old as the universe, yet as young as a June rose: and apic-nic has of all places been its delight, since the little quietfamily _fêtes champêtres_ of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. So itis of no especial consequence in what reign of what kingdom our cleverartist has laid his scene--and sooth to say, from the diversified andpleasantly incongruous costume and accessories of the picture, itmight puzzle an uninitiated to tell. But we, who are in the secrets ofMaga, and to whom the very brain-workings of her poets and paintersare as palpable as the crystal curdling of the lake beneath the filmybreath of the Frost King, of course know all about it, and willwhisper in your ear the key to the pretty harmonies of wood and skyand happy faces which he has spread out in a sort of visible cavatina, or dear little love-song, beneath your eye. 

It was a gay time at Sweetbriar Lodge--for the fair Alice Hawthorn hadjust been married to the Squire of Deerdale, and the happy pair(new-married people were even in those times happy, although they werenot so set down in the newspapers, ) had determined to spend thehoneymoon quietly at home, like sensible people, instead of postingoff to Bath or Brighton; or mewing themselves up in some outlandishcorner of the country, where they could see and hear nothing butthemselves, until they were ready to commence the married life bybeing cloyed with each other's society. The season was mid-summer, andthe weather so balmy and beautiful that after wandering about in thewoods and fields all day, and watching the moon creep stealthily upthe sky to view herself in the fountain, one felt a longing to makehis bed on the fresh turf under the katydid's bower, and sleep there. Of course I don't mean the young and happy bridegroom. He neverdreamed of being absent from his Alice; and he even felt quite jealousof her little sister Emma, who used sometimes to come and put herlaughing, roguish face and curly head between the lovers, as they weresitting on the sofa or reclining on the green turf by the littlefountain. 

But Alice had another sister, older than herself, and who had alreadyrefused several excellent offers of marriage--declaring that sheintended to live and die single, unless she should fall in love withsome wandering minstrel or prince in disguise, like Lalla Rookh. Hername was Hortensia; but on account of her proud indifference to theattentions and compliments which were every where offered to herwonderful beauty, she was usually called Haughty Hawthorn--a namewhich seemed to please her better than all the flatteries of which shewas the object. She was already twenty-two, and ripening into the fullmagnificence of glorious womanhood--her heart yet untouched by theelectric dart of love, and her fancy free as the birds of air. 

Now it was quite natural that the gentle Alice, whom love had made sohappy, should willingly enter into a conspiracy with her husband and aparcel of the young people of the neighborhood against the peace andcomfort of her haughty sister--deeming of course--as I myself am alsoof opinion--that a young lady out of love ought to be supremelymiserable, whatever she herself may think about it. 

Keeping in view the peculiar requisites required by Haughty in alover, the plan was to get up an old-fashioned pic-nic, at which ayoung friend of Squire Deerdale, who was studying for an artist, andhad just returned from Italy, where he had picked up a little music aswell as painting, should be introduced after a mysterious fashion, which would be sure to inflame the imagination of the loveless lady. The artist, according to the squire, was handsome as a prince andeloquent as a minstrel, and his extensive practice in Rome had madehim perfect master of the fine arts, the art of making love included. So the pic-nic was proposed that very evening, to take place the nextday. Hortensia, who was fond of frolick and fun as the best of them, albeit not yet in love, fell at once into the snare; and the squirecarelessly led the conversation to turn upon the sudden and unexpectedarrival of the young Duke of St. James upon his magnificent estateadjoining Sweetbriar Lodge, which he said had taken place that veryday. 

"The duke, " said the squire, "is, as you all have heard, one of themost romantic and sentimental youths in the world, and quite out ofthe way of our ordinary extravagant, matter-of-fact young nobility. Ihad the pleasure of meeting him when I was in Rome, and could not helpbeing charmed with him. He read and wrote poetry divinely, played themandolin like St. Cecilia, and sung like an improvisatore. I met himto-day, as he was approaching home in his carriage, and found him, aswell as I could judge from a five minutes' conversation, the same asever. I say nothing--but should a fresh-looking, golden-haired, dreamy-eyed youth be seen at our pic-nic to-morrow, I hope he will begreeted with the courtesy and welcome due not only to a neighbor but aman of genius. "

This adroitly concocted speech was drank in like wine by theunsuspicious Hortensia. A duke! a poet! a romantic man of genius! Whatwas it made her heart beat so rapidly?--_her_ heart, that had neverbeat out of time save over the page of the poet or the novelist--ormay be in the trance of some beautiful midnight dream, such as love tohover around the pillows of fair maidens, and who can blame them?

The next morning, as Willis says of one of his fine days, was astrayfrom Paradise; and bright and early our pic-nickers, comprising agoodly company of young people, married and single, with severalbeautiful children, including of course the roguish Emma, were on thefield selected for the day's campaign. It was a lovely spot. Under anoble oak whose limbs, rounded into a leafy dome, shed a palpitatingshadow around a sweet little fountain, guarded by a marble naiad, gathered the merry company upon the green velvet ottoman, daisy-spangled, that ran around this splendid natural saloon, bowerand drawing-room combined. The day had fulfilled the golden promise ofthe early morning; the air, impregnated with a sparkling, effervescingsunshine, was as bewitching as the breath of champagne foam, and ouradventurers were in the liveliest and gayest spirits. 

Noon was culminating, and the less excitable and more worldly portionof the company began to be thinking seriously of the bountifulrefection which had been provided for the grand occasion. Hortensia, it was observed by Squire Deerdale and his wife, and the others whowere in the secret, had seemed absent and thoughtful, all the morning, and little Emma had teased her sufficiently for not playing with heras usual. At this moment a young man was seen coming down the broadsloping glade at the foot of which the party were seated. The squireimmediately rose and welcomed the stranger, introducing him to hisbride and sister-in-law, and expressing his pleasure that he had come. "We almost began to fear, " he added, "that you had forgotten ourhumble festival. "

"A _fête_ thus embellished, " replied the stranger, bowing withpeculiar grace to the ladies, and glancing admiringly at Hortensia, "is not an affair to be so easily forgotten by a wanderer who comes, after years of exile, to revive beneath the blue skies and bluer eyesof his native land. "

"But your mandolin, Signor Foreigner; I hope you have not forgottenthat?"

"Oh no indeed, " returned the stranger with a musical laugh, "I neverforget my little friend, whose harmonies have often been my onlycompany. Here it comes, " pointing to a lad who just then came up, bearing a handsome though outlandish-looking guitar gingerly acrosshis arm. 

Another of the party had also brought his guitar, and the two weresoon tinkling away at different parts of the grounds--the lattersurrounded by half a dozen young men and women, and several beautifulchildren; while the stranger, throwing himself on the grass at thefeet of Hortensia, upon whose lap nestled the little Emma, began asimple ballad of the olden time--while the squire and his bride stoodagainst the old oak behind Hortensia. At length the strain of theyoung musician changed, subsiding into low and plaintive undulations. 

"It is time for us to go, " whispered Alice to her husband; "we areevidently _de trop_ here"--and the wedded pair glided noiselessly off, casting mischievous glances at the haughty Hortensia, who satabsorbed in the music, and tears of sympathy and rapture ready to fallfrom her eyes. It was a clear case of love at first sight. 

From this pleasant reverie both musician and listener were suddenlyroused by little Emma, who, raising her head and shaking back the longringlets from her face, exclaimed, "Oh, sister, hear that! There goes the champagne, and I am so hungry. Come, let us go to dinner. "

"Excuse me, madam, " exclaimed the stranger, ceasing to play andspringing to his feet, "your beautiful little monitor is right. I wasalready forgetting myself and venturing to dream as of old;" and heoffered his arm to Hortensia, with that polite freedom not onlypermitted, but enjoined, by the etiquette of the pic-nic. 

"And do you call it forgetfulness to dream?" inquired Hortensia. 

"With so fair a reality before me, yes; but at other times to dream isto live. "

"Oh, yes, it _is_ nice to dream!" broke in the little Emma. "Almost asnice as a wedding. Now last night I dreamt that you were married, Haughty, like sister Alice. "

A lambent rosy flame seemed to envelop for an instant the beautifulHortensia, disappearing instantly, yet leaving its scarlet traces oncheek and brow. 

"What say you, my pretty one, " said the stranger, patting the lovelychild upon the head, "what say you to a sandwich and a glass of winewith me, here on the greensward? (They had now approached the_table_--if a snow-white damask spread upon the velvet grass, andloaded with tempting viands could be called so. ) Is not that betterthan dreams?"

"I love wine, sir, but mamma and sister say I shouldn't drink it, because it makes my eyes red. Now _your_ eyes are as bright as stars. Do you drink wine?"

It was the stranger's turn to blush. And this little childish prattleseemed to have removed the barrier of strangership from between thetwo young people, who exchanged glances of a sort of merry vexation, and seemed to understand each other as if they were old friends. 

That was a merry meal, "all under the greenwood tree, " and on themargin of that sweet little fountain, whose waters came up to the verylip of the turf, which it refreshed with a sparkling coolness thatever renewed the brightness of the flowers upon its bosom. After thedinner was over, a dance was proposed, and the services of thehandsome stranger, as musician, were cheerfully offered and promptlyaccepted. It was observed, however, that Hortensia, usually crazy fordancing, strolled pensively about with little Emma at her side, and atlength seated herself on a little grassy bank, remote from thedancers, yet where she could overlook the scene. 

There was a little pause in the dance, and Squire Deerdale approachedthe stranger and whispered, "Do you like her?"

"She's as beautiful as Juno, but I dare not hope that she would everlove a poor vagabond like me. She deserves a prince of the blood, atthe very least. "

"Never mind!--_Vedremo_, as we say in Italy;" and with a laugh theyoung man bounded again into the dance, while the stranger redoubledhis attention to his guitar. 

The day began to wane, and the shadows of a neighboring mountain tocreep slowly across the lea; and yet, so absorbed was that gay companyin the merry pleasures of the day, that hours glided by unnoticed; andit was not until the round, yellow moon rose over the eastern hills, as if peeping out to see the sun set, that they thought of breaking upa scene of little less than enchantment. 

The stranger scarcely left the side of Hortensia, who seemedcompletely subdued and fascinated by the serious eloquence, theinexhaustible brilliancy of his conversation, as well as enthralled bythe classic beauty of his face, and the respectful yet tender glanceswhich he from time to time cast upon her face. It may also be supposedthat the hints casually dropped by the squire the night before, respecting his distinguished acquaintance, the young Duke of St. James, had not been without their effect. Sooth to say, however, thatthe hitherto cold and impassive Hortensia was really in love, and thatshe had too much self-respect to make any conditions in the bestowalof her admiration. She was haughty, proud and ambitious--yet at thesame time high-minded and generous where her feelings were reallyinterested. 

Much may be accomplished in an afternoon between two congenial heartsthat meet for the first time; and it is not at all surprising that ontheir way home the stranger and Hortensia should have lingered alittle behind the rest of the party, engaged in deep and earnest talk. 

"Beautiful being, " whispered the stranger, "I have at length found myheart's idol, whom in dreams I have ever worshiped. What need of longacquaintanceship between hearts made for each other? Lady, I loveyou!"

"Sir, sir, I beg you to pause. You know not what you are saying--youcannot mean that--"

"But I tell you he does mean it, though, " exclaimed a merry voiceclose at the lady's elbow; and turning round, she saw her mischievousbrother-in-law, who had been demurely following their tardy footsteps. 

"Brother! you here! I--really--am quite astonished!"

"And, " interrupted the stranger, while a dark flush came over hisface, "allow me to say, Squire Deerdale, that I also am astonished atthis violation of the rights of a friendship even so old and sincereas ours. "

"Well, well, I beg your pardon, fair lady; and as for you, sir, afteryou have heard my explanation, I shall be prepared to give you anysatisfaction you may require. You must know, then, my dear old friend, that from a few careless words I dropped last evening, by way of joke, this young lady has imbibed the idea that you are the young Duke ofSt. James in disguise; and for the purpose of preventing anymisunderstandings for the future, it is requisite that my sister andmy friend Walter Willie, the artist, should comprehend one another'sposition fully. "

"Good heavens! madam, you cannot believe that I was accessory to thismad prank of your brother's? Do not believe it for the world. "

"No, no, I acquit you and every body but myself. I am sure I intendedno harm by my thoughtless joke. Come, come, make up the matter atonce, so that I may hasten back to Alice, who will begin to growjealous, directly. "

"Madam, dear madam, (Hortensia turned away her head with an imperiousgesture, ) I have only to beg your pardon for having too long intrudedupon your attention, and to take my leave. The poor artist must stillworship his ideal at a distance. For him there is but the world ofimagination. No such bright reality as being beloved rests in hisgloomy future. Farewell!" and the young man, bowing for a moment overthe hand of Hortensia, withdrew. 

"Brother, brother, what have you done!" passionately exclaimed thebeauty, in a voice choked by sobs. "For a foolish joke you have drivenaway the only being who has ever interested my lonely heart. And now Ican never, never be happy again. "

"But, dear Hortensia, would you stoop to love a mere artist?"

"Stoop, sir, --stoop! I know not what you mean. Think you so meanly ofme as to believe I would sell myself for wealth and a title? Proud Imay be--but not, I thank God, mercenary nor mean. And what a lofty, noble spirit is that of your friend! What lord or duke could match theheight of his intellect or the gorgeousness of his imagination. Oh, too soon my beautiful dream is broken!" and the young lady, all powerof her usual self-restraint being lost, wept like a child upon theshoulder of her brother. 

"Nay, nay, sister dear, weep not, " at length said the squire, tenderlyraising her head and leading her homeward. "All is not lost that is indanger. And so that you really _have_ lost your hard little heart tomy noble, glorious friend, I'll take care that it is soonrecovered--or at any rate another one quite as good. Come, come, cheerup! All will go well. "

The squire, although not usually rated as a prophet, predicted rightlyfor once; for the very next day saw young Walter Willie at SweetbriarLodge, with a face as handsome and happy as the morning. Hortensia wasill, and must not be disturbed; and at this information his featuressuddenly became overcast, as you may have seen a spring sky by a thickcloud, springing up from nobody knows where. However, the squireentered directly after, and whispered a few words to his guest, whichseemed to restore in a measure the brightness of his look. 

"And you really think, then, that I may hope?"

"Nay, my friend, you may do as you like about that. All men may hope, you know Shakspeare says. But I tell you that Hortensia has fallen inlove with your foolish face--it's just like her!--and that's all aboutit. Come in and take some breakfast. Oh, I forgot--you've no appetite. Of course not. Well, you'll find some nice fresh dew in thosemorning-glories yonder, and I will rejoin you in a minute. We 'll makea day of it. "

That evening the moon shone a million times brighter, the sky was amillion times bluer, and the nightingale sung a million times sweeterthan ever before. At least so thought the beautiful Hortensia and herartist-lover, as they strolled, arm-in-arm, through the woody lawnthat skirted the garden of Sweetbriar Lodge, and held sweet converseof immortal things by gazing into each other's eyes. And so ends ourveracious history of the Pic-Nic in Olden Time. 

TO THE VIOLET. 

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. 

 Sweet trophy of life's morning, fresh and calm, Dropped from the gleanings of relentless time, How from thy dainty chalice steals the balm That hung like incense o'er its dewy prime!

 The lily's stateliness thou dost not own, Nor glow voluptuous of the damask rose, Thou canst not emulate the laurel's crown, Nor, like the Cereus, watch while all repose. 

 And these gay rivals of parterre and field May freely drink the sunshine and the dew, But only unto thee does heaven yield The pure reflection of her cloudless blue. 

 Thy tint will sometimes darken till it wear A purple such as decked the eastern kings, And yet, like innocence, all unaware Its tribute to the wind thy blossom flings. 

 Symbol of what is cherished and untold, Thy fragrance oft reveals thee to the sight, Peering in beauty from the common mould, As casual blessings the forlorn requite. 

 Thy image upon Laura's robe was wrought, O'er which her poet with devotion mused, And gentle souls, I ween, have ever caught From thee a solace that the world refused. 

 The Tuscan flower-girls delight to cheer Each pensive exile with thy scented leaves, Fit largess of a clime to fancy dear, Which a new blandishment from thee receives. 

 Grief's frenzy, when it melts, of thee will rave, As of a thing too winsome to decay, And thus Laertes at his sister's grave Bids violets spring from her unsullied clay. 

 Lowly incentive to celestial thought! We ne'er with listless step can pass thee by, For thou with tender embassies art fraught, Like the fond beaming of a northern eye. 

 Hence thou art sacred to our human needs; Laid on the maiden's white and throbbing breast Thy delicate odor for the absent pleads, And mourners strew thee where their idols rest. 

 In those wild hours when feeling chafed its bound, And deepened more that utterance was denied, In thee persuasive messengers I found That reached the haven of love's wayward tide. 

 And I have borne thee to the couch of death When naught remained to do but wait and pray, And marked the sudden flush and quickened breath That proved thee dear though all had passed away!

THEY MAY TELL OF A CLIME. 

TO ---- ----. 

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL. 

 They may tell of a clime more delightful than this, The land of the orange, the myrtle and vine; Where the roses blush red beneath Zephyr's warm kiss, And the bright beams of summer unceasingly shine. But I know a sweet valley, a beautiful spot, Where the turf is so green, and the breezes are bland; And methinks, if you'll share there my ivy-crowned cot, There'll be no place on earth like my own native land. 

 A palace 'neath Italy's star-covered sky, Unblest by thy presence would desolate be; But cheered by the light of thy soft beaming eye, Ah! sweet were a tent in the desert with thee. For 'tis love--O! 'tis love which thus hallows the ground, And brightens the gloom of the anchorite's cell; And the Eden of earth--wheresoe'er it be found-- Is the spot where the heart's cherished idol doth dwell. 

 Then come to my cottage--though cool be the shade, And verdant the sod 'neath the wide-spreading bough-- Where the wood-dove its nest 'mid the foliage hath made, Yet lone is that cottage, and desolate now. For as the green forest, bereft of the dove, No more with sweet echoes would musical be-- Even so is the rose-mantled bower of love, Unblest and uncheered, if not gladdened by thee. 

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

BY C. A. WASHBURN. 

I dreamed that for a long time I courted Charlotte--what need ofdreaming? It was true. Nevertheless I dreamed that for a long time Icourted Charlotte, and at last, which was not true, married her. And Ithought that Charlotte and I lived very happily together. 

She loved me better than she ever thought she could before we weremarried, for I loved her exceedingly, and was very kind to her. 

I remember how long it was that I wooed her. Always hoping, thoughsometimes fearing that she would never love me so as to marry me; how, when at last we were married, and I carried her home to my prettycottage, I could hardly contain myself for joy; and when I saw herseated in our own parlor on the wedding eve, I could not keep a tearfrom trickling down my cheek; and how she kissed away the tear, andwhen she knew the cause, how she burst into a flood of tears, and saidshe would love me the better for my having loved her so; and how thatwe were from that time wholly united in heart and sympathy. 

Then, in the course of time, we had two darling children, which weboth loved--and I thought my cup of happiness completed. I had been anambitious man in my youth, and had experienced much of thedisappointment incident to a life for fame. But when God had given ustwo such lovely children, I thought it was abusing his mercy toneglect them for the applause of the world--and so devoted myselfentirely to their welfare. If I worked hard and was inclined to feelpeevish and cross, I thought how that I was laboring to make happy, and good, and great, the dear boys, and I forgot every thing else. IfI became tired of the turmoil of life, I was the more happy when I gothome, for the children were always waiting and glad to see me, andtheir presence immediately banished all anxiety and care. They seemedso happy when I came--for Charlotte used to teach them to prize mypresence by dating their pleasures by my arrival; that I thought itjoy enough for one mortal to have looked upon the impersonation ofinnocence and joy in his own children. 

Then, when the boys were asleep, how we used to talk about them; howanxious we were when either of them was restless or unquiet! How weused to reckon on the joy they would give us in age, and how in thehappiness of our lot we shed tears of happines and joy! With whatfervor did we unite in prayer for their health and preservation, andwish all the world as happy as we were. We became selfish in our joy, and felt to care little for any thing but home, and in our enjoymentof the gift we had like to have forgotten the Giver. 

But at length Charlie, the younger boy, was sick, and we feared hewould die. We then remembered in whose hands his life was, and, Ibelieve, ever after regarded our treasures as trusts committed to ourkeeping. Charlie suffered great pain, but he complained not. His verysubmission smote our hearts, and though we could not think he was todie, yet we thought he was too good to live. Benny could no longersmile upon us, but watched by his brother's bed without speaking ormoving, unless to do him some service. We felt anxious about Charles, yet forbore to speak of our anxiety, though when he was asleep wecould no longer conceal our sorrow and fears. And when one day thephysician imprudently said in his hearing that he feared Charles woulddie, he looked at him in surprise, as if he had not thought of that;and kissing the fevered brow of his sick brother, he came and stood byhis mother's side, and looking in her face as much as to say you wontlet brother die, he saw a tear in the clear blue eye of his mother, and he sobbed aloud; and Charlotte could contain herself no longer, but dropped hot tears on his face faster than she could kiss themaway. Then I feared if Charlie should die lest Benny should die too;and then I knew that Charlotte could not bear all this, and I prayedin my heart to God for Charles. And the next day, when the goodphysician said the danger was past, we felt to thank God that he hadso chastened our affections, and ever loved him the more. 

So we lived in love and happiness for many years, and all that timenot a shade of discord passed between us; and I often thought what adreary world this had been to me if Charlotte had never been mine. Iused to pity my bachelor neighbor, and, as I thought, I could see thetear of disappointment in his eye when he witnessed my happy lot. Isaw it was a vision, and only the figure of Margaret, my once lovedand pretty sister, who existed then but in the land of spirits, wasbefore me. 

And I told Margaret of the vision, and could not repress a sigh thatit was not reality; and musing long on what I was, and what I mighthave been had nature dealt with me more kindly, until the visionreturned. Again I lived the life of youth's fancy. 

But the boys now began to mingle a little with the world, and wefeared we were not equal to the task of educating them. We trembledwhen we thought of the dangers before them, though we could notbelieve it possible that they should ever do wrong. Alas! what troublewas before us!

I had carried home a box of strawberries, and set them in the pantry, and setting myself down in the library, waited for Charlotte to comehome from shopping. I saw Charlie come from the pantry, but thoughtnothing at the time, and when Benny came in, bade him bring them to methat I might divide them between them--they were gone; Charles musthave taken them, for no one else had been in the pantry. I called himto me, and asked if he had taken them. I asked without concern, for Iknew if he had, he did it supposing it to be right. He said, "No, sir. " "Ah, " said I, "you did. " He then inquired what ones I meant, andI told him, and told him he must confess it, or I must punish him. Butwhen I talked so seriously of punishment, he seemed confounded. Heturned pale, and only said, "I did not do it. " That was a tryingmoment; and when Charlotte came in, we considered long and anxiouslywhat we ought to do. Should we let the theft go unpunished, and thefalsehood to be repeated. Again we urged him to confess. The answerwas still the same. There was no alternative but a resort to what Ihad prayed Heaven might spare me. I punished him severely, but heconfessed not. I wished I had not begun, but now I must go on. I stillincreased the castigation, and it was only when I told him that Iwould stop when he owned the theft, and not before, that he confessedhe had taken the berries. 

After this cruel punishment he went out and found Benny, who had beencrying piteously all the time, and then my two boys went and hidthemselves. I would have suffered the rack to have recalled that hour. It was too late. On going into the kitchen shortly after, I found apoor woman of the neighborhood with the box, which she said herthievish son had confessed he stole from the pantry. Perhaps someparents imagine the feelings of Charlotte and myself when we made thisdiscovery. But they are few. The boys both shunned us, and we dreadedto see them. But at last we sent for them to come in, and they darednot refuse to obey. I took Charles in my arms. I asked him to forgiveme; I told him who took the berries; I shed tears without measure; Ibegged him to forgive me--to kiss me as he was wont. He could not doit. It was cold and mechanical. His little heart seemed broke. Had hedied I thought I could have borne it, but I could not endure this. When he slept he was fitful and troubled; ah! his troubles could notbe greater than mine. I slept not that night; no, nor for many nightsafter that; but I watched him in his sleep, and many a hot tear did Idrop on his cheek, which he wiped off as poison; and for many weeks Iwould rise several times every night, and go and gaze on his yetpretty face, on which was stamped the curse for my own cruel haste. 

In the midst of these sore trials, the lovely face of Margaret againappeared before me, and again the vision vanished into nothing. And Itold her this part of the dream, and even then could not suppress atear that it was a dream, and that the children of W---- could neverhave an existence or a name. 

Then the kind Margaret spoke words of comfort to me, and made merepress the half-formed feeling of discontent. 

"Have you not, " said she, "said you would be satisfied for only onehour of the love of Charlotte?"

"True, " I replied, "and that dream was worth more than all my lifebefore. "

"Have you not known in that the joys of a parent, and have you notseen what sorrows and trials might have been yours, from which youhave now escaped? And do you now complain of your lot, W----? You knownot the designs of Providence. Will not Charlotte be yours in theworld to come?"

"God grant it!" said I; "but where will be Benny and Charles? They cannever be, and I shall die, and the flame of parental love will burn inme, and never can it have an object. "

"Hush you!" said Margaret, "cannot God give you in the other worldthose spirits of fancy? Did you not enjoy them in the dream, andcannot the same power make you enjoy them in Elysium? Is it nothingthat God has done for you in showing you what might have been, andwhat can be _there_? Are you still ungrateful, and do you stilldistrust his goodness? Is it nothing that he has kept you fromtemptation, and that you have so clear a conscience? Will you not beworthy of Charlotte in heaven; and have you no gratitude for all this?Have you not dear friends still; and will not Margaret be aguardian-angel to you so long as you sojourn in this valley of tears?"

"Ah!" said I, "I am blest beyond my deserts, and I will no morecomplain, but thank my heavenly Father for the dream-children he hathgiven me. "

I felt reproved by the words of Margaret, for I felt I had oftenindulged in useless repinings; and I determined I would do so no more, but patiently await my time to enjoy the loved ones, both real andideal, in heaven. I again turned to speak to Margaret--but Margarethad vanished to the land of spirits, and I was alone, the solitary manI had long been. It was but a dream within a dream. 

PASSED AWAY. 

BY W. WALLACE SHAW. 

 With wearied step, and heavy heart, O'erburdened with life's woes-- My soul bowed down with grief and care The orphan only knows-- I strayed along old ocean's shore, Where I had wandered oft before, My grief to hide from men;

 I listened--something seemed to say-- The joys that once did fill thy breast Where, oh! where are they? A voice that mingled with the roar Of dashing waves against the shore, In hollow tone, replied-- "They _bloomed_; and _died_!"

AN EVENING SONG, BY PROFESSOR WM. CAMPBELL. 

[AN EXTRACT. ]

 Lyre of my soul, awake--thy chords are few, Feeble their tones and low, Wet with the morning and the evening dew Of ceaseless wo. The time hath been to me and thee, my lyre, When soul of fire Was ours, and notes and aspirations bold Of higher hopes and prouder promise told-- Those days have flown-- Now we are old, Old and alone!

 Old in our youth--for sorrow maketh old, And disappointment withereth the frame, And harsh neglect will smother up the flame, That else had proudly burned--and the cold Offcasting of affection will repel The warm life-current back upon the heart, And choke it nigh to bursting--yet 't is well, And wise-intended, that the venomed dart Shall bear its sure and speedy remedy. Why should the wretched wish to live? to be One in this cold wide world--ever to feel That others feel not--wounds that will not heal-- A bruised, though yet unbroken spirit's strife-- A waning and a wasting out of life-- A longing after loving--and the curse To know One's self unknown-- In secrecy a hopeless hope to nurse-- Down to the grave to go Unloved--alone!

 Yet not alone! Pardon, thou gentle breeze, That comest o'er the waters with the tread Of beauty stealing to the sufferer's bed, To cool the burning brow, and whisper peace. Pardon, ye sweet wild flow'rets, that each morn Woo us to brush the dew-drop from the lid Of tearful innocence, and meekly warn Of worth in garb of lowliest texture hid. Beings of gentlest life, ye murmuring streams, Lull of our waking, music of our dreams, Ye things of artless merriment, that throw Around you gladness, wheresoe'er ye flow-- And ye dark mountains, down whose changeful sides The mystic guardian, giant shadow strides, Whose kindly frown, howe'er the storms prevail, Peace and repose ensureth to the vale-- Ye tall proud forests, that forever sway In kingly fury, or in graceful play-- Ye bright blue waters whose untiring drip Against this island shore doth lightly break, Gentle and noiseless as the parting lip Of dreaming infant on its mother's cheek, Pardon my rash averment--pardon, ye Flow'rets and streamlets, mountains, woods and waves, That pour into the soul a melody, Like to the far down music of the caves Of ocean, heard not, felt not, save within, Seeking to joy the darker depths to win-- Oh! while your sweet and sacred voices steal Into my spirit, as the joyous fall Of the warm sunbeam on the frozen rill, To wake the voice that slumbereth, and call To bear you company In your glad hymnings, let the wretched own He cannot be Alone!

 Never alone!--awake, my soul--on high The glorious sun his thousand rays has flung Athwart the vaulted sky-- Lo! there the heavens their mighty harp have strung, The gold, the silver and the crimson chord, To hymn their evening hymn unto the Lord. Hark! heard ye not that glorious burst of song, Which, touched by hands unseen, those chords sent forth, Bidding the attuned spheres the notes prolong Deeper and louder, till the trembling earth Catcheth the thrilling strain-- Echoeth back again-- From the bosom of ocean a voice Pealeth forth, and the mountains rejoice And the plains and the woods and the valleys rebound, And the Universe all is a creature of sound, That runneth his race Through the infinite regions of infinite space, Till arrived at the throne Of HIM who alone Is worthy of honor and glory and praise. 

 And it is ever thus--morn, noon and eve, And in the still midnight, undying Choirs of creation's minstrels weave Sweet symphony of incense, vying In wrapt intricacy of endless songs. Ever, oh ever thus they sing, But to our soul's dull ear belongs Seldom the trancing sense To list the universal worshiping, Thrill with the glorious theme, and drink its eloquence. 

 Mocking all our soul's desiring, Distant now the notes are stealing, And the minstrels high reining, Drapery blue their forms concealing. 

THE OCEAN-BURIED. 

COMPOSED, AND DEDICATED TO MISSES HARRIET AND MARY HALSEY, Of Blooming Grove, O. C. , N. Y. , BY MISS AGNES H. JONES. 

=Andantino Soave=. 

[Illustration: music]

 "Bury me not in the deep, deep sea. " The words came faint and mournfully, From the pallid lips of a youth who lay On the cabin couch where, [Illustration: music]

 day by day, He had wasted and pined, till o'er his brow The death shade had slowly pass'd, and now, When the land and his fond loved home were nigh, They had gath'rd around to see him die. 

 Let my death-slumber be where a mother's prayer And sister's tears can be blended there. Oh, it will be sweet ere the heart's throb is o'er, To know, when its fountain shall gush no more, That those it so fondly has yearn'd for will come, To plant the first wild-flower of spring on my tomb. Let me lie where lov'd ones can weep over me-- Bury me not in the deep, deep sea!

 And there is another, her tears would be shed For him who lays far in an ocean bed; In hours that it pains me to think of now, She has twin'd these locks and kiss'd this brow-- In this hair she has wreathed shall the sea-snake hiss? The brow she has press'd shall the cold wave kiss? For the sake of that bright one that wails for me, Bury me not in the deep, deep sea!

 "She hath been in my dreams"--his voice failed short, They gave no heed to his dying prayer. -- They have lowered him o'er the vessel's side-- Above him hath closed the solemn tide. Where to dip her wing the wild fowl rests-- Where the blue waves dance with their foamy crests-- Where the billows bound and the winds sport free, They have buried him there, in the deep, deep sea. 

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. 

 _Calaynos: A Tragedy. By George H. Boker, E. H. Butler & Co. Philadelphia, pp. 218. _

The spirit of English poetry has been for years eminently lyric; thefew attempts at the epic or dramatic having been laid aside, if notpermanently, at least for a time. The age has been too busy in workingout, with machinery and steam, its own great epic thought, to findleisure to listen to any thing longer than a single bugle-blastencouraging its advancement. We cannot but believe, however, if we maybe allowed an analogical inference, that the age is fast approachingthe climax of its utilitarian inventions, and that man, instead ofchasing through unknown regions every will-o-wisp of his brain, in thehope of bringing it a captive to the Patent-office, will sit modestlydown to apply to their various uses the discoveries already made. Thenwill the healthy feast of literature once more begin, and the publiccease to be surfeited by the watery hash which has been daily setsteaming before them. In the volume under consideration we think wecan discern the promise of the return of the good old spirit ofEnglish poetry--of solid honest thought expressed in straight forwardSaxon. The story, which is one of the chivalrous days of Spain, whileit is devoid of trick is full of thrilling interest, and its style, while it is eminently poetical, neither swells into bombast nordescends to the foppery so common among the verse-makers of our day. There is a stately, old-fashioned tread in the diction, as of a man inarmor, who, should he attempt to gather flowers of mere prettiness, would crush them at the first touch of his iron gauntlet, and who, ifhe seems to move ungracefully at times, owes his motion to his weightof mail. Calaynos, the hero, is in every respect a nobleman, not onlyin blood, but what is better, in mind. He is a scholar, one who, inthe words of Dona Alda his wife, --uses time as usurers do their gold, Making each moment pay him double interest. 

He is a philosopher--

 Things nigh impossible are plain to him; His trenchant will, like a fine-tempered blade, With unturned edge, cleaves through the baser iron. 

He is generous and has

 --a predetermined trust in man;

and holds that

 He who hates man must scorn the Source of man, And challenge as unwise his awful Maker. 

The character of Dona Alda is noble and womanly--her chief trait beingher great pride and jealous care of her honor. She conceives that noone will brave the

 --peril, such as he must brook, Who dares to love the wife of great Calaynos. 

Her maid, Martina, tells her that

 --Queens of Spain Have had their paramours--

and she replies, --So might it be, _Yet never hap to bride of a Calaynos_!

Don Luis, the villain of the plot, thus paints his own picture:

 --I was not formed for good: To what Fate orders I must needs submit: The sin not mine, but His who made me thus-- Not in my will but in my nature lodged. 

 * * * * *

 I will grasp the stable goods of life, Nor care how foul the hand that does the deed. 

Martina is admirably drawn; her wit is excellent, and as exhaustlessas it is keen. She says of Calaynos--

 He looks on pleasure as a kind of sin, Calls pastime waste-time----

 * * * * *

 I heard a man, who spent a mortal life In hoarding up all kinds of stones and ores, Call one, who spitted flies upon a pin, A fool to pass his precious lifetime thus. 

She says of Oliver, Calayno's secretary, Yes, there he goes-- Backward and forward, like a weaver's shuttle, Spinning some web of wisdom most divine. 

She addresses him thus--

 Our clay, the preachers say, was warmed to life; But yours, your dull, cold mud, was froze to being. _I would not be the oyster that you are For all the pearls of wisdom in your shell!_

All the persons of the play are vivid and life-like. With thebeginning of the third act the interest becomes intense, and nothingcould be more vigorous and touching than the action and depth ofpathos toward the close of the piece. Every page teems with finethoughts and images, which lead us to believe that the mine from whichthis book is a specimen, contains a golden vein of poetry which willgo far to enrich our native literature. 

 _Literary Sketches and Letters: Being the Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, Never before Published. By Thomas Noon Talfourd. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _

The present work is important in more respects than one. It was neededto clear up the obscurity which rested on several points of Lamb'slife, and it was needed to account for some of the peculiarities ofhis character. The volume proves that this most genial and kindly ofhumorists was tried by as severe a calamity as ever broke down theenergies of a great spirit, and the frailties commonly associated withhis name seem almost as nothing compared with the stern duties heperformed from his early manhood to his death. The present volume iscalculated to increase that personal sympathy and love for him, whichhas ever distinguished the readers of Lamb from the readers of otherauthors, and also to add a sentiment of profound respect for hisvirtues and his fortitude. The truth is that Lamb's intellect was oneof the largest and strongest, as well as one of the finest, among thegreat contemporary authors of his time, and it was altogether owing tocircumstances, and those of a peculiarly calamitous character, thatthis ample mind left but inadequate testimonials of its power andfertility. He is, and probably will be, chiefly known as an originaland somewhat whimsical essayist, but his essays, inimitable of theirkind, were but the playthings of his intellect. 

Talfourd has performed his editorial duties with his usual taste andjudgment, and with all that sweetness and grace of expression whichever distinguishes the author of Ion. His sketches of Lamb'scompanions are additions to the literary history of the presentcentury. Lamb's own letters, which constitute the peculiar charm ofthe book, are admirable--the serious ones being vivid transcripts ofhis moods of mind, and some of them almost painful in their directexpression of agony, and the semi-serious rioting in mirth, mischiefand whim, full of wit and meaning, and full also of character andkindliness. One of his early letters he closes, as being from hiscorrespondent's "afflicted, headachey, sore-throatey, humble servant. "In another he calls Hoole's translation of Tasso "more vapid thansmallest small beer, 'sun-vinegared. '" In speaking of Hazlitt'sintention to print a political pamphlet at his own expense, he comesout with a general maxim, which has found many disciples: "The firstduty of an author, I take it, is never to pay any thing. " When HannahMore's Coelebs in Search of a Wife appeared, it was lent to him by aprecise lady to read. He thought it among the poorest of commonnovels, and returned it with this stanza written in the beginning:

 If ever I marry a wife I'd marry a landlord's daughter, For then I may sit in the bar, And drink cold brandy-and-water. 

In speaking of his troubles toward the close of his life, he has astrange, humorous imagination, in every way worthy of his peculiargenius: "My bedfellows are cough and cramp; _we sleep three in abed_. "

The present volume is elegantly printed, and will doubtless have arun. It is full of matter, and that of the most interesting kind. Noreader of Lamb, especially, will be without it. 

 _Modern French Literature. By L. Raymond de Vericour. Edited by W. S. Chase, A. M. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo. _

This work is the English production of a native Frenchman, and waswritten for one of Chambers's series of books for the people. It isedited, with notes alluding particularly to writers prominent in thelate French Revolution, by a young American scholar, who has recentlyresided in France. The book, though deficient and sometimes incorrectin details, deserves much praise for its general correctness andaccuracy. The author, though by no means a critic of the first class, is altogether above the herd of Grub street hacks who commonlyundertake the popularizing of literary history. He is no Winstansleyand no Cibber. The range of his reading appears to be extensive. Hisjudgments are somewhat those of a school-master, but one of thehighest grade. There are several amusing errors relating to theposition of English authors, to some of which we cannot help alluding, as they seem to have escaped the vigilant eye of the editor. Speakingof Guizot and Sismondi as the leaders of the school of Frenchphilosophical historians, he remarks that "the English languagepossesses some good specimens of this class of history; the mostremarkable are Gibbon's Decline and Fall and the works of Mr. Millar. "This is as if the author had said that England possessed some goodspecimens of the Romantic Drama, the most remarkable beingShakspeare's Macbeth and the works of Mr. Colman. 

Again, in speaking of the novels of Paul de Kock, and protestingagainst those English critics who call him the first writer of histime and country, he says that it is as ridiculous as it would be inFrenchmen to exalt the novels of Charles Dickens above Ivanhoe, _Philip Augustus_ and Eugene Aram, The idea of a Frenchman thinking ita paradox to rank Dickens above James, or even Bulwer, shows howdifficult it is for a foreigner, especially a Frenchman, to passbeyond the external form of English literature. 

The author deserves the praise of being a sensible man, in the Englishmeaning of the phrase. There is one sentence in his introductorywhich proves that his mind has escaped one besetting sin of the Frenchintellect, which has prevented its successful cultivation of politicsas a practical science. In speaking of the histories of Thiers andMignet, he says that they "have hatched a swarm of _Jeunes Prances_, vociferating in their wild aberrations, emphatic eulogies on Marat, Coulhon and Robespierre, and breathing a love of blood anddestruction, which they call the progressive march of events. "

 _Rise and Fall of Louis Philippe, Ex-King of the French, Giving a History of the French Revolution from, its Commencement in 1789. By Benj. Perley Poore, Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _

Of all the publications we have seen relating to Louis Philippe thisis the most complete and the most agreeable. The author, from his longresidence in Paris, and from his position as Historical Agent of theState of Massachusetts, was enabled to collect a large mass of matterrelating to French history, and also to learn a great deal respectingthe Orleans dynasty, which would not naturally find its way intoprint. The present volume, though it has little in relation to thefirst French Revolution not generally known by students, embodies alarge number of important facts respecting Louis Philippe, which webelieve are now published for the first time. The biography itself hasthe interest of a romance, for few heroes of novels ever were, inimagination, subjected to the changes of fortune which Louisencountered in reality. Mr. Poore's view of his character is not moreflattering than that which commonly obtains--on both sides of theAtlantic. To sustain this disparaging opinion of his subject, however, he is compelled to suppose policy and hypocrisy as the springs of manyactions which a reasonable charity would pronounce virtuous andhumane. It must be conceded that the conduct of the king during thelast few days of his reign was feeble, if not cowardly, but hisuniform character in other periods of his life was that of a manpossessing singular readiness and coolness in times of peril, andencountering obstacles with a courage as serene as it was adventurous. 

 _The Tenant of Wildfield Hall. By Acton Bell, Author of Wurthuring Heights.. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo. _

The appearance of this novel, so soon after the publication ofWurthuring Heights, is an indication of Mr. Bell's intention to be afrequent visiter, or visitation, of the public. We are afraid that thepersonages he introduces to his readers will consist chiefly of oneclass of mankind, and this class not the most pleasing. He is amonomaniac on the subject of man's rascality and brutality, and crowdshis page with forcible delineations of offensive characters anddisgusting events. The power he displays is of a high but limitedorder, and is exercised chiefly to make his readers uncomfortable. Tobe sure the present novel is not so bad as Wurthuring Heights in thematter of animal ferocity and impish diabolism; but still most of thecharacters, to use a quaint illustration of an eccentric divine, "areengaged in laying up for themselves considerable grants of land in thebottomless pit, " and brutality, blasphemy and cruelty constitute theirstock in trade. The author is not so much a delineator of human lifeas of inhuman life. There are doubtless many scenes in The Tenant ofWildfield Hall drawn with great force and pictorial truth, and whichfreeze the blood and "shiver along the arteries;" but we think thatthe author's process in conceiving character is rather logical thanimaginative, and consequently that he deals too much in unmixedmalignity and selfishness. The present novel, with all its peculiarmerits, lacks all those elements of interest which come from thegenerous and gentle affections. His champagne enlivens, but there isarsenic in it. 

 _Brothers and Sisters. By Frederika Bremer. Translated by Mary Howitt. New York: Harper & Brothers. _

This is by no means one of Miss Bremer's best productions, but it isnot on that account a commonplace production. The pathos, thecheerfulness, the elevation, the sweet humane home-feeling of theSwedish novelist, are here in much of their old power, with theaddition of universal philanthropy and the rights of labor. But wefear that the original vein of our authoress is exhausted, and thatshe is now repealing herself. It is a great mistake to suppose that anew story, new names of characters, additional sentiments nicelypacked in new sentences, make a new novel, when the whole tone andspirit of the production continually reminds the reader of theauthors previous efforts. It is no depreciation of Miss Bremer'sreally fine powers to assert, that she lacks the creative energy ofScott, or the ever active fancy and various observation of Dickens. 

 _Grantley Manor. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _

This is altogether one of the finest novels which have appeared formany years. It is written with much beauty of style; evinces acreative as well as cultivated mind, and contains a variety ofcharacters which are not only interesting in themselves, but have anecessary connection with the plot and purpose. The mind of the authorhas that combination of shrewdness and romantic fervor, of sense andpassion, so necessary to every novelist who desires to idealizewithout contradicting the experience of common life. 

EDITOR'S TABLE. 

To the readers of "Graham. "--A series of misfortunes having bereft meof any proprietory interest in this Magazine, the present publishershave made a liberal arrangement with me, and for the future, theeditorial and pictorial departments of Graham's Magazine will be underthe charge of Joseph R. Chandler, Esq. , J. Bayard Taylor, Esq. , andmyself. 

It is due to the subscribers to "Graham" from me, to state, that fromthe first hour I took charge of it, the warmest support andencouragement were given me, and from two not very profitablemagazines "Graham" sprung at once into boundless popularity andcirculation. Money, as every subscriber knows, was freely expendedupon it, and an energy untiring and sleepless was devoted to itsbusiness management, and had I not, in an evil hour, forgotten my owntrue interests, and devoted that capital and industry to anotherbusiness which should have been confined exclusively to the magazine, I should to-day have been under no necessity--not even of writing thisnotice. 

I come back to my first love with an ardor undiminished, and an energynot enervated, with high hopes and very bold purposes. What can bedone in the next three years, time, that great solver of doubts, musttell. What a daring enterprize in business can do, I have alreadyshown in Graham's Magazine and the North American--and, alas! I havealso shown what folly can do, when business is forgotten--but I canyet show the world that he who started life a poor boy, with but eightdollars in his pocket, and has run such a career as mine, is hard tobe put down by the calumnies or ingratitude of any. Feeling, therefore, that having lost one battle, "there is time enough to winanother, " I enter upon the work of the "redemption of Graham, " withthe very confident purposes of a man who never doubted his ability tosucceed, and who asks no odds in a fair encounter. 

 GEO. R. GRAHAM. 

An Acquisition. --Our readers will share in the pleasure with which itis announced, that JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, Esq. , the accomplished writer, and former editor of "_The United States Gazette_, " will hereafter be"_one of us_" in the editorial management of Graham's Magazine. Thereare few writers in the language who equal, and none excel Mr. Chandlerin graceful and pathetic composition. His sketches live in the heartsof readers, while they are heart-histories recognized by thousands inevery part of the laud. An article from Mr. Chandler's pen may belooked for in every number, and this will cause each number to belooked for anxiously. 

Editors Looking Up. --It is expected that an early number of "Graham"will be graced with a portrait of our distinguished rival of the"Lady's Book, " that gentleman having "in the handsomest manner, " asthey say in theatricals, sat for a picture of his goodly countenanceand proportions. At our command this has been transferred to steel, tobe handed over to the readers of "Graham, " by Armstrong, an artistwhose ability is a fair warrant for a fine picture. Now if any of ourfair readers fall in love with Godey, we shall take it as a formalslight, and shall insist upon having our face _run_ through an editionof a magazine, to be gazed at and loved by thousands of as finelooking people as can be crowded upon a subscription book. 

W. E. TUCKER, ESQ. --We are very much gratified to be able to state, that an arrangement has been made by the proprietors of "Graham" withMr. W. E. Tucker, whose exquisite title-pages and other gems in theway of engraving are familiar to our readers, and that _for the year1849, he engraves exclusively for Graham's Magazine_. 

This is but the beginning of arrangements proposed to revive theoriginal splendor of the pictorial department of this magazine, whilethe literary arrangements are in the same style of liberality whichhas ever distinguished "Graham. " "There is a good time a-coming boys"in 1849. 

Sketches From Europe. --In the present absorbing state of affairsabroad, it will please our readers to know, that we have engaged anaccomplished writer to furnish sketches of European manners, eventsand society, such as escape the daily journals, for the pages of themagazine. These sketches will occasionally be illustrated withengravings of scenery and persons taken on the spot, and cannot failto add to the value of "Graham. "

Gems From Late Readings. --We shall introduce into the next number ofGraham a department which we think cannot fail to be of interest, byselections from authors which it is not possible for all the readersof Graham to have seen. Culling such passages as may strike us in ourreading as worthy of wide circulation and preservation.