INTERNATIONAL WEEKLY MISCELLANY

Of Literature, Art, and Science. 

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Vol. I. NEW YORK, AUGUST 5, 1850. No. 6. 

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GERMAN CRITICISM ON ENGLISH FEMALE ROMANCE WRITERS. 

We translate the following for the _International_ from a letter datedLondon, June 15, to the _Cologne Gazette_. 

"Among the most remarkable writers of romances in England, three womenare entitled to be reckoned in the first rank, namely, Miss Jewsbury, Miss Bronte, and Mrs. Gaskell. Miss Jewsbury issued her first workabout four years since, a novel, in three volumes, under the title of'Zoe, ' and since then she has published the 'Half Sisters. ' Both theseworks are excellent in manner as well as ideas, and show that theirauthor is a woman of profound thought and deep feeling. Both aredrawn from country life and the middle class, a sphere in which MissJewsbury is at home. The tendency of the first is speculative, andis based on religion; that of the second is social, relating to theposition of woman. 

"Miss Jewsbury is still young, for an authoress. She counts only somethirty years, and many productions may be confidently expected fromher hand, though perhaps none will excel those already published, for, after gaining a certain climax, no one excels himself. Herusual residence is Manchester; it is but seldom that she visits themetropolis; she is now here. She has lively and pleasing manners, aslight person, fine features, a beautiful, dreamy, light brown eye. She is attractive without being beautiful, retiring, altogetherwithout pretensions, and in conversation is neither brilliant nor veryintellectual, --a still, thoughtful, modest character. 

"Miss Bronte was long involved in a mysterious obscurity, from whichshe first emerged into the light as an actually existing being, at herpresent visit to London. Two years ago there appeared a romance, 'JaneEyre, ' by 'Currer Bell, ' which threw all England into astonishment. Everybody was tormenting himself to discover the real author, forthere was no such person as Currer Bell, and no one could tellwhether the book was written by a man or woman, because the hues ofthe romance now indicated a male and now female hand, without anypossibility of supposing that the whole originated with a singlepencil. The public attributed it now to one, now to another, and thebook passed to a second edition without the solution of the riddle. At last there came out a second romance, 'Shirley, ' by the sameauthor, which was devoured with equal avidity, although it couldnot be compared to the former in value; and still the incognito waspreserved. Finally, late in the autumn of last year the report wasspread about that the image of Jane Eyre had been discovered in Londonin the person of a pale young lady, with gray eyes, who had beenrecognized as the long-sought authoress. Still she remained invisible. And again, in June 1850, it is said that Currer Bell, Jane Eyre, MissBronte, --for all three names mean the same person, --is in London, though to all inquiries concerning the where and how a satisfactoryanswer is still wanting. She is now indeed here, but not for thecurious public; she will not serve society as a lioness, will not begazed and gaped at. She is a simple child of the country, brought upin the little parsonage of her father, in the North of England, andmust first accustom her eye to the gleaming diadem with which fameseeks to deck her brow, before she can feel herself at home in her ownsunshine. 

"Our third lady, Mrs. Gaskell, belongs also to the country, and isthe wife of a Unitarian clergyman. In this capacity she has probablyhad occasion to know a great deal of the poorer classes, to her honorbe it said. Her book, 'Mary Barton, ' conducts us into the factoryworkman's narrow dwelling, and depicts his joys and sorrows, hisaims and efforts, his wants and his misery, with a power of truththat irresistibly lays hold upon the heart. The scene of the storyalternates from there to the city mansion of the factory owner, where, along with luxury and splendor we find little love and littlehappiness, and where sympathy with the condition of the workman iswanting only because it is not known, and because no one understandswhy or how the workman suffers. The book, is at once very beautiful, very instructive, and written, in a spirit of conciliation. "

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MARGARET FULLER, MARCHESA D'OSSOLI. 

Sarah Margaret Fuller, by marriage Marchioness of Ossoli, was bornin Cambridge, Massachusetts, about the year 1807. Her father, Mr. Timothy Fuller, was a lawyer, and from 1817 to 1825 he representedthe Middlesex district in Congress. At the close of his last term asa legislator he purchased a farm near Cambridge, and determined toabandon his profession for the more congenial one of agriculture; buthe died soon after, leaving a widow and six children, of whom Margaretwas the eldest. 

At a very early age she exhibited unusual abilities, and wasparticularly distinguished for an extraordinary facility in acquiringlanguages. Her father, proud of the displays of her intelligence, prematurely stimulated it to a degree that was ultimately injurious toher physical constitution. At eight years of age he was accustomed torequire of her the composition of a number of Latin verses every day, while her studies in philosophy, history, general science and currentliterature were pressed to the limit of her capacities. When he firstwent to Washington he was accustomed to speak of her as one "betterskilled in Greek and Latin than half of the professors;" and alludingin one of her essays, to her attachment to foreign literature, sheherself observes that in childhood she had well-nigh forgotten herEnglish while constantly reading in other tongues. 

Soon after the death of her father, she applied herself to teachingas a vocation, first in Boston, then in Providence, and afterwardin Boston again, while her "Conversations" were for several seasonsattended by classes of women, some of them married, and many of themof the most eminent positions in society. These conversations aredescribed by Dr. Orestes A. Brownson, as "in the highest degreebrilliant, instructive, and inspiring, " and our own recollections ofthem confirm to us the justice of the applause with which they arenow referred to. She made her first appearance as an author, in atranslation of Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe, published inBoston in 1839. When Mr. Emerson, in the following year, established_The Dial_, she became one of the principal contributors to thatremarkable periodical, in which she wrote many of the most strikingpapers on literature, art, and society. In the summer of 1843 she madea journey to the Sault St. Marie, and in the next spring publishedin Boston reminiscences of her tour, under the title of Summer on theLakes. _The Dial_ having been discontinued, she came to reside in NewYork, where she had charge of the literary department of the New York_Tribune_, which acquired a great accession of reputation from hercritical essays. Here in 1845 she published Woman in the NineteenthCentury; and in 1846, Papers on Literature and Art, in two volumes, consisting of essays and reviews, reprinted, with one exception, fromperiodicals. 

In the summer of 1845, she accompanied the family of a friend toEurope, visiting England, Scotland, and France, and passing throughItaly to Rome, where they spent the ensuing winter. The next springshe proceeded with her friends to the north of Italy, and therestopped, spending most of the summer at Florence, and returning atthe approach of winter to Rome, where she was soon after married toGiovanni, Marquis d'Ossoli, who made her acquaintance during her firstwinter in that city. They resided in the Roman States until the lastsummer, after the surrender of Rome to the French army, when theydeemed it expedient to go to Florence, both having taken an activepart in the Republican movement. They left Florence in June, andat Leghorn embarked in the ship Elizabeth for New York. The passagecommenced auspiciously, but at Gibraltar the master of the ship diedof smallpox, and they were detained at the quarantine there some timein consequence of this misfortune, but finally set sail again on the8th of June, and arrived on our coast during the terrible storm ofthe 18th and 19th ult. , when, in the midst of darkness, rain, and aterrific gale, the ship was hurled on the breakers of Fire Island, near Long Island, and in a few hours was broken in pieces. MargaretFuller d'Ossoli, the Marquis d'Ossoli, and their son, two years ofage, with an Italian girl, and Mr. Horace Sumner of Boston, besidesseveral of the crew, lost their lives. We reprint a sketch of theworks and genius of Margaret Fuller, written several years ago by thelate Edgar A. Poe. 

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"Miss Fuller was at one time editor, or one of the editors of the'The Dial, ' to which she contributed many of the most forcible andcertainly some of the most peculiar papers. She is known, too, by'Summer on the Lakes, ' a remarkable assemblage of sketches, issuedin 1844, by Little & Brown, of Boston. More lately she published'Woman in the Nineteenth Century, ' a work which has occasioned muchdiscussion, having had the good fortune to be warmly abused andchivalrously defended. For '_The New York Tribune_, ' she has furnisheda great variety of matter, chiefly notices of new books, etc. , etc. , her articles being designated by an asterisk. Two of the best of themwere a review of Professor Longfellow's late magnificent editionof his own works, (with a portrait, ) and an appeal to the publicin behalf of her friend Harro Harring. The review did her infinitecredit; it was frank, candid, independent--in even ludicrous contrastto the usual mere glorifications of the day, giving honor _only_ wherehonor was due, yet evincing the most thorough capacity to appreciateand the most sincere intention to place in the fairest light the realand idiosyncratic merits of the poet. In my opinion it is one of thevery few reviews of Longfellow's poems, ever published in America, of which the critics have not had abundant reason to be ashamed. Mr. Longfellow is entitled to a certain and very distinguished rank amongthe poets of his country, but that country is disgraced by the evidenttoadyism which would award to his social position and influence, tohis fine paper and large type, to his morocco binding and gilt edges, to his flattering portrait of himself, and to the illustrations of hispoems by Huntingdon, that amount of indiscriminate approbation whichneither could nor would have been given to the poems themselves. Thedefense of Harro Harring, or rather the philippic against those whowere doing him wrong, was one of the most eloquent and well-_put_articles I have ever yet seen in a newspaper. 

"'Woman in the Nineteenth Century' is a book which few women in thecountry could have written, and no woman in the country wouldhave published, with the exception of Miss Fuller. In the way ofindependence, of unmitigated radicalism, it is one of the 'Curiositiesof American Literature, ' and Doctor Griswold should include it inhis book. I need scarcely say that the essay is nervous, forcible, suggestive, brilliant, and to a certain extent scholar-like--forall that Miss Fuller produces is entitled to these epithets--but Imust say that the conclusions reached are only in part my own. Notthat they are bold, by any means--too novel, too startling or toodangerous in their consequences, but that in their attainment too manypremises have been distorted, and too many analogical inferences leftaltogether out of sight. I mean to say that the intention of the Deityas regards sexual differences--an intention which can be distinctlycomprehended only by throwing the exterior (more sensitive) portionsof the mental retina _casually_ over the wide field of universal_analogy_--I mean to say that this _intention_ has not beensufficiently considered. Miss Fuller has erred, too, through her ownexcessive objectiveness. She judges _woman_ by the heart and intellectof Miss Fuller, but there are not more than one or two dozen MissFullers on the whole face of the earth. Holding these opinions inregard to 'Woman in the Nineteenth Century, ' I still feel myselfcalled upon to disavow the silly, condemnatory criticism of thework which appeared in one of the earlier numbers of "_The BroadwayJournal_. " That article was _not_ written by myself, and _was_ writtenby my associate, Mr. Briggs. 

"The most favorable estimate of Miss Fuller's genius (for high geniusshe unquestionably possesses) is to be obtained, perhaps, from hercontributions to 'The Dial, ' and from her 'Summer on the Lakes. ' Manyof the _descriptions_ in this volume are unrivaled for _graphicality_, (why is there not such a word?) for the force with which they conveythe true by the novel or unexpected, by the introduction of toucheswhich other artists would be sure to omit as irrelevant to thesubject. This faculty, too, springs from her subjectiveness, whichleads her to paint a scene less by its features than by its effects. 

"Here, for example, is a portion of her account of Niagara:--

 "'Daily these proportions widened and towered more and more upon my sight, and I got at last a proper foreground for these sublime distances. Before coming away, I think I really saw the full wonder of the scene. After a while it _so drew me into itself as to inspire an undefined dread, such as I never knew before, such as may be felt when death is about to usher us into a new existence_. The perpetual trampling of the waters seized my senses. _I felt that no other sound, however near, could be heard, and would start and look behind me for a foe_. I realised the identity of that mood of nature in which these waters were poured down with such absorbing force, with that in which the Indian was shaped on the same soil. For continually upon my mind came, unsought and unwelcome, _images such as had never haunted it before, of naked savages stealing behind me with uplifted tomahawks_. Again and again this illusion recurred, and even _after I had thought it over, and tried to shake it off, I could not help starting and looking behind me_. What I liked best was to sit on Table Rock close to the great fall; _there all power of observing details, all separate consciousness was quite lost_. '

"The truthfulness of the passages italicized will be felt by all; thefeelings described are, perhaps, experienced by every (imaginative)person who visits the fall; but most persons, through predominantsubjectiveness, would scarcely be conscious of the feelings, or, atbest, would never think of employing them in an attempt to convey toothers an impression of the scene. Hence so many desperate failures toconvey it on the part of ordinary tourists. Mr. William W. Lord, to besure, in his poem 'Niagara, ' is sufficiently objective; he describesnot the fall, but very properly, the effect of the fall upon _him_. He says that it made him think of his _own_ greatness, of his _own_superiority, and so forth, and so forth; and it is only when wecome to think that the thought of Mr. Lord's greatness is quiteidiosyncratic confined exclusively to Mr. Lord, that we are incondition to understand how, in spite of his objectiveness he hasfailed to convey an idea of anything beyond one Mr. William W. Lord. 

"From the essay entitled 'Philip Van Artevelde, I copy a paragraphwhich will serve at once to exemplify Miss Fuller's more earnest(declamatory) style, and to show the tenor of her prospectivespeculations:--

 "'At Chicago I read again 'Philip Van Artevelde, ' and certain passages in it will always be in my mind associated with the deep sound of the lake, as heard in the night. I used to read a short time at night, and then open the blind to look out. The moon would be full upon the lake, and the calm breath, pure light, and the deep voice, harmonized well with the thought of the Flemish hero. When will this country have such a man? It is what she needs--no thin Idealist, no coarse Realist, but a man whose eye reads the heavens while his feet step firmly on the ground, and his hands are strong and dexterous in the use of human instruments. A man, religious, virtuous, and--sagacious; a man of universal sympathies, but self-possessed; a man who knows the region of emotion, though he is not its slave; a man to whom this world is no mere spectacle or fleeting shadow, but a great, solemn game, to be played with good heed, for its stakes are of eternal value, yet who, if his own play be true, heeds not what he loses by the falsehood of others. A man who lives from the past, yet knows that its honey can but moderately avail him; whose comprehensive eye scans the present, neither infatuated by its golden lures nor chilled by its many ventures; who possesses prescience, as the wise man must, but not so far as to be driven mad to-day by the gift which discerns to-morrow. When there is such a man for America, the thought which urges her on will be expressed. "

"From what I have quoted, a _general_ conception of the prose styleof the authoress may be gathered. Her manner, however, is infinitelyvaried. It is always forcible--but I am not sure that it is alwaysanything else, unless I say picturesque. It rather indicates thanevinces scholarship. Perhaps only the scholastic, or, more properly, those accustomed to look narrowly at the structure of phrases, wouldbe willing to acquit her of ignorance of grammar--would be willingto attribute her slovenliness to disregard of the shell in anxietyfor the kernel; or to waywardness, or to affectation, or to blindreverence to Carlyle--would be able to detect, in her strange andcontinual inaccuracies, a capacity for the accurate. 

 "'I cannot sympathize with such an apprehension; the spectacle is _capable to_ swallow _up_ all such objects. "

 "It is fearful, too, to know, as you look, that whatever has been swallowed by the cataract, is _like_ to rise suddenly to light. "

 "I took our _mutual_ friends to see her. "

 "It was always obvious that they had nothing in common _between them_. "

 "The Indian cannot be looked at truly _except_ by a poetic eye. "

 "McKenny's Tour to the Lakes gives some facts not to be met _with_ elsewhere. "

 "There is that mixture of culture and rudeness in the aspect of things _as_ gives a feeling of freedom, " etc. , etc. 

"These are merely a few, a very few instances, taken at random fromamong a multitude of _willful_ murders committed by Miss Fuller onthe American of President Polk. She uses, too, the word 'ignore, ' avulgarity adopted only of late days (and to no good purpose, sincethere is no necessity for it) from the barbarisms of the law, andmakes no scruple of giving the Yankee interpretation to the verbs'witness' and 'realize, ' to say nothing of 'use, ' as in the sentence, 'I used to read a short time at night. ' It will not do to say indefense of such words, that in such senses they may be found incertain dictionaries--in that of Bolles', for instance;--_some_ kindof 'authority' may be found for _any_ kind of vulgarity under the sun. 

"In spite of these things, however and of her frequent unjustifiableCarlyleisms, (such as that of writing sentences which are nosentences, since, to be parsed, reference must be had to sentencespreceding, ) the style of Miss Fuller is one of the very best withwhich I am acquainted. In general effect, I know no style whichsurpasses it. It is singularly piquant, vivid, terse, bold, luminous--leaving details out of sight, it is everything that a styleneed be. 

"I believe that Miss Fuller has written much poetry, although she haspublished little. That little is tainted with the affectation of the_transcendentalists_, (I used this term, of course, in the sense whichthe public of late days seem resolved to give it, ) but is brimful ofthe poetic _sentiment_. Here, for example, is something in Coleridge'smanner, of which the author of 'Genevieve' might have had no reason tobe ashamed:--

 A maiden sat beneath a tree; Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be, And she sighed heavily. 

 From forth the wood into the _light_ A hunter strides with carol _light_ And a glance so bold and bright. 

 He careless stopped and eyed the maid; 'Why weepest thou?' he gently said; 'I love thee well, be not afraid. '

 He takes her hand and leads her on-- She should have waited there alone, For he was not her chosen one. 

 He _leans_ her head upon his breast-- She knew 'twas not her home of rest, But, ah! she had been sore distrest. 

 The sacred stars looked sadly down; The parting moon appeared to frown, To see thus dimmed the diamond crown. 

 Then from the thicket starts a deer-- The huntsman seizing _on_ his spear Cries, 'Maiden, wait thou for me here. '

 She sees him vanish into night-- She starts from sleep in deep affright, For it was not her own true knight. 

 Though but in dream Gunhilda failed-- Though but a fancied ill assailed-- Though she but fancied fault bewailed--

 Yet thought of day makes dream of night; She is not worthy of the knight; The inmost altar burns not bright. 

 If loneliness thou canst not bear-- Cannot the dragon's venom dare-- Of the pure meed thou shouldst despair. 

 Now sadder that lone maiden sighs; Far bitterer tears profane her eyes; Crushed in the dust her heart's flower lies. '

"To show the evident carelessness with which this poem wasconstructed, I have italicized an identical rhyme (of about the sameforce in versification as an identical proposition in logic) and twogrammatical improprieties. _To lean_ is a neuter verb, and 'seizing_on_' is not properly to be called a pleonasm, merely because itis--nothing at all. The concluding line is difficult of pronunciationthrough excess of consonants. I should have preferred, indeed, theante-penultimate tristich as the _finale_ of the poem. 

"The supposition that the book of an author is a thing apart from theauthor's self, is, I think, ill-founded. The soul is a cipher, in thesense of a cryptograph; and the shorter a cryptograph is, the moredifficulty there is in its comprehension--at a certain point ofbrevity it would bid defiance to an army of Champollions. And thushe who has written very little, may in that little either conceal hisspirit or convey quite an erroneous idea of it--of his acquirements, talents, temper, manner, tenor and depth (or shallowness) ofthought--in a word of his character, of himself. But this isimpossible with him who has written much. Of such a person we get, from his books, not merely a just, but the most just representation. Bulwer, the individual, personal man, in a green velvet waistcoat andamber gloves, is not by any means the veritable Sir Edward Lytton, who is discoverable only in 'Ernest Maltravers, ' where his soul isdeliberately and nakedly set forth. And who would ever know Dickens bylooking at him or talking with him, or doing anything with him exceptreading his 'Curiosity Shop?' What poet, in especial, but must feelat least the better portion of himself more fairly represented in evenhis commonest sonnet, (earnestly written, ) than in his most elaborateor most intimate personalities?

"I put all this as a general proposition, to which Miss Fuller affordsa marked exception--to this extent, that her personal character andher printed book are merely one and the same thing. We get accessto her soul _as_ directly from the one as from the other--no _more_readily from this than from that--easily from either. Her acts arebookish, and her books are less thoughts than acts. Her literary andher conversational manner are identical. Here is a passage from her'Summer on the Lakes:'--

 "'The rapids enchanted me far beyond what I expected; they are so swift that they cease to _seem_ so--you can think only of their _beauty_. The fountain beyond the Moss Islands I discovered for myself, and thought it for some time an _accidental_ beauty which it would not do to _leave_, lest I might never see it again. After I found it _permanent_, I returned many times to watch the play of its crest. In the little waterfall, beyond, Nature seems, as she often does, to have made a _study_ for some larger design. She delights in this--a sketch within a sketch--a dream within _a dream_. Wherever we see it, the lines of the great buttress in the fragment of stone, the hues of the waterfall, copied in the flowers that _star_ its bordering mosses, we are _delighted_; for all the lineaments become _fluent_, and we mould the scene in congenial thought with its _genius_. '

"Now all this is precisely as Miss Fuller would _speak_ it. She isperpetually saying just such things in just such words. To get the_conversational_ woman in the mind's eye, all that is needed is toimagine her reciting the paragraph just quoted: but first let us havethe _personal_ woman. She is of the medium height; nothing remarkableabout the figure; a profusion of lustrous light hair; eyes a bluishgray, full of fire; capacious forehead; the mouth when in reposeindicates profound sensibility, capacity for affection, for love--whenmoved by a slight smile, it becomes even beautiful in the intensityof this expression; but the upper lip, as if impelled by the actionof involuntary muscles, habitually uplifts itself, conveying theimpression of a sneer. Imagine, now, a person of this descriptionlooking at you one moment earnestly in the face, at the next seemingto look only within her own spirit or at the wall; moving nervouslyevery now and then in her chair; speaking in a high key, butmusically, deliberately, (not hurriedly or loudly, ) with a deliciousdistinctness of enunciation--speaking, I say, the paragraph inquestion, and emphasizing the words which I have italicized, not byimpulsion of the breath, (as is usual) but by drawing them out as longas possible, nearly closing her eyes, the while--imagine all this, andwe have both the woman and the authoress before us. "

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[FROM THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE. ]

ON THE DEATH OF S. MARGARET FULLER. 

BY G. F. R. JAMES

 High hopes and bright thine early path bedecked, And aspirations beautiful, though wild, A heart too strong, a powerful will unchecked, A dream that earth-things could be undefiled. 

 But soon, around thee, grew a golden chain, That bound the woman to more human things, And taught with joy--and, it may be, with pain-- That there are limits e'en to Spirits' wings. 

 Husband and child--the loving and beloved-- Won, from the vast of thought, a mortal part, The empassioned wife and mother, yielding, proved Mind has, itself, a master--in the heart. 

 In distant lands enhaloed by old fame Thou found'st the only chain the spirit knew, But, captive, led'st thy captors from the shame Of ancient freedom, to the pride of new. 

 And loved hearts clung around thee on the deck, Welling with sunny hopes 'neath sunny skies; The wide horizon round thee had no speck; E'en Doubt herself could see no cloud arise. 

 The loved ones clung around thee, when the sail, O'er wide Atlantic billows, onward bore Thy freight of joys, and the expanding gale Pressed the glad bark toward thy native shore. 

 The loved ones clung around thee still, when all Was darkness, tempest, terror, and dismay-- More closely clung around thee, when the pall Of fate was falling o'er the mortal clay. 

 With them to live--with them, with them to die-- Sublime of human love intense and fine! Was thy last prayer unto the Deity, And it was granted thee by love divine. 

 In the same billow--in the same dark grave-- Mother, and child, and husband find their rest. The dream is ended; and the solemn wave Gives back the gifted to her country's breast. 

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An Illustration of the high prices paid to fortunate artists in thesetimes may be found in the fact that Alboni, the famous contraltosinger, has been engaged to sing at Madrid, at the enormous rate of$400 dollars per day, while Roger, the tenor, who used to sing at theComic Opera at Paris, and who was transplanted to the Grand Opera toassist in the production of Meyerbeer's "Prophet, " has been engagedto sing with her at the more moderate salary of $8000 a month. Thisis almost equal to the extravagant sum guaranteed to Jenny Lind forperforming in this country. It would be a curious inquiry why singersand dancers are always paid so much more exorbitantly than painters, sculptors or musical composers, especially as the pleasure theyconfer is of a merely evanescent character, while the works of thelatter remain a perpetual source of delight and refinement to allgenerations. 

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FRASER'S MAGAZINE UPON THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA. 

The last number of _Fraser's Magazine_ has a long article upon THEPOETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA, in which the subject is treated with morethan the customary civility of English criticism upon this subject. Weare half inclined, indeed, to believe the article was written "aboveBleecker, " or by an inhabitant of that quarter now in London. Omittingthe illustrative extracts, we copy the greater portion of the review, in which most of those who are admitted to be poets are characterized. 

"When Halleck said of New York--

 Our fourteen wards Contain some seven-and-thirty-bards, he rather understated than exaggerated the fact. Mr. Griswold, besidesthe ninety regular poets in his collection, gives an appendix of aboutseventy fugitive pieces by as many authors; and bitter complaintshave been made against him in various quarters for not includingsome seventy, or a hundred and seventy more, 'who, ' it is said, andprobably with truth, 'have as good a right to be there as many ofthose admitted. ' Still it is possible to pick out a few of generalreputation, whom literati from all parts of the Union would agreein sustaining as specimens of distinguished American poets, thoughthey would differ in assigning their relative position. Thus, if theRepublic had to choose a laureate, Boston would probably deposit anearly unanimous vote for Longfellow; the suffrages of New York mighthe divided between Bryant and Halleck; and the southern cities woulddoubtless give a large majority for Poe. But these gentlemen, andsome three or four more, would be acknowledged by all as occupyingthe first rank. Perhaps, on the whole, the preponderance of nativeauthority justifies us in heading the list with Bryant, who, at anyrate, has the additional title of seniority in authorship, if not inactual years. 

"William Cullen Bryant is, as we learn from Mr. Griswold, aboutfifty-five years old, and was born in Massachusetts, though hisliterary career is chiefly associated with New York, of which he isa resident. With a precocity extraordinary, even in a country whereprecocity is the rule instead of the exception, he began to write _andpublish_ at the age of thirteen, and has, therefore, been full fortyyears before the American public, and that not in the capacity ofpoet alone--having for more than half that period edited the _EveningPost_, one of the ablest and most respectable papers in the UnitedStates, and the oldest organ, we believe, of the Democratic party inNew York. He has been called, and with justice, a poet of nature. The prairie solitude, the summer evening landscape, the night wind ofautumn, the water-bird flitting homeward through the twilight--suchare the favorite subjects of inspiration. _Thanatopsis_, one ofhis most admired pieces, was written at the age of _eighteen_, andexhibits a finish of style, no less than a maturity of thought, veryremarkable for so youthful a production. Mr. Bryant's poems havebeen for some years pretty well known on this side the water, --betterknown, at any rate, than any other transatlantic verses; on whichaccount, being somewhat limited for space, we forbear to make anyextracts from them. 

"FITZ-GREENE HALLECK is also a New-Englander by birth and a New Yorkerby adoption. He is Bryant's contemporary and friend, but the spiritand style of his versification are very different; and so, it issaid, are his political affinities. While Bryant is a bulwark ofthe Democracy, Halleck is reported to be not only an admirer of theobsolete Federalists, but an avowed Monarchist. To be sure, this isonly his private reputation: no trace of such a feeling is observablein his writings, which show throughout a sturdy vein of republicanism, social and political. In truth, the party classification of Americanliterary men is apt to puzzle the uninitiated. Thus Washington Irvingis said to belong to the Democrats; but it would be hard to find inhis writings anything countenancing their claim upon him. His sketchesof English society are a panegyric of old institutions; and the fourthbook of his _Knickerbocker_ is throughout a palpable satire on theadministration of Thomas Jefferson, the great apostle of Democracy. Perhaps, however, he may since have changed his views. Willis, too, the 'Free Penciler, ' who has been half his life prating about lordsand ladies, and great people, and has become a sort of Jenkins tothe fashionable life of New York; he also is one of the Democraticparty. Peradventure he may vote the 'Locofoco ticket' in the hopeof propitiating _the boys_ (as the _canaille_ of American cities areproperly called), and saving his printing-office from the fate of theItalian Opera House in Astor Place. But what shall we say of Cooper, who, by his anti-democratic opinions, has made himself one of the mostunpopular men in his country, and whose recent political novels rivalthe writings of Judge Haliburton in the virulence as well as thecleverness of their satire upon Republican institutions? He, too, isa Democrat. To us, who are not behind the curtain, these things area mystery incapable of explanation. To return to our present subject. Halleck made his _début_ in the poetical world by some satiricalpieces called _The Croakers_, which created as much sensation at theirappearance as the anonymous _Salmagundi_ which commenced Irving'sliterary career. These were succeeded by _Fanny_, a poem in the_Don Juan_ metre. _Fanny_ has no particular plot or story, but is asatirical review of all the celebrities, literary, fashionable, andpolitical, of New York at that day (1821). And the satire was probablyvery good at the time and in the place; but, unfortunately for theextent and permanence of its reputation, most of these celebrities areutterly unknown, not merely beyond the limits of the Union, but beyondthose of New York. Among all the personages enumerated we can findbut two names that an European reader would be likely to know anythingabout, --Clinton and Van Buren. Nay, more, in the rapid growth andchange of things American, the present generation of New Yorkers arelikely to lose sight of the lions of their immediate progenitors; andunless some Manhattanese scholiast should write a commentary on thepoem in time, its allusions, and with them most of its wit, will bein danger of perishing entirely. What we _can_ judge of in _Fanny_ areone or two graceful lyrics interspersed in it, though even these aremarred by untimely comicality and local allusions. The nominal hero, while wandering about at night after the wreck of his fortunes, hearsa band playing outside a public place of entertainment. It must havebeen a better band than that which now, from the Museum opposite theAstor House, drives to frenzy the hapless stranger.... In Halleck'ssubsequent productions the influence of Campbell is more perceptiblethan that of Byron, and with manifest advantage. It may be said of hiscompositions, as it can be affirmed of few American verses, that theyhave a real innate harmony, something not dependent on the number ofsyllables in each line, or capable of being dissected out into feet, but growing in them, as it were, and created by the fine ear of thewriter. Their sentiments, too, are exalted and ennobling; eminentlygenial and honest, they stamp the author for a good man andtrue, --Nature's aristocracy.... For some unexplained reason Halleckhas not written, or at least not published, anything new for severalyears, though continually solicited to do so; for he is a greatfavorite with his countrymen, especially with the New Yorkers. Histime, however, has been by no means passed in idleness. Fashionableas writing is in America, it is not considered desirable or, indeed, altogether reputable, that the poet should be _only_ a poet. Halleckhas been in business most of his life; and was lately head-clerkof the wealthy merchant, John Jacob Astor, who left him a handsomeannuity. This was increased by Mr. Astor's son and heir, a man ofwell-known liberality; so that between the two there is a chanceof the poet's being enabled to 'meditate the tuneful Muse' for theremainder of his days free from all distractions of business. 

"LONGFELLOW, the pet poet of Boston, is a much younger man than eitherBryant or Halleck, and has made his reputation only within the lasttwelve years, during which time he has been one of the most notedlions of American Athens. The city of Boston, as every one knows whohas been there, or who has met with any book or man emanating fromit, claims to be the literary metropolis of the United States, andassumes the slightly-pretending _soubriquet_ just quoted. The AmericanAthenians have their thinking and writing done for them by a coteriewhose distinctive characteristics are Socinianism in theology, apræter-Puritan prudery in ethics, a German tendency in metaphysics, and throughout all a firm persuasion that Boston is the fountain-headof art, scholarship, and literature for the western world, andparticularly that New York is a Nazareth in such things, out of whichcan come nothing good. For the Bostonians, who certainly cultivateliterature with more general devotion, if not always with moreindividual success than the New Yorkers, can never forgive theircommercial neighbors for possessing by birth the two most eminentprose-writers of the country--Irving and Cooper; and by adoption, twoof the leading poets--Bryant and Halleck. Nor are the good people ofthe 'Empire State' slow to resent these exhibitions of small jealousy;but, on the contrary, as the way of the world is, they are apt toretort by greater absurdities. So shy are they of appearing to beguided by the dicta of their eastern friends, that to this day thereis scarcely man or woman on Manhattan Island who will confess aliking for Tennyson, Mrs. Barrett Browning, or Robert Browning, simplybecause these poets were taken up and patronized (metaphoricallyspeaking, of course, ) by the 'Mutual Admiration Society' of Boston. 

"The immediate influences of this _camaraderie_ are highly flatteringand apparently beneficial to the subject of them, but its ultimateeffects are most injurious to the proper development of his powers. When the merest trifles that a man throws off are inordinatelypraised, he soon becomes content with producing the merest trifles. Longfellow has grown unaccustomed to do himself justice. Half hisvolumes are filled up with translations; graceful and accurate, indeed; but translations, and often from originals of very moderatemerit. His last original poem, _Evangeline_, is a sort of pastoralin hexameters. The resuscitation of this classical metre had a queereffect upon the American quidnuncs. Some of the _critics_ evidentlybelieved it to be a bran-new metre invented for the nonce by theauthor, a delusion which they of the 'Mutual Admiration' rather winkedat; and the parodists who endeavored to ridicule the new measure wereevidently not quite sure whether seven feet or nine made a hexameter. It is really to be regretted that Longfellow has been cajoled intoplaying these tricks with himself, for his earlier pieces were worksof much promise, and, had they been worthily followed out, mighthave entitled him to a high place among the poets of the language.... Longfellow's poetry, whenever he really lays himself out to writepoetry, has a definite idea and purpose in it--no small meritnow-a-days. His versification is generally harmonious, and he displaysa fair command of metre. Sometimes he takes a fancy to an obsoleteor out-of-the-way stanza; one of his longest and best poems, _TheSkeleton in Armor_, is exactly in the measure of Drayton's fineballad on Agincourt. His chief fault is an over-fondness for simileand metaphor. He seems to think indispensable the introduction intoeverything he writes of a certain (or sometimes a very uncertain)number of these figures. Accordingly his poems are crowded withcomparisons, sometimes very pretty and pleasing, at others sofar-fetched that the string of tortured images which lead off Alfredde Musset's bizarre _Ode to the Moon_ can hardly equal them. This_making figures_ (whether from any connection with the calculatinghabits of the people or not) is a terrible propensity of Americanwriters, whether of prose or verse. Their orators are especial sinnersin this respect. We have seen speeches stuck as full of metaphors(more or less mixed) as Burton's _Anatomy_ is of quotations. 

"Such persons as know from experience that literary people are notalways in private life what their writings would betoken, thatMiss Bunions do not precisely resemble March violets, and mournersupon paper may be laughers over mahogany--such persons will not besurprised to hear that the Longfellow is a very jolly fellow, a loverof fun and good dinners, and of an amiability and personal popularitythat have aided not a little the popularity of his writings inverse and prose--for he writes prose too, prettier, quainter, morefigurative, and more poetic if anything, than his poetry. He is also aprofessor at Harvard College, near Boston. 

"EDGAR A. POE, like Longfellow and most of the other American poets, wrote prose as well as poetry, having produced a number of wild, grotesque, and powerfully-imagined tales; unlike most of them he wasa literary man _pur sang_. He depended for support entirely on hiswritings, and his career was more like the precarious existence ofan author in the time of Johnson and Savage than the decent life ofan author in our own day. He was a Southerner by birth, acquired aliberal education, and what the French call 'expansive' tastes, wasadopted by a rich relative, quarreled with him, married 'for love, 'and lived by editing magazines in Richmond, Philadelphia, and NewYork; by delivering lectures (the never-failing last resort of theAmerican literary adventurer); by the occasional subscriptions ofcompassionate acquaintances or admiring friends--any way he could--foreighteen or nineteen years: lost his wife, involved himself in endlessdifficulties, and finally died in what should have been the prime ofhis life, about six months ago. His enemies attributed his untimelydeath to intemperance; his writings would rather lead to the beliefthat he was an habitual taker of opium. If it make a man a poet to be

 Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love, Poe was certainly a poet. Virulently and ceaselessly abused by hisenemies (who included a large portion of the press), he was worshipedto infatuation by his friends. The severity of his editorialcriticisms, and the erratic course of his life, fully account for theformer circumstance; the latter is probably to be attributed, in partat least, to pity for his mishaps. 

"If Longfellow's poetry is best designated as quaint, Poe's may mostproperly be characterized as fantastic. The best of it reminds oneof Tennyson, not by any direct imitation of particular passages, butby its general air and tone. But he was very far from possessingTennyson's fine ear for melody. His skill in versification, sometimesstriking enough, was evidently artificial; he overstudied metricalexpression and overrated its value so as sometimes to write, whatwere little better than nonsense-verses, for the rhythm. He had anincurable propensity for refrains, and when he had once caught aharmonious cadence, appeared to think it could not be too oftenrepeated. Poe's name is usually mentioned in connection with _TheRaven_, a poem which he published about five years ago. It had animmense run, and gave rise to innumerable parodies--those tests ofnotoriety if not of merit. And certainly it is not without a peculiarand fantastic excellence in the execution, while the conception ishighly striking and poetic. This much notice seems due to a poem whichcreated such a sensation in the author's country. To us it seems byno means the best of Poe's productions; we much prefer, for instance, this touching allegory, which was originally embodied in one of hiswildest tales, _The Haunted Palace_. In the very same volume with thisare some verses that Poe wrote when a boy, and some that a boy mightbe ashamed of writing. Indeed the secret of rejection seems to belittle known to Transatlantic bards. The rigidness of self-criticismwhich led Tennyson to ignore and annihilate, so far as in him lay, full one half of his earlier productions, would hardly be understoodby them. This is particularly unlucky in the case of Poe, whose rhymessometimes run fairly away with him, till no purpose or meaning istraceable amid a jingle of uncommon and fine-sounding words.... 

"Though Poe was a Southerner, his poetry has nothing in it suggestiveof his peculiar locality. It is somewhat remarkable that theslave-holding, which has tried almost all other means of excusing orjustifying itself before the world, did not think of 'keeping a poet, 'and engaging the destitute author from its own territory to sing thepraises of 'the patriarchal institution. ' And it would have beena fair provocation that the Abolitionists had their poet already. Indeed several of the northern poets have touched upon this subject;Longfellow, in particular, has published a series of spiritedand touching anti-slavery poems; but the man who has made it his_specialité_ is JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, a Quaker, literary editor ofthe _National Era_, an Abolition and ultra-Radical paper, which, inmanful despite of Judge Lynch, is published at Washington, between theslave-pens and the capitol. His verses are certainly obnoxious to thejurisdiction of that notorious popular potentate, being unquestionably'inflammatory, incendiary, and insurrectionary, ' as the Southernformula goes, in a very high degree. He makes passionate appeals tothe Puritan spirit of New England, and calls on her sons to uttertheir voice, ... From all her wild green mountains, From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie, From her blue rivers and her welling fountains, And clear cold sky-- From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean Gnaws with his surges--from the fisher's skiff, With white sails swaying to the billow's motion Round rock and cliff-- From the free fireside of her unbought farmer, From her free laborer at his loom and wheel. From the brown smithy where, beneath the hammer, Rings the red steel-- From each and all, if God hath not forsaken Our land and left us to an evil choice;--

"and protest against the shocking anomaly of slavery in a freecountry. At times, when deploring the death of some fellow laborer inthe cause, he falls into a somewhat subdued strain, though even thenthere is more of spirit and fire in his verses than one naturallyexpects from a follower of George Fox; but on such occasions hedisplays a more careful and harmonious versification than is hiswont. There is no scarcity of these elegies in his little volume, the _Abolitionists_, even when they escape the attentions of thehigh legal functionary already alluded to, not being apparently along-lived class. 

"_Toujours perdrix_ palls in poetry as in cookery; we grow tired afterawhile of invectives against governors of slave-states and mercenarypersons, and dirges for untimely perished Abolitionists. The wishsuggests itself that Whittier would not always

 'Give up to a party what is meant for mankind, '

but sometimes turn his powers in another direction. Accordingly, it isa great relief to find him occasionally trying his hand on the earlylegends of New England and Canada, which do not suffer such ballads as_St. John_.... 

"Whittier is less known than several other Western bards to theEnglish reader, and we think him entitled to stand higher on theAmerican Parnassus than most of his countrymen would place him. Hisfaults--harshness and want of polish--are evident; but there ismore life, and spirit, and soul in his verses, than in those ofeight-ninths of Mr. Griswold's immortal ninety. 

"From political verse (for the anti-slavery agitation must beconsidered quite as much a political as a moral warfare) thetransition is natural to satire and humorous poetry. Here we find nolack of matter, but a grievous short-coming in quality. The Americansare no contemptible humorists in prose, but their fun cannot be setto verse. They are very fond of writing parodies, yet we have scarcelyever seen a good parody of American origin. And their satire isgenerally more distinguished for personality and buffoonery thanwit. Halleck's _Fanny_ looks as if it might be good, did we only knowsomething of the people satirized in it. The reputed comic poet of thecountry at present is OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, a physician. Whetherit was owing to the disappointment caused by hearing too much in hispraise beforehand we will not pretend to say, but it certainly didseem to us that Dr. Holmes' efforts in this line must originallyhave been intended to act upon his patients emetically. After aconscientious perusal of the doctor, the most readable, and about theonly presentable thing we can find in him, is the bit of seriocomicentitled _The Last Leaf_. 

"But within the last three years there has arisen in the United Statesa satirist of genuine excellence, who, however, besides being butmoderately appreciated by his countrymen, seems himself in a greatmeasure to have mistaken his real forte. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, one ofthe Boston coterie, has for some time been publishing verses, whichare by the coterie duly glorified, but which are in no respectdistinguishable from the ordinary level of American poetry, exceptthat they combine an extraordinary pretension to originality, with amore than usually palpable imitation of English models. Indeed, thefailure was so manifest, that the American literati seem, in thisone case, to have rebelled against Boston dictation, and there issufficient internal evidence that such of them as do duty for criticshandled Mr. Lowell pretty severely. Violently piqued at this, andsimultaneously conceiving a disgust for the Mexican war, he wasimpelled by both feelings to take the field as a satirist: to theformer we owe the _Fable for Critics_; to the latter, the _BiglowPapers_. It was a happy move, for he has the rare faculty of writing_clever doggerel_. Take out the best of _Ingoldsby_, Campbell's rarepiece of fun _The Friars of Dijon_, and perhaps a little of Walsh's_Aristophanes_, and there is no contemporary verse of the class withwhich Lowell's may not fearlessly stand a comparison; for, observe, weare not speaking of mock heroics like Bon Gaultier's, which are onlya species of parody, but of real doggerel, the Rabelaisque of poetry. The _Fable_ is somewhat on the Ingoldsby model, --that is to say, agood part of its fun consists in queer rhymes, double, treble, or poly-syllabic; and it has even Barham's fault--an occasionalover-consciousness of effort, and calling on the reader to admire, asif the _tour de force_ could not speak for itself. But _Ingoldsby's_rhymes will not give us a just idea of the _Fable_ until we superaddHook's puns; for the fabulist has a pleasant knack of makingpuns--outrageous and unhesitating ones--exactly of the kind to setoff the general style of his verse. The sternest critic could hardlyhelp relaxing over such a bundle of them as are contained in Apollo'slament over the 'treeification' of his Daphne.... The _Fable_ is asort of review in verse of American poets. Much of the Boston leavenruns through it; the wise men of the East are all glorified intensely, while Bryant and Halleck are studiously depreciated. But though thusfreely exercising his own critical powers in verse, the author is mostbitter against all critics in prose, and gives us a ludicrous pictureof one--

 A terrible fellow to meet in society, Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea. 

And this gentleman is finely shown up for his condemnatorypredilections and inability to discern or appreciate beauties. Thecream of the joke against him is, that being sent by Apollo tochoose a lily in a flower-garden, he brings back a thistle as all hecould find. The picture is a humorous one, but we are at a loss toconjecture who can have sat for it in America, where the tendencyis all the other way, reviewers being apt to apply the butter ofadulation with the knife of profusion to every man, woman, or childwho rushes into print. Some of his complaints, too, against the criticsound very odd; as, for instance, that

 His lore was engraft, something foreign that grew in him. 

Surely the very meaning of _learning_ is that it is something whicha man learns--_acquires_ from other sources--does not originate inhimself. But it is a favorite practice with Mr. Lowell's set to railagainst dry learning and pedants, while at the same time there are nomen more fond of showing off cheap learning than themselves: Lowellhimself never loses an opportunity of bringing in a bit of Greek orLatin. Our readers must have known such persons--for, unfortunately, the United States has no monopoly of them--men who delight in quotingLatin before ladies, talking Penny-Magazine science in the hearing ofclodhoppers, and preaching of high art to youths who have never hadthe chance of seeing any art at all. _Then_ you will hear them saynothing about pedantry. But let a man be present who knows more Greekthan they do, or who has a higher standard of poetry or painting ormusic, and wo be to him! Him they will persecute to the uttermost. What is to be done with such men but to treat them _à la_ Shandon, 'Give them Burton's _Anatomy_, and leave them to their own abominabledevices?'

"The _Biglow Papers_ are imaginary epistles from a New England farmer, and contain some of the best specimens extant of the 'Yankee, ' or NewEngland dialect, --better than Haliburton's, for Sam Slick sometimesmixes Southern, Western, and even English vulgarities with his Yankee. Mr. Biglow's remarks treat chiefly of the Mexican war, and subjectsimmediately connected with it, such as slavery, truckling ofNortherners to the south, &c. The theme is treated in various wayswith uniform bitterness. Now he sketches a 'Pious Editors Creed, 'almost too daring in its Scriptural allusions, but terribly severeupon the venal fraternity. At another time he sets one of Calhoun'spro-slavery speeches to music. The remarks of the great Nullifier formthe air of the song, and the incidental remarks of honorable senatorson the same side make up a rich chorus, their names supplying happytags to the rhymes. But best of all are the letters of his friend thereturned volunteer, Mr. Birdofredom Sawin, who draws a sad pictureof the private soldier's life in Mexico. He had gone out with hopesof making his fortune. But he was sadly disappointed and equally soin his expectations of glory, which 'never got so low down as theprivates. '

"But it is time to bring this notice to a close not, however, thatwe have by any means exhausted the subject. For have we not alreadystated that there are, at the lowest calculation, ninety Americanpoets, spreading all over the alphabet, from Allston, who isunfortunately dead, to Willis, who is fortunately living, and writing_Court Journals_ for the 'Upper Ten Thousand, ' as he has named thequasi-aristocracy of New York? And the lady-poets--the poetesses, whatshall we say of them? Truly it would be ungallant to say anything illof them, and invidious to single out a few among so many; therefore, it will be best for us to say--nothing at all about any of them. "

 * * * * *

ORIGINAL POETRY. 

A RETROSPECT. 

BY HERMANN. 

 On this rustic footbridge sitting, I have passed delightful eyes, Moonbeams round about me flitting Through the overhanging leaves. 

 With me often came another, When the west wore hues of gold, And 'twas neither sister--brother-- One the heart may dearer hold. 

 She was fair and lightly moulded, Azure eyed and full of grace; Gentler form was never folded In a lover's warm embrace. 

 Oh those hours of sacred converse, Their communion now is o'er And our straying feet shall traverse Those remembered paths no more. 

 Hours they were of love and gladness, Fraught with holy vows of truth: Not a single thought of sadness Shadowing o'er the hopes of youth. 

 I am sitting sad and lonely Where she often sat with me, And the voice I hear is only Of the silvery streamlet's glee. 

 Where is she, whose gentle fingers, Oft were wreathed amidst my hair? Still methinks their pressure lingers, But, ah no! they are not there. 

 They are whiter now than ever, In a light I know not of, Sweeping o'er the chords of silver To a song of joy and love. 

 Though so lonely I am sitting, This sweet thought of joy may bring, That she still is round me flitting, On an angel's tireless wing. 

 * * * * *

THE AUTHOR OF "ION. "

"Mr. Talfourd is now a Justice, and we find in the London journals anaccount of a visit to his residence by a deputation from his nativetown, to present to him a silver candelabrum, subscribed for by alarge number of the inhabitants of the borough, of all parties. Thebase of the candelabrum is a tripod, on which stands a group of threefemale figures; representing Law, Justice, and Poetry, the two formermodeled from Flaxman's sculpture on Lord Mansfield's monument inWestminster Abbey, the latter from a drawing of the Greek Antique, bearing a scroll inscribed with the word "Ion" in Greek characters. The arms of Mr. Talfourd and of the borough of Reading are engraved onthe base. The testimonial was presented to the Justice in the presenceof his family, including the venerable Mrs. Talfourd, his mother, and a large circle of private friends. In answer to the gentleman whopresented the testimonial, Mr. Talfourd replied:

"If I felt that the circumstances of this hour, and the eloquentkindness which has enriched it, appealed for a response only topersonal qualities, I should be too conscious of the poverty of suchmaterials for an answer to attempt one; but the associations theysuggest expand into wider circles than self impels, and while theyteach me that this occasion is not for the indulgence of vanity, but for the cultivation of humble thankfulness, they impart a noblersignificance to your splendid gift and to your delightful praise. Theyremind me that my intellectual being has, from its first development, been nurtured by the partiality of those whom, living and dead, youvirtually represent to-day; they concentrate the wide-spread instancesof that peculiar felicity in my lot whereby I have been privileged tofind aid, comfort, inspiration, and allowance in that local communityamidst which my life began; and they invite me, from that positionwhich once bounded my furthest horizon of personal hope, to live alongthe line of past existence; to recognize the same influence everywherepervading it: and to perceive how its struggles have been assisted;its errors softened down or vailed, and its successes enhanced, by theconstant presence of home-born regards. Embracing in a rapid glancethe events of many years, I call to mind how at an early age--earlierthan is generally safe or happy for youths--the incidents of life, supplying an unusual stimulus to ordinary powers, gave vividness tothose dreams of human excellence and progress which, at some time, visit all; how by the weakness which precluded them from assumingthose independent shapes which require the plastic force of higherpowers, they became associated with the scenes among which they werecherished, and clove to them with earnest grasp; and how the fervidexpressions which that combination prompted, were accepted by generousfriends as indicating faculties 'beyond the reaches of my soul, 'and induced them to encourage me by genial prophecies which, withunwearied purpose, they endeavored to fulfill. I renew that goldenseason when such vague aspirations were at once cherished anddirected by the Christian wisdom of the venerated master of ReadingSchool--who, during his fifty years of authority, made the name ofour town a household word to successive generations of scholars, who honored him in all parts of the world, and all departments ofsociety--whose long life was one embodied charity--and who gavesteadiness and object to those impulses in me which else might haveended, as they began, in dreams. I remember, when pausing on theslippery threshold of active life, and looking abroad on the desolatefuture, how the earnestness of my friends gave me courage, andemboldened me, with no patrons but themselves, to enter the professionof my choice by its most dim and laborious avenue, and to brace myselffor four years of arduous pupilage; how they crowded with pleasuresthe intervals of holiday I annually enjoyed among them during thatperiod, and another of equal length passed in a special pleader'sanxieties and toils; how they greeted with praise, sweeter thanthe applause of multitudes to him who wins it, the slender literaryeffusions by which I supplied the deficiency of professional income;and how, when I dared the hazard of the bar, they provided for meopportunities such as riper scholars and other advocates wait longfor, by confiding important matters to my untried hands; how theyencircled my first tremulous efforts by an atmosphere of affectionateinterest, roused my faint heart to exertion, absorbed the fever thathung upon its beatings, and strengthened my first perceptions ofcapacity to make my thoughts and impressions intelligible, on theinstant, to the minds of courts and juries. The impulse thus given tomy professional success at Reading, and in the sessions of Berkshireduring twelve years, gradually extended its influence through mycircuit, until it raised me to a position among its members beyondmy deserts and equal to my wishes. Another opening of fortunesoon dawned on me; in the maturity of life I aspired to a seatin parliament--rather let me say, to _that_ seat which only Icoveted--and then, almost without solicitation, from many survivingpatrons of my childhood, and from the sons of others who inherited thekindness of their fathers, I received an honor more precious to me asthe token of concentrated regards than as the means of advancement;yet greatly heightened in practical importance by the testimonyit implied from the best of all witnesses. That honor, three timesrenewed, was attended by passages of excitement which look dizzy evenin the distance--with much on my part requiring allowance, and muchallowance rendered by those to whom my utmost services were due; withthe painful consciousness of wide difference of opinion between someof my oldest friends and myself, and with painful contests which thosedifferences rendered inevitable, yet cheered by attachments whichthe vivid lights struck out in the conflict of contending passionsexhibited in scatheless strength, until I received that appointmentwhich dissolved the parliamentary connection, and with it annihilatedall the opposition of feeling which had sometimes saddened it, andinvested the close of my life with the old regard, as unclouded bycontroversy as when it illumined its opening. And now the expressionsof your sympathy await me, when, by the gracious providence of God, I have been permitted to enter on a course of less fervid action, ofserener thought, of plainer duty. For me political animosities areforever hushed and absorbed in one desire, which I share with youall, for the happiness and honor of our country, and the peacefuladvancement of our species; and all the feverish excitements andperils of advocacy, its ardent partisanship with various interests, anxieties, and passions, are displaced by the office of seeking todiscover truth and to maintain justice. I am no longer incited toaspire to public favor, even under your auspices: my course is markedright onward--to be steadily trodden, whether its duties may accordwith the prevalent feeling of the hour, or may oppose the temporaryinjustice of its generous errors: but it is not forbidden me to prizethe esteem of those who have known me longest and best, and to indulgethe hope that I may retain it to the last. To encourage me in theaim still to deserve that esteem, I shall look on this gift of thosenumbers of my townsmen whose regards have just found such cordialexpression. I shall cherish it as a memorial of earliest hopesthat gleam out from the depth of years; as a memorial of a thousandincentives to virtuous endeavor, of sacred trusts, of delightedsolaces; as a memorial of affections which have invested a being, frail, sensitive, and weak, with strength not its own, and under God, have insured for it an honorable destiny; as a memorial of this hour, when, in the presence of those who are nearest and dearest to me onearth, my course has been pictured in the light of those friendshipswhich have gladdened it--an hour of which the memory and the influencewill not pass away, but, I fondly trust, will incite those who willbear my name after me, and to whose charge this gift will be confidedwhen I shall cease to behold it, better to deserve, though they cannotmore dearly appreciate, such a succession of kindnesses as that towhich the crowning grace is now added, and for which, with my wholeheart, I thank you. "

 * * * * *

Cultivate and exercise a serene faith, and you shall acquire wonderfulpower and insight; its results are sure and illimitable, moulding andmoving to its purposes equally spirit, mind, and matter. It is thepower-endowing essential of all action. 

 * * * * *

RECENT DEATHS. 

Under this head we have rarely to present so many articles as aredemanded by the foreign journals received during the week, and by themelancholy disaster which caused the death of the MARCHESA D'OSSOLI, with her husband, and Mr. SUMNER. Of MARGARET FULLER D'OSSOLI a sketchis given in the preceding pages, and we reserve for our next numberan article upon the history of Sir ROBERT PEEL. The death of thisillustrious person has caused a profound sensation not only in GreatBritain, but throughout Europe. In the House of Lords, most eloquentand impressive speeches upon the exalted character of the deceased, and the irreparable loss of the country, were delivered by the Marquisof Lansdowne, Lord Stanley, Lord Brougham, the Duke of Wellington, and the Duke of Cleveland, and in the House of Commons, by Lord JohnRussell, and Messrs. Hume, Gladstone, Goulburn, Herries, Napier, Inglis and Somervile. The House, in testimony of its grief, adjournedwithout business, an act without precedent, except in case of deathin the royal family. A noble tribute of respect was also paid by theFrench Assembly to the memory of Sir Robert Peel. The President, M. Dupin, pronounced an affecting eulogy upon the deceased, which wasreceived with the liveliest sympathy by the Chamber, and was orderedto be recorded in its journal. A compliment like this is totallyunprecedented in France, and the death of no other foreigner in theworld could have elicited it. 

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BOYER, EX-PRESIDENT OF HAYTI. 

Jean Pierre Boyer, a mulatto, distinguished in affairs, and for hisabilities and justice, was born at Port-au-Prince, on the 6th ofFebruary, 1776. His father, by some said to have been of mixed blood, was a tailor and shopkeeper, of fair reputation and some property, andhis mother a negress from Congo in Africa, who had been a slave inthe neighborhood. He joined the French Commissioners, Santhonax andPolverel, in whose company, after the arrival of the English, hewithdrew to Jacqemel. Here he attached himself to Rigaud, set outwith him to France, and was captured on his passage by the Americans, during the war between France and the United States. Being releasedat the end of the war, he proceeded to Paris, where he remained untilthe organization of Le Clerc's expedition against St. Domingo. Thisexpedition he with many other persons of color joined; but on thedeath of Le Clerc he attached himself to the party of Petion, withwhom he acted during the remainder of that chieftain's life, whichterminated on the 29th of March, 1818. Under Petion he rose fromthe post of aid-de-camp and private secretary to be general ofthe arrondissement of Port-au-Prince; and Petion named him forthe succession in the Presidency, to which he was inducted withoutopposition. When the revolution broke out in the northern part of theisland, in 1820, Boyer was invited by the insurgents to place himselfat their head; and on the death of Christophe, the northern andsouthern parts of the island were united under his administrationinto one government, under the style of the Republic of Hayti. Inthe following year the Spanish inhabitants of the eastern part of theisland voluntarily placed themselves under the government of Boyer, who thus became, chiefly by the force of character, without muchpositive effort, the undisputed master of all St. Domingo. 

It is not questionable that the productions and general prosperity ofthe island decreased under Boyer's administration. The blacks neededthe stringent policy of some such tyrant as Christophe. And thepopularity of Boyer was greatly lessened by his approval or directnegotiation of a treaty with France, by which he agreed to pay tothat country an indemnity of 150, 000, 000 of francs, in five annualinstalments. The French Government recognized the independence ofHayti, but it was impossible for Boyer to meet his engagements. Hehowever conducted the administration with industry, discretion, andrepose, for fifteen years, when a long-slumbering opposition, forhis presumed preference of the mulatto to the black population in thedispensations of government favor, began to exhibit itself openly. When this feeling was manifested in the second chamber of theLegislature, in 1843, the promptness and decision with which heattempted to suppress it, induced an insurrection among the troops, and he was compelled to fly, with about thirty followers, to Jamaica. He afterward proceeded to London, and finally to Paris, where he livedquietly in the Rue de Madeline, enjoying the respect of many eminentmen, and surrounded by attached followers who shared his exile, untilthe 10th of July. On the 12th he was buried with appropriate funeralhonors. 

 * * * * *

THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE. 

The death of the Duke of Cambridge, brother of the late William IV. , occurred the 8th of July, and was quite sudden. He was the seventhson of George III. , was born in 1774, received his earliest educationat Kew, and finished his studies at Gottingen. He entered the army, and experiencing much active service, was promoted, until in 1813 heattained the distinction of Field Marshal. He soon afterward becameGovernor-General of Hanover, and continued to fill that post untilthe accession of the Duke of Cumberland, in 1839. His subsequent lifepresented few features of much interest. His name was to be found asa patron and a contributor to many most valuable institutions, andhe took delight in presiding at benevolent festivals and anniversarydinners, when, though without the slightest pretension to eloquence, the frankness and _bonhommie_ of his manners, and his simplestraight-forward earnestness of speech, used to make him an universalfavorite. He took but little part in the active strife of parties. Hedied in his seventy-seventh year, leaving one son, Prince George ofCambridge, and two daughters. 

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GEORGE W. ERVING. 

This distinguished public man died in New York, on the 22d ult. Acorrespondent of the _Evening Post_ gives the following account of hishistory:

"The journals furnish us with a brief notice of the death of thevenerable George W. Erving, who was for so many years, dating from thefoundation of our government, connected with the diplomatic history ofthe country, as an able, successful and distinguished negotiator. Thecareer of this gentleman has been so marked, and is so instructive, that it becomes not less a labor of love than an act of public duty, with the press, to make it the occasion of comment. At the breakingout of our revolution, the father of the subject of this imperfectsketch was an eminent loyalist of Massachusetts, residing in Boston, connected by affinity with the Shirleys, the Winslows, the Bowdons, and Winthrops of that State. Like many other men of wealth, at thatday, he joined the royal cause, forsook his country and went toEngland. There his son, George William, who had always been a sicklydelicate child, reared with difficulty, was educated, and finallygraduated at Oxford, where he was a classmate of Copley, now LordLyndhurst. Following this, on the attainment of his majority, andduring the lifetime of his father, notwithstanding the most powerfuland seductive efforts to attach him to the side of Great Britain, the more persevering from the great wealth, and the intellectualattainments of the young American--notwithstanding the importunitiesof misjudging friends and relatives, the incitements found in ties ofconsanguinity with some, and his intimate personal associations withmany of the young nobility at that aristocratic seat of learning, andnotwithstanding the blandishments of fashionable society--the love ofcountry and the holy inspirations of patriotism, triumphed over allthe arts that power could control, and those allurements usually sopotent where youth is endowed with great wealth. The young patriotpromptly, cheerfully, sacrificed all, for his country--turned his backupon the unnatural stepmother, and came back, to share the good orevil fortunes of his native land. 

"Such facts as these should not be lost sight of at the presentday--such an example it is well to refer to now, in the day of ourprosperity. And we would ask--in no ill-natured or censorious spirit, but rather that the lessons of history should not be forgotten--howmany young men of these days under like circumstances, would makea similar sacrifice upon the altar of their country? The solemn andimpressive event which has produced this notice seems to render thisquestion not entirely inappropriate; for years should not dim in theminds of the rising generation the memory of those pure and strongmen, who, in the early trials of their country, rose equal to theoccasion. When, at a later period, political parties began to developthemselves, Mr. Erving, then a resident of Boston, identified himselfwith the great republican party, and became actively instrumental insecuring the election of Thomas Jefferson to the Presidency. Fromthat time forward until the day of his death, he never faltered in hispolitical faith. 

"Few men have been, for so long a period, so intimately connected withthe diplomatic history of our country. He received his first publicappointment, as Consul and Commissioner of Claims at London, nearlyhalf a century since. This appointment was conferred upon him withouthis solicitation, and was at first declined. Subsequent reflection, however, induced him to waive all private and personal considerations, and he accepted the post assigned to him. The manner in which hedischarged the duties of that trust, impressed the government with theexpediency of securing his services in more important negotiations, and he was sent as Commissioner and Charge d'Affaires to Denmark. Hismission to the court of that country was, at that period, a highlyimportant one. The negotiations he had to conduct there, requiredgreat tact and ability. 

"While at Copenhagen, he secured, in an eminent degree, the esteemand confidence of the Danish authorities, and brought to a successfulsolution the questions then arising out of the interests committed tohim. In consequence, the government was enabled to avail itself ofhis experience at the Court of Berlin, where events seemed to requirethe exercise of great diplomatic ability. He was afterward appointedto Madrid, where, by his highly honorable personal character, andcaptivating manners, he obtained great influence, even at that mostproud and distrustful court, and conducted, with consummate skill andmarked success, the important and delicate negotiations then pendingbetween the United States and Spain. He remained at Madrid for manyyears, where he attained the reputation of being one of the most ableand accomplished diplomatists that the United States had ever sentabroad. Upon his final retirement from this post, and, in fact, fromall public employment, the administration of General Jackson soughtto secure his services in the mission to Constantinople, but theproffered appointment was declined. 

"There are many interesting incidents in his public and diplomaticcareer, which a more extended notice would enable us to detail. Indeed, we hope that so instructive a life as that of Mr. Ervingmay hereafter find a fit historian. That historian may not haveto chronicle victories won upon the battle field, but the civicachievement he will have to record, if not so dazzling as the former, will, at least, be as replete with evidences of public usefulness. 

"The latter years of his life were passed in Europe, chiefly in Paris. The public agitations consequent upon the last French revolution, need of quiet at his advanced age, and the presentiment of approachingdissolution, induced him to return home. Indeed it was meet that heshould close his mortal career in that country which he had so longand faithfully served, and whose welfare and happiness had been theconstant object of his every earthly aspiration. "

 * * * * *

DR. JOHN BURNS. 

Among those who perished in the wreck of the _Orion_, was Dr. JohnBurns, Professor of Surgery in the University of Glasgow, aged abouteighty years. Dr. Burns held a distinguished place in the medicalworld, for at least half a century, as an author and a teacher. He wasa son of the Rev. Dr. John Burns, for more than sixty years ministerof the Barony parish of Glasgow, who died about fourteen years ago, at the age of ninety. He was originally intended to be a manufacturer, and in his time the necessary training for this business includeda practical application to the loom. A disease of the knee-jointunfitted him for becoming a weaver, and he turned his attention tothe medical profession, winch the neighboring university afforded himeasy and ample means of studying. He early entered into business asa general practitioner, but his ambition led him very soon to be aninstructor. In 1800, he published _Dissertations on Inflammation_, which raised his name to a high position in the literature of hisprofession. In 1807, he published a kindred volume on Hemorrhage. In the mean time he had turned his attention to lecturing, andhe continued to give, for many years, lectures on midwifery. Hisobservations and experience on this subject he offered to the worldin _The Principles of Midwifery_, a work which has run throughtwelve editions, and been translated into several of the continentallanguages. It is very elaborate and valuable, and as each succeedingedition presented the result of the author's increasing experience, itbecame a standard in every medical library. Its chief defect is a wantof clearness in the arrangement, and sometimes in the language. In1815, the crown instituted a Professorship of Surgery in the GlasgowUniversity, and the Duke of Montrose, its chancellor, appointed toit Mr. Burns, a choice which the voice of the profession generallyapproved. The value of the professorship might average 500l. Yearly. 

As a professor, Dr. Burns was highly popular. He had a cheerful andattractive manner, and was fond of bringing in anecdotes more or lessapplicable, but always enlivening. His language was plain and clear, but not always correct or elegant. In personal appearance, he wasof the middle size, of an anxious and careworn, but gentlemanlyand intelligent, expression of countenance. In 1830, he published_Principles of Surgery_, first volume, which was followed by another. This work is confused, both in style and arrangement, and has beenvery little read, but it did credit to his zeal and industry, for hehad now acquired fame and fortune, and had long had at his commandthe most extensive practice in the west of Scotland. John Burns, the younger, had written and published a work on the evidences andprinciples of Christianity, which was extensively read, and wentthrough many editions. His name was not at first on the title-page, but that it was the production of a medical man was obvious. He gavea copy to his father, who shortly after said, "Ah, John, I wish _you_could have written such a book!" Dr. Burns has many friends in theUnited States, who were once his pupils. One of the most eminent ofthem is Professor Pattison of the Medical Department of the New YorkUniversity, in this city. 

 * * * * *

HORACE SUMNER. 

This gentleman, one of the victims of the lamentable wreck of theElizabeth, was the youngest son of the late Charles P. Sumner, ofBoston, for many years Sheriff of Suffolk county, and the brother ofGeorge Sumner, Esq. , of Boston, who is well known for his legal andliterary eminence throughout the country. He was about twenty-fouryears of ago, and has been abroad for nearly a year, traveling in thesouth of Europe for the benefit of his health. The past winter wasspent by him chiefly in Florence, where he was on terms of familiarintimacy with the Marquis and Marchioness d'Ossoli, and was inducedto take passage in the same vessel with them for his return to hisnative land. He was a young man of singular modesty of deportment, of an original turn of mind, and greatly endeared to his friendsby the sweetness of his disposition and the purity of hischaracter. --_Tribune_. 

 * * * * *

THE FINE ARTS. 

POWERS'S STATUE OF CALHOUN. --An unfortunate fatality appears to waitupon the works of Hiram Powers. It is but a few weeks since his "Eve"was lost on the coast of Spain, and it is still uncertain here whetherthat exquisite statue is preserved without such injury as materiallyto affect its value. And his masterpiece in history--perhaps hismasterpiece in all departments--the statue of Calhoun, which has beenso anxiously looked-for ever since the death of the great senator, wasburied under the waves in which Madame d'Ossoli and Horace Sumner werelost, on the morning of the 19th, near Fire Island. At the time thissheet is sent to press we are uncertain as to the recovery of thestatue, but we hope for the sake of art and for the satisfaction ofall the parties interested, that it will still reach its destination. It is insured in Charleston, and Mr. Kellogg, the friend and agentof Mr. Powers, has been at the scene of the misfortune, with allnecessary means for its preservation, if that be possible. 

 * * * * *

HORACE VERNET, the great painter, has returned to Paris from St. Petersburgh. Offensive reports were current respecting his journey: hehad been paid, it was alleged, in most princely style by the Emperor, for his masterly efforts in translating to canvas the principalincidents of the Hungarian and Polish wars. He came back, it wasdeclared, loaded and content, with a hundred thousand dollars and akiss--an actual kiss--from his Imperial Majesty. M. Vernet has deemedit necessary to publish a letter, correcting what was erroneous inthese reports. He says:--"In repairing to Russia I was actuated byonly one desire, and had but a single object, and that was, to thankHis Majesty, the Emperor, for the honors with which he had alreadyloaded me, and for the proofs of his munificence which I hadpreviously received. I intended to bring back, and in fact havebrought back from the journey, nothing but the satisfaction of havingperformed an entirely disinterested duty of respectful gratitude. " Itis true, however, that he lent his powers to illustrate the triumph ofdespotism, and if he brought back no gold the matter is not all helpedby that fact. 

 * * * * *

AUTHORS AND BOOKS. 

THE REV. JAMES H. PERKINS, of Cincinnati, whose suicide during a fitof madness, several months ago, will be generally recollected forthe many expressions of profound regret which it occasioned, we arepleased to learn, is to be the subject of a biography by the Rev. W. H. Channing. Mr. Perkins was a man of the finest capacities, and of largeand genial scholarship. He wrote much, in several departments, andalmost always well. His historical works, relating chiefly to thewestern States, have been little read in this part of the Union;but his contributions to the North American Review and the ChristianExaminer, and his tales, sketches, essays, and poems, printed undervarious signatures, have entitled him to a desirable reputation asa man of letters. These are all to be collected and edited by Mr. Channing. 

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Mrs. ESLING, better known as Miss Catherine H. Waterman, under whichname she wrote the popular and beautiful lyric, "Brother, Come Home!"has in press a collection of her writings, under the title of _TheBroken Bracelet and other Poems_, to be published by Lindsay &Blackiston of Philadelphia. 

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M. ROSSEEUW ST. HILAIRE, of Paris, is proceeding with his great workon the History of Spain with all the rapidity consistent with thenature of the subject and the elaborate studies it requires. The workwas commenced ten years ago, and has since been the main occupation ofits author. The fifth volume has just been published, and receives theapplause of the most competent critics. It includes the time from 1336to 1492, which comes down to the very eve of the great discovery ofColumbus, and includes that most brilliant period, in respect of whichthe history of Prescott has hitherto stood alone, namely, the reign ofFerdinand and Isabella. M. St. Hilaire has had access to many sourcesof information not accessible to any former writer, and is saidto have availed himself of them with all the success that could beanticipated from his rare faculty of historical analysis and thebeautiful transparency of his style. 

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THE REV. ROBERT ARMITAGE, a rector in Shropshire, is the author of"Dr. Hookwell, " and "Dr. Johnson, his Religious Life and his Death. "In this last work, the _Quarterly Review_ observes, "Johnson's name ismade the peg on which to hang up--or rather the line on which to hangout--much hackneyed sentimentality, and some borrowed learning, withan awful and overpowering quantity of twaddle and rigmarole. " Thewriter concludes his reviewal: "We are sorry to have had to make suchan exposure of a man, who, apart from the morbid excess of vanitywhich has evidently led him into this scrape, may be, for aught weknow, worthy and amiable. His exposure, however, is on his ownhead: he has ostentatiously and pertinaciously forced his ignorance, conceit, and effrontery on public notice. " We quite agree with the_Quarterly_. 

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JOHN MILLS--"John St. Hugh Mills, " it was written then--was familiarlyknown in the printing offices of Ann street in this city a dozenyears ago; he assisted General Morris in editing the Mirror, and wroteparagraphs of foreign gossip for other journals. A good-natured auntdied in England, leaving him a few thousand a year, and he returnedto spend his income upon a stud and pack and printing office, sendingfrom the latter two or three volumes of pleasant-enough mediocrityevery season. His last work, with the imprint of Colburn, is called"Our Country. "

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Mr. PRESCOTT, the historian, who is now in England, has received thedegree of Doctor of Civil Law from the University of Oxford. Two orthree years ago he was elected into the Institute of France. 

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DR. MAGINN's "Homeric Ballads, " which gave so much attractionduring several years to _Fraser's Magazine_, have been collected andrepublished in a small octavo. 

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Mr. KENDALL, of the _Picayune_, has sailed once more for Paris, tosuperintend there the completion of his great work on the late warin Mexico upon which he has been engaged for the last two years. Thehighest talent has been employed in the embellishment of this book, and the care and expense incurred may be estimated from the fact thatsixty men, coloring and preparing the plates, can finish only onehundred and twenty copies in a month. The original sketches weretaken by a German, Carl Nebel, who accompanied Mr. Kendall in Mexico, and drew his battle scenes at the very time of their occurrence. Hehas engaged in the prosecution of the whole enterprise with as muchzeal and interest as Mr. Kendall himself, and has spared no pains toprocure the assistance of the most skillful operatives. The book isfolio in size, and will be published early in the fall. The letterpress has long been finished, and only waiting for the completion ofthe plates. These are twelve, and their subjects are Palo Alto, theCapture of Monterey, Buena Vista: the Landing at Vera Cruz, CerroGordo, Contreras, Cherubusco, Molino del Rey, two views of theStorming of Chapultepec, and Gen. Scott's entrance into the city ofMexico. The lithographs are said to be unsurpassed in felicity ofdesign, perfection of coloring, and in the animation and expressionof all the figures and groups. No such finished specimens of coloredlithography were ever exhibited in this country. The plates will haveunusual value, not only on account of their intrinsic superiority, but because of their rare historical merit, since they are exactdelineations of the topography of the scenes they represent andfaithful representations in every particular of the military positionsand movements at the moment chosen for illustration. 

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MRS. TROLLOPPE is as busy as she has ever been since the failure ofher shop at Cincinnati--trading in fiction, with the capital wonby her first adventure in this way, "The Domestic Manners of theAmericans. " Her last novel, which is just out, has in its title theodor of her customary vulgarity; it is called "Petticoat Government. "Her son, Mr. A. Trolloppe, his just given the world a new book also, "La Vendee" a historical romance which is well spoken of. 

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THE REV. DR. WILLIAM R. WILLIAMS, it will gratify the friends ofliterature and religion to learn, has consented to give to the pressseveral works upon which he has for some time been engaged. Theywill be published by Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, of Boston. In the nextnumber of _The International_ we shall write more largely of thissubject. 

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Dr. BUCKLAND, the Dean of Westminster--the eloquent and the learnedwriter of the remarkable "Bridgewater Treatise" is bereft of reason, and is now an inmate of an asylum near Oxford. 

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Dr. WAYLAND's "Tractate on Education, " in which he proposes a thoroughreform in the modes of college instruction, has, we are glad to see, had its desired effect. The Providence _Journal_ states that theentire subscription to the fund of Brown University has reached$110, 000, which is within $15, 000 of the sum originally proposed. The subscription having advanced so far, and with good assurances offurther aid, the committee have reported to the President, that thesuccess of the plan, so far as the money is concerned, may be regardedas assured, and that consequently it will be safe to go on with thenew organization as rapidly as may he deemed advisable. Of the sumraised, about $96, 000 have come from Providence. A meeting of theCorporation of the University will soon be called, when the entireplan will be decided upon, and carried into effect as rapidly as soimportant a change can be made with prudence. 

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SIR JAMES EMERSON TENNANT has in the press of Mr. Murray a workwhich will probably be read with much interest in this country, upon Christianity in Ceylon, its introduction and progress under thePortuguese, the Dutch, the British, and the American missions, with aHistorical View of the Brahminical and Buddhist superstitions. 

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CHARLES EAMES, formerly one of the editors of the Washington _Union_, and more recently United States Commissioner to the Sandwich Islands, is to be the orator of the societies of Columbia College, at thecommencement, on the evening of the 6th of October. Bayard Taylor willbe the poet for the same occasion. 

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CHATEAUBRIAND'S MEMOIRS. --The eleventh and last volume has just beenpublished at Paris in the book form, and will soon be completed inthe _feuilletons_. An additional volume is however to be brought out, under the title of "Supplement to the Memoirs. "

 * * * * *

THE THIRD AND FOURTH SERIES of Southey's Common-Place Book are inpreparation, and they will be reprinted by the Harpers. The thirdcontains Analytical Readings, and the fourth, Original Memoranda. 

 * * * * *

WASHINGTON IRVING's Life of General Washington, in one octavo volume, is announced by Murray. It will appear simultaneously from the pressof Putnam. 

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MRS. JAMESON has in press Legends of the Monastic Orders, asillustrated in art. 

 * * * * *

Dr. ACHILLI is the subject of an article in the July number of the_Dublin Review_--the leading Roman Catholic journal in the Englishlanguage. Of course the history of the missionary is not presented invery flattering colors. 

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[FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS. ]

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 

The materials for the following tale were furnished to the writerwhile traveling last year near the spot on which the events itnarrates took place. It is intended to convey a notion of some of thephases of Polish, or rather Russian serfdom (for, as truly explainedby one of the characters in a succeeding page, it is Russian), and ofthe catastrophes it has occasioned, not only in Catherine's time, but occasionally at the present. The Polish nobles--themselves inslavery--earnestly desire the emancipation of their serfs, whichRussian domination forbids. 

The small town of Pobereze stands at the foot of a stony mountain, watered by numerous springs in the district of Podolia, in Poland. Itconsists of a mass of miserable Cabins, with a Catholic chapel and twoGreek churches in the midst, the latter distinguished by their gildedtowers. On one side of the market-place stands the only inn, and onthe opposite side are several shops, from whose doors and windowslook out several dirtily dressed Jews. At a little distance, on a hillcovered with vines and fruit-trees, stands the Palace, which does not, perhaps, exactly merit such an appellation, but who would dare to callotherwise the dwelling of the lord of the domain?

On the morning when our tale opens, there had issued from this palacethe common enough command to the superintendent of the estate, tofurnish the master with a couple of strong boys, for service in thestables, and a young girl to be employed in the wardrobe. Accordingly, a number of the best-looking young peasants of Olgogrod assembledin the avenue leading to the palace. Some were accompanied by theirsorrowful and weeping parents, in all of whose hearts, however, rosethe faint whispered hope, "Perhaps it will not be _my_ child they willchoose!"

Being brought into the court-yard of the palace, the Count Roszynski, with the several members of his family, had come out to pass in reviewhis growing subjects. He was a small and insignificant-looking man, about fifty years of age, with deep-set eyes and overhanging brows. His wife, who was nearly of the same age, was immensely stout, witha vulgar face and a loud, disagreeable voice. She made herselfridiculous in endeavoring to imitate the manners and bearing of thearistocracy, into whose sphere she and her husband were determinedto force themselves, in spite of the humbleness of their origin. Thefather of the "Right-Honorable" Count Roszynski was a valet, who, having been a great favorite with his master, amassed sufficient moneyto enable his son, who inherited it, to purchase the extensive estateof Olgogrod, and with it the sole proprietorship of 1600 human beings. Over them he had complete control; and, when maddened by oppression, if they dared resent, woe unto them! They could be thrust into anoisome dungeon, and chained by one hand from the light of day foryears, until their very existence was forgotten by all except thejailor who brought daily their pitcher of water and morsel of drybread. 

Some of the old peasants say that Sava, father of the young peasantgirl, who stands by the side of an old woman, at the head of hercompanions in the court-yard, is immured in one of these subterraneanjails. Sava was always about the Count, who, it was said, had broughthim from some distant land, with his little motherless child. Savaplaced her under the care of an old man and woman, who had the chargeof the bees in a forest near the palace, where he came occasionally tovisit her. But once, six long months passed, and he did not come! Invain Anielka wept, in vain she cried, "Where is my father?" No fatherappeared. At last it was said that Sava had been sent to a longdistance with a large sum of money, and had been killed by robbers. In the ninth year of one's life the most poignant grief is quicklyeffaced, and after six months Anielka ceased to grieve. The old peoplewere very kind to her, and loved her as if sue were their own child. That Anielka might be chosen to serve in the palace never enteredtheir head, for who would be so barbarous as to take the child awayfrom an old woman of seventy and her aged husband?

To-day was the first time in her life that she had been so far fromhome. She looked curiously on all she saw, --particularly on a younglady about her own age, beautifully dressed, and a youth of eighteen, who had apparently just returned from a ride on horse-back, as he helda whip in his hand, whilst walking up and down examining the boys whowere placed in a row before him. He chose two amongst them, and theboys were led away to the stables. 

"And I choose this young girl, " said Constantia Roszynski, indicatingAnielka; "she is the prettiest of them all. I do not like ugly facesabout me. "

When Constantia returned to the drawing-room, she gave orders forAnielka to be taken to her apartments, and placed under the tutelageof Mademoiselle Dufour, a French maid, recently arrived from the firstmilliner's shop in Odessa. Poor girl! when they separated her from heradopted mother, and began leading her toward the palace, she rushed, with a shriek of agony, from them, and grasped her old protectresstightly in her arms! They were torn violently asunder, and the CountRoszynski quietly asked, "Is it her daughter, or her grand-daughter?"

"Neither, my lord, --only an adopted, child. "

"But who will lead the old woman home, as she is blind?"

"I will, my lord, " replied one of his servants, bowing to the ground;"I will let her, walk by the side of my horse, and when she is inher cabin she will have her old husband, --they must take care of eachother. "

So saying, he moved away with the rest of the peasants and domestics. But the poor old woman had to be dragged along by two men; for in themidst of her shrieks and tears she had fallen to the ground, almostwithout life. 

And Anielka? They did not allow her to weep long. She had now tosit all day in the corner of a room to sew. She was expected to doeverything well from the first; and if she did not, she was keptwithout food or cruelly punished. Morning and evening she had tohelp Mdlle. Dufour to dress and undress her mistress. But Constantia, although she looked with hauteur on everybody beneath her, andexpected to be slavishly obeyed, was tolerably kind to the poororphan. Her true torment began, when, on laving her young lady'sroom, she had to assist Mdlle. Dufour. Notwithstanding that she triedsincerely to do her best, she was never able to satisfy her, or todraw from her naught but harsh reproaches. 

Thus two months passed. 

One day Mdlle. Dufour went very early to confession, and Anielka wasseized with an eager longing to gaze once more in peace and freedomon the beautiful blue sky and green trees, as she used to do when thefirst rays of the rising sun streamed in at the window of the littleforest cabin. She ran into the garden. Enchanted by the sight of somany beautiful flowers, she went farther and farther along the smoothand winding walks. Till she entered the forest. She who had been, solong away from her beloved trees, roamed where they were thickest. Here she gazes boldly around. She sees no one! She is alone! A littlefarther on she meets with a rivulet which flows through the forest. Here she remembers that she has not yet prayed. She kneels down, andwith hands clasped and eyes upturned she begins to sing in a sweetvoice the Hymn to the virgin. 

As she went on she sang louder and with increased fervor. Her breastheaved with emotion, her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy; but whenthe hymn was finished she lowered her head, tears began to fall overher cheeks, until at last she sobbed aloud. She might have remainedlong in this condition, had not some one come behind her, saying, "Do not cry, my poor girl; it is better to sing than to weep. " Theintruder raised her head, wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, andkissed her on the forehead. 

It was the Count's son, Leon!

"You must not cry, " he continued; "be calm, and when the filipony(peddlers) come, buy yourself a pretty handkerchief. " He then gaveher a ruble and walked away. Anielka, after concealing the coin in hercorset, ran quickly back to the palace. 

Fortunately, Mdlle. Dufour had not yet returned, and Anielka seatedherself in her accustomed corner. She often took out the ruble to, gaze fondly upon it, and set to work to make a little purse, which, having fastened to a ribbon, she hung round her neck. She did notdream of spending it, for it would have deeply grieved her to partwith the gift of the only person in the whole house who had lookedkindly on her. 

From this time Anielka remained always in her young mistress's room;she was better dressed, and Mdlle. Dufour ceased to persecute her. Towhat did she owe this sudden change? Perhaps to a remonstrance fromLeon. Constantia ordered Anielka to sit beside her whilst taking herlessons from her music masters, and on her going to the drawing-room, she was left in her apartments alone. Being thus more kindly treated. Anielka lost by degrees her timidity; and when her young mistress, whilst occupied over some embroidery, would tell her to sing, shedid so boldly and with a steady voice. A greater favor awaited her. Constantia, when unoccupied, began teaching Anielka to read in Polish;and Mdlle. Dufour thought it politic to follow the example of hermistress, and began to teach her French. 

Meanwhile, a new kind of torment commenced. Having easily learnt thetwo languages, Anielka acquired an irresistible passion for reading. Books had for her the charm of the forbidden fruit, for she could onlyread by stealth at night, or when her mistress went visiting in theneighborhood. The kindness hitherto shown her for a time, began torelax. Leon had set off on a tour, accompanied by his old tutor, and abosom friend, as young, as gay, and as thoughtless as himself. 

So passed the two years of Leon's absence. When he returned, Anielkawas seventeen, and had become tall and handsome. No one who hadnot seen her during this time, would have recognized her. Of thisnumber was Leon. In the midst of perpetual gayety and change, itwas not possible he could have remembered a poor peasant girl; butin Anielka's memory he had remained as a superior being, as herbenefactor, as the only one who had spoken kindly to her, when poor, neglected, forlorn! When in some French romance she met with a youngman of twenty, of a noble character and handsome appearance, shebestowed on him the name of Leon. The recollection of the kiss be hadgiven her ever brought a burning blush to her cheek, and made her sighdeeply. 

One day Leon came to his sister's room. Anielka was there, seated ina corner at work. Leon himself had considerably changed; from a boy hehad grown into a man. "I suppose, Constantia, " he said, "you havebeen told what a, good boy I am, and with what docility I shall submitmyself to the matrimonial yoke, which the Count and Countess haveprovided for me?" and he began whistling, and danced some steps of theMazurka. 

"Perhaps you will be refused, " said Constantia coldly. 

"Refused! Oh, no. The old Prince has already given his consent, andas for his daughter, she is desperately in love with me. Look at thesemoustachios; could anything be more irresistible?" and he glanced inthe glass and twirled them round his fingers; then continuing in agraver tone, he said, "To tell the sober truth, I cannot say thatI reciprocate. My intended is not at all to my taste. She is nearlythirty, and so thin, that whenever I look at her, I am reminded ofmy old tutor's anatomical sketches. But, thanks to her Parisiandress-maker, she makes up a tolerably good figure, and looks well ina Cachemere. Of all things, you know, I wished for a wife with animposing appearance, and I don't care about love. I find it's notfashionable, and only exists in the exalted imagination of poets. "

"Surely people are in love with one another sometimes, " said thesister. 

"Sometimes, " repeated Anielka, inaudibly. The dialogue had painfullyaffected her, and she knew not why. Her heart beat quickly, and herface was flushed, and made her look more lovely than ever. 

"Perhaps. Of course we profess to adore every pretty woman, " Leonadded abruptly. "But, my dear sister, what a charming ladies' maid youhave!" He approached the corner, where Anielka sat, and bent on her acoarse familiar smile. Anielka, although a serf, was displeased, andreturned it with a glance full of dignity. But when her eyes restedon the youth's handsome face, a feeling, which had been gradually andsilently growing in her young and inexperienced heart, predominatedover her pride and displeasure. She wished ardently to recall herselfto Leon's memory, and half unconsciously raised her hand to the littlepurse which always hung round her neck. She took from it the rouble hehad given her. 

"See!" shouted Leon, "what a droll girl; how proud she is of herriches! Why, girl, you are a woman of fortune, mistress of a wholerouble!"

"I hope she came by it honestly, " said the old Countess, who at thismoment entered. 

At this insinuation, shame and indignation kept Anielka, for a time, silent. She replaced the money quickly in its purse, with the bitterthought that the few happy moments which had been so indelibly stampedupon her memory, had been utterly forgotten by Leon. To clear herself, she at last stammered out, seeing they all looked at her inquiringly, "Do you not remember, M. Leon, that you gave me this coin two yearsago in the garden"?"

"How odd!" exclaimed Leon, laughing, "do you expect me to rememberall the pretty girls to whom I have given money? But I suppose you areright, or you would not have treasured up this unfortunate rouble asif it were a holy relic. You should not be a miser, child; money ismade to be spent. "

"Pray put an end to these jokes, " said Constantia impatiently; "I likethis girl, and I will not have her teased. She understands my waysbetter than any one, and often puts me in a good humor with herbeautiful voice. "

"Sing something for me pretty damsel, " said Leon, "and I will give youanother rouble, a new and shining one. "

"Sing instantly, " said Constantia imperiously. 

At this command Anielka could no longer stifle her grief; she coveredher face with her hands, and wept violently. 

"Why do you cry?" asked her mistress impatiently; "I cannot bear it; Idesire you to do as you are bid. "

It might have been from the constant habit of slavish obedience, or astrong feeling of pride, but Anielka instantly ceased weeping. Therewas a moment's pause, during which the old Countess went grumbling outof the room. Anielka chose the Hymn to the Virgin she had warbled inthe garden, and as she sung, she prayed fervently;--she prayed forpeace, for deliverance from the acute emotions which had been arousedwithin her. Her earnestness gave an intensity of expression to themelody, which affected her listeners. They were silent for somemoments after its conclusion. Leon walked up and down with his armsfolded on his breast. Was it agitated with pity for the accomplishedyoung slave? or by any other tender emotion? What followed will show. 

"My dear Constantia, " he said, suddenly stopping before his sister andkissing her hand, "will you do me a favor?"

Constantia looked inquiringly in her brother's face without speaking. 

"Give me this girl"

"Impossible!"

"I am quite in earnest, " continued Leon, "I wish to offer her to myfuture wife. In the Prince her father's private chapel they are muchin want of a solo soprano. "

"I shall not give her to you, " said Constantia. "

"Not as a free gift, but in exchange. I will give you instead acharming young negro--so black. The women in St. Petersburgh and inParis raved about him: but I was inexorable: I half refused him to myprincess. "

"No, no, " replied Constantia; "I shall be lonely without this girl, Iam so used to her. "

"Nonsense! you can get peasant girls by the dozen; but a blackpage, with teeth whiter than ivory, and purer than pearls; a perfectoriginal in his way; you surely cannot withstand. You will kill halfthe province with envy. A negro servant is the most fashionable thinggoing, and yours will be the first imported into the province. "

This argument was irresistible. "Well, " replied Constantia, "when doyou think of taking her?"

"Immediately; to-day at five o'clock, " said Leon; and he went merrilyout of the room. 

This then was the result of his cogitation--of Anielka's Hymn to theVirgin. Constantia ordered Anielka to prepare herself for the journey, with as little emotion as if she had exchanged away a lap-dog, orparted with parrot. 

She obeyed in silence. Her heart was full. She went into the gardenthat she might relieve herself by weeping unseen. With one handsupporting her burning head, and the other pressed tightly against herheart, to stifle her sobs, she wandered on mechanically till she foundherself by the side of the river. She felt quickly for her purse, intending to throw the rouble into the water, but as quickly thrust itback again, for she could not bear to part with the treasure. She feltas if without it she would be still more an orphan. Weeping bitterly, she leaned against the tree which had once before witnessed her tears. 

By degrees the stormy passion within her gave place to calmreflection. This day she was to go away; she was to dwell beneathanother roof, to serve another mistress. Humiliation! alwayshumiliation! But at least it would be some change in her life. As shethought of this, she returned hastily to the palace that she mightnot, on the last day of her servitude, incur the anger of her youngmistress. 

Scarcely was Anielka attired in her prettiest dress, when Constantiacame to her with a little box, from which she took several gay-coloredribbons, and decked her in them herself, that the serf might do hercredit in the new family. And when Anielka, bending down to her feet, thanked her, Constantia, with marvelous condescension, kissed her onher forehead. Even Leon cast an admiring glance upon her. His servantsoon after came to conduct her to the carriage, and showing her whereto seat herself, they rolled off quickly toward Radapol. 

For the first time in her life Anielka rode in a carriage. Her headturned quite giddy, she could not look at the trees and fields as theyflew past her; but by degrees she became more accustomed to it, andthe fresh air enlivening her spirits, she performed the rest of thejourney in a tolerably happy state of mind. At last they arrived inthe spacious court-yard before the Palace of Radapol, the dwellingof a once rich and powerful Polish family, now partly in ruin. It wasevident, even to Anielka, that the marriage was one for money on theone side, and for rank on the other. 

Among other renovations at the castle, occasioned by the approachingmarriage, the owner of it, Prince Pelazia, had obtained singersfor the chapel, and had engaged Signer Justiniani, an Italian, aschapel-master. Immediately on Leon's arrival, Anielka was presentedto him. He made her sing a scale, and pronounced her voice to beexcellent. 

Anielka found that, in Radapol, she was treated with a little moreconsideration than at Olgogrod, although she had often to submit tothe caprices of her new mistress, and she found less time to read. Butto console herself, she gave all her attention to singing, which shepracticed several hours a day. Her naturally great capacity, underthe guidance of the Italian, began to develop itself steadily. Besidessacred, he taught her operatic music. On one occasion Anielka sungan aria in so impassioned and masterly style, that the enrapturedJustiniani clapped his hands for joy, skipped about the room, and notfinding words enough to praise her, exclaimed several times, "PrimaDonna! Prima Donna!"

But the lessons were interrupted. The Princess's wedding-day wasfixed upon, after which event she and Leon were to go to Florence, andAnielka was to accompany them. Alas! feelings which gave her poignantmisery still clung to her. She despised herself for her weakness; butshe loved Leon. The sentiment was too deeply implanted in her bosom tobe eradicated; too strong to be resisted. It was the first love of ayoung and guileless heart, and had grown in silence and despair. 

Anielka was most anxious to know something of her adopted parents. Once, after the old prince had heard her singing, he asked her withgreat kindness about her home. She replied, that she was an orphan, and had been taken by force from those who had so kindly supplied theplace of parents, Her apparent attachment to the old bee-keeper andhis wife so pleased the prince, that he said, "You are a good child. Anielka, and to-morrow I will send you to visit them. You shall takethem some presents. "

Anielka, overpowered with gratitude, threw herself at the feet of theprince. She dreamed all night of the happiness that was in store forher, and the joy of the poor, forsaken, old people; and when the nextmorning she set off, she could scarcely restrain her impatience. Atlast they approached the cabin; she saw the forest, with its talltrees, and the meadows covered with flowers. She leaped from thecarriage, that she might be nearer these trees and flowers, everyone of which she seemed to recognize. The weather was beautiful. Shebreathed with avidity the pure air which, in imagination, brought toher the kisses and caresses of her poor father! Her foster-father was, doubtless, occupied with his bees; but his wife?

Anielka opened the door of the cabin; all was silent and deserted. Thearm-chair on which the poor old woman used to sit, was overturned in acorner. Anielka was chilled by a fearful presentiment. She went with aslow step toward the bee-hives; there she saw a little boy tending thebees, whilst the old man was stretched on the ground beside him. Therays of the sun, falling on his pale and sickly face, showed that hewas very ill. Anielka stooped down over him, and said, "It is I, it isAnielka, your own Anielka, who always loves you. "

The old man raised his head, gazed upon her with a ghastly smile, andtook off his cap. 

"And my good old mother, where is she?" Anielka asked. 

"She is dead!" answered the old man, and falling back he beganlaughing idiotically. Anielka wept. She gazed earnestly on the wornframe, the pale and wrinkled cheeks, it which scarcely a sign oflife could be perceived; it seemed to her that he had suddenly fallenasleep, and not wishing to disturb him, she went to the carriage forthe presents. When she returned, she took his hand. It was cold. Thepoor old bee-keeper had breathed his last!

Anielka was carried almost senseless back to the carriage, whichquickly returned with her to the castle. There she revived a little;but the recollection that she was now quite alone in the world, almostdrove her to despair. 

Her master's wedding and the journey to Florence were a dream toher. Though the strange sights of a strange city slowly restored herperceptions, they did not her cheerfulness. She felt as if she couldno longer endure the misery of her life; she prayed to die. 

"Why are you so unhappy?" said the Count Leon kindly to her, one day. 

To have explained the cause of her wretchedness would have been deathindeed. 

"I am going to give you a treat, " continued Leon. "A celebrated singeris to appear to-night in the theater. I will send you to hear her, andafterward you shall sing to me what you remember of her performances. "

Anielka went. It was a new era in her existence. Herself, by thistime, an artist, she could forget her griefs, and enter with herwhole soul into the beauties of the art she now heard practiced inperfection for the first time. To music a chord responded in herbreast which vibrated powerfully. During the performances she wasat one moment pale and trembling, tears rushing into her eyes; atanother, she was ready to throw herself at the feet of the cantatrice, in an ecstacy of admiration. "Prima donna, "--by that name the publiccalled on her to receive their applause, and it was the same, thoughtAnielka, that Justiniani had bestowed upon her. Could she also be aprima donna? What a glorious destiny! To be able to communicate one'sown emotions to masses of entranced listeners; to awaken in them, bythe power of the voice, grief, love, terror. 

Strange thoughts continued to haunt her on her return home. She wasunable to sleep. She formed desperate plans. At last she resolved tothrow off the yoke of servitude, and the still more painful slavery offeelings which her pride disdained. Having learnt the address of theprima donna, she went early one morning to her house. 

On entering she said, in French, almost incoherently, so great was heragitation--"Madam, I am a poor serf belonging to a Polish family whohave lately arrived in Florence. I have escaped from them; protect, shelter me. They say I can sing. "

The Signora Teresina, a warm-hearted, passionate Italian, wasinterested by her artless earnestness. She said, "Poor child! you musthave suffered much, "--she took Anielka's hand in hers. "You say youcan sing; let me hear you. " Anielka seated herself on an ottoman. Sheclasped her hands over her knees, and tears fell into her lap. Withplaintive pathos, and perfect truth of intonation, she prayed insong. The Hymn to the Virgin seemed to Teresina to be offered up byinspiration. 

The Signora was astonished. "Where, " she asked, in wonder, "were youtaught?"

Anielka narrated her history, and when she had finished, the primadonna spoke so kindly to her that she felt as if she had known her foryears. Anielka was Teresina's guest that day and the next. After theOpera, on the third day, the prima donna made her sit beside her, andsaid:--

"I think you are a very good girl, and you shall stay with me always. "

The girl was almost beside herself with joy. 

"We will never part. Do you consent, Anielka?"

"Do not call me Anielka. Give me instead some Italian name. "

"Well, then, be Giovanna. The dearest friend I ever had but whom Ihave lost--was named Giovanna, " said the prima donna. 

"Then, I will be another Giovanna to you. "

Teresina then said, "I hesitated to receive you at first, for yoursake as well as mine; it you are safe now. I learn that your masterand mistress, after searching vainly for you, have returned toPoland. "

From this time Anielka commenced an entirely new life. She tooklessons in singing every day from the Signora. And got an engagementto appear in inferior characters at the theater. She had now her ownincome, and her own servant--she, who till then had been obliged toserve herself. She acquired the Italian language rapidly, and soonpassed for a native of the country. 

So passed three years. New and varied impressions failed, however, to blot out the old ones. Anielka arrived at great perfection in hersinging, and even began to surpass the prima donna, who was losingher voice from weakness of the chest. This sad discovery changed thecheerful temper of Teresina. She ceased to sing in public; for shecould not endure to excite pity, where she had formerly commandedadmiration. 

She determined to retire. "You, " she said to Anielka, "shall nowassert your claim to the first rank in the vocal art. You willmaintain it. You surpass me. Often, on hearing you sing, I havescarcely been able to stifle a feeling of jealousy. "

Anielka placed her hand on Teresina's shoulder, and kissed her. 

"Yes, " continued Teresina, regardless of everything but the brightfuture she was shaping for her friend. "We will go to Vienna--thereyou will be understood and appreciated. You shall sing at theItalian Opera, and I will be by your side--unknown, no longer sought, worshiped--but will glory in your triumphs. They will be a repetitionof my own; for have I not taught you? Will they not be the result ofmy work!"

Though Anielka's ambition was fired, her heart was softened, and shewept violently. 

Five months had scarcely elapsed, when a _furore_ was created inVienna by the first appearance, at the Italian Opera, of the SignoraGiovanna. Her enormous salary at once afforded her the means of evenextravagant expenditure. Her haughty treatment of male admirers onlyattracted new ones; but in the midst of her triumphs she thought oftenof the time when the poor orphan of Pobereze was cared for by nobody. This remembrance made her receive the flatteries of the crowd withan ironical smile; their fine speeches fell coldly on her ear, theireloquent looks made no impression on her heart: _that_, no changecould alter, no temptation win. 

In the flood of unexpected success a new misfortune overwhelmed her. Since their arrival at Vienna, Teresina's health rapidly declined, andin the sixth month of Anielka's operatic reign she expired, leavingall her wealth, which was considerable, to her friend. 

Once more Anielka was alone in the world. Despite all the honors andblandishments of her position, the old feeling of desolateness cameupon her. The new shock destroyed her health. She was unable to appearon the stage. To sing was a painful effort; she grew indifferent towhat passed around her. Her greatest consolation was in succoring thepoor and friendless, and her generosity was most conspicuous to allyoung orphan girls without fortune. She had never ceased to love hernative land, and seldom appeared in society, unless it was to meet hercountrymen. If ever she sang, it was in Polish. 

A year had elapsed since the death of the Signora Teresina, whenthe Count Selka, a rich noble of Volkynia, at that time in Vienna, solicited her presence at a party. It was impossible to refuse theCount and his lady, from whom she had received great kindness. She went. When in their saloons, filled with all the fashion andaristocracy in Vienna, the name of Giovanna was announced, a generalmurmur was heard. She entered, pale and languid, and proceeded betweenthe two rows made for her by the admiring assembly, to the seat ofhonor beside the mistress of the house. 

Shortly after, the Count Selka led her to the piano. She sat downbefore it, and thinking what she should sing, glanced round upon theassembly. She could not help feeling that the admiration which beamedfrom the faces around her was the work of her own merit, for had sheneglected the great gift of nature--her voice, she could not haveexcited it. With a blushing cheek, and eyes sparkling with honestpride, she struck the piano with a firm hand, and from her seeminglyweak and delicate chest poured forth a touching Polish melody, with avoice pure, sonorous, and plaintive. Tears were in many eyes, and thebeating of every heart was quickened. 

The song was finished, but the wondering silence was unbroken. Giovanna leaned exhausted on the arm of the chair, and cast downher eyes. On again raising them, she perceived a gentleman who gazedfixedly at her, as if he still listened to echoes which had notyet died within him. The master of the house, to dissipate histhoughtfulness, led him toward Giovanna. "Let me present to you, Signora, " he said, "a countryman, the Count Leon Roszynski. "

The lady trembled; she silently bowed, fixed her eyes on the ground, and dared not raise them. Pleading indisposition, which was fullyjustified by her pallid features, she soon after withdrew. 

When on the following day Giovanna'a servant announced the CountsSelka and Roszynski, a peculiar smile played on her lips, and whenthey entered, she received the latter with the cold and formalpoliteness of a stranger. Controlling the feelings of her heart, she schooled her features to an expression of indifference. It wasmanifest from Leon's manner, that without the remotest recognition, anindefinable presentiment regarding her possessed him. The Counts hadcalled to know if Giovanna had recovered from her indisposition. Leonbegged to be permitted to call again. 

Where was his wife? why did he never mention her? Giovanna continuallyasked herself these questions when they had departed. 

A few nights after, the Count Leon arrived sad and thoughtful. Heprevailed on Giovanna to sing one of her Polish melodies; which shetold him had been taught, when a child, by her muse. Roszynski, unableto restrain the expression of an intense admiration he had long felt, frantically seized her hand, and exclaimed, "I love you!"

She withdrew it from his grasp, remained silent for a few minutes, and then said slowly, distinctly, and ironically, "But I do not love_you_, Count Roszynski. "

Leon rose from his seat. He pressed his hands to his brow, and wassilent. Giovanna remained calm and tranquil. "It is a penalty fromHeaven, " continued Leon, as if speaking to himself, "for not havingfulfilled my duty as a husband toward one whom I chose voluntarily, but without reflection. I wronged her, and am punished. "

Giovanna turned her eyes upon him. Leon continued, "Young, and witha heart untouched, I married a princess about ten years older thanmyself, of eccentric habits and bad temper. She treated me as aninferior. She dissipated the fortune hoarded up with so much care bymy parents, and yet was ashamed on account of my origin to be calledby my name. Happily for me, she was fond of visiting and amusements. Otherwise, to escape from her, I might have become a gambler, orworse; but, to avoid meeting her, I remained at home--for there sheseldom was. At first from ennui, but afterward from real delight inthe occupation, I gave myself up to study. Reading formed my mind andheart. I became a changed being. Some months ago my father died, mysister went to Lithuania, whilst my mother, in her old age, and withher ideas, was quite incapable of understanding my sorrow. So when mywife went to the baths for the benefit of her ruined health, I camehere in the hope of meeting with some of my former friends--I sawyou--"

Giovanna blushed like one detected; but speedily recovering herself, asked with calm pleasantry, "Surely you do not number _me_ among yourformer friends?"

"I know not. I have been bewildered. It is strange; but from themoment that I saw you at Count Selka's, a powerful instinct of loveovercame me; not a new feeling; but as if some latent, long-hid, undeveloped sentiment had suddenly burst forth into an uncontrollablepassion. I love, I adore you. I--"

The Prima Donna interrupted him--not with speech, but with a lookwhich awed, which chilled him. Pride, scorn, irony sat in her smile. Satire darted from her eyes. After a pause, she repeated slowly andpointedly, "Love _me_, Count Roszynski?"

"Such is my destiny, " he replied. "Nor, despite your scorn, will Istruggle against it. I feel it is my fate ever to love you; I fear itis my fate never to be loved by you. It is dreadful. "

Giovanna witnessed the Count's emotion with sadness. "To have, " shesaid mournfully, "one's first, pure, ardent, passionate affectionunrequited, scorned, made a jest of, is indeed a bitterness, almostequal to that of death. "

She made a strong effort to conceal her emotion. Indeed she controlledit so well as to speak the rest with a sort of gayety. 

"You have at least been candid, Count Roszynski; I will imitate youby telling a little history that occurred in your country. There wasa poor girl born and bred a serf to her wealthy lord and master. Whenscarcely fifteen years old, she was torn from a state of happy rusticfreedom--the freedom of humility and content--to be one of the courtlyslaves of the Palace. Those who did not laugh at her, scolded her. One kind word was vouchsafed to her, and that came from the lord'sson. She nursed it and treasured it; till, from long concealing andrestraining her feelings, she at last found that gratitude had changedinto a sincere affection. But what does a man of the world care forthe love of a serf? It does not even flatter his vanity. The youngnobleman did not understand the source of her tears and her grief, andhe made a present of her, as he would have done of some animal, to hisbetrothed. "

Leon, agitated and somewhat enlightened, would have interrupted her;but Giovanna said, "Allow me to finish my tale. Providence did notabandon this poor orphan, but permitted her to rise to distinction bythe talent with which she was endowed by nature. The wretched serfof Pobereze became a celebrated Italian cantatrice. _Then_ her formerlord meeting her in society, and seeing her admired and courted by allthe world, without knowing who she really was, was afflicted, as if bythe dictates of Heaven, with a love for this same girl, --with a guiltylove"--

And Giovanna rose, as she said this, to remove herself further fromher admirer. 

"No, no!" he replied earnestly; "with a pure and holy passion. "

"Impossible!" returned Giovanna. "Are you not married?"

Roszynski vehemently tore a letter from his vest, and handed it toGiovanna. It was sealed with black, for it announced the death of hiswife at the baths. It had only arrived that morning. 

"You have lost no time, " said the cantatrice, endeavoring to concealher feelings under an iron mask of reproach. 

There was a pause. Each dared not speak. The Count knew--but withoutactually and practically believing what seemed incredible--thatAnielka and Giovanna were the same person--_his slave_. That terriblerelationship checked him. Anielka, too, had played her part to the endof endurance. The long cherished tenderness, the faithful love of herlife could not longer be wholly mastered. Hitherto they had spoken inItalian. She now said, in Polish, "You have a right, my Lord Roszynski, to that poor Anielka who escapedfrom the service of your wife in Florence; you can force her back toyour palace, to its meanest work; but"--

"Have mercy on me!" cried Leon. 

"But, " continued the serf of Pobereze, firmly, "you cannot force me tolove you. "

"Do not mock--do not torture me more; you are sufficiently revenged. I will not offend you by importunity. You must indeed hate me! Butremember that we Poles wished to give freedom to our serfs; and forthat very reason our country was invaded and dismembered by despoticpowers. We must therefore continue to suffer slavery as it exists inRussia; but, soul and body, we are averse to it; and when our countryonce more becomes free, be assured no shadow of slavery will remain inthe land. Curse then our enemies, and pity us that we stand in sucha desperate position between Russian bayonets and Siberia, and thehatred of our serfs. "

So saying, and without waiting for a reply, Leon rushed from the room. The door was closed. Giovanna listened to the sounds of his rapidfootsteps till they died in the street. She would have followed, butdared not. She ran to the window. Roszynski's carriage was rollingrapidly away, and she exclaimed vainly, "I love you, Leon; I loved youalways!"

Her tortures were unendurable. To relieve them she hastened to herdesk, and wrote these words:

"Dearest Leon, forgive me; let the past be forever forgotten. Returnto your Anielka. She always has been, ever will be, yours!"

She dispatched the missive. Was it too late, or would it bring himback? In the latter hope she retired to her chamber, to execute alittle project. 

Leon was in despair. He saw he had been premature in so soon declaringhis passion after the news of his wife's death, and vowed he wouldnot see Anielka again for several months. To calm his agitation, hehad ridden some miles into the country. When he returned to his hotelafter some hours, he found her note. With the wild delight it haddarted into his soul, he flew back to her. 

On regaining her saloon a new and terrible vicissitude seemedto sport with his passion--she was nowhere to be seen. Had theItalian cantatrice fled? Again he was in despair-stupefied withdisappointment. As he stood uncertain how to act, in the midst ofthe floor, he heard, as from a distance, an Ave Maria poured forthin tones he half recognized. The sounds brought back to him a hostof recollections: a weeping serf--the garden of his own palace. In astate of new rapture he followed the voice. He traced it to an innerchamber, and he there beheld the lovely singer kneeling in the costumeof a Polish serf. She rose, greeted Leon with a touching smile, andstepped forward with serious bashfulness. Leon extended his arms; shesank into them; and in that fond embrace all past wrongs and sorrowswere forgotten! Anielka drew from her bosom a little purse, and tookfrom it a piece of silver, It was the rouble. Now, Leon did not smileat it. He comprehended the sacredness of this little gift, and sometears of repentance fell on Anielka's hand. 

A few months after, Leon wrote to the steward of Olgogrod to prepareeverything splendidly for the reception of his second wife. Heconcluded his letter with these words:

"I understand that in the dungeon beneath my palace there are someunfortunate men, who were imprisoned during my father's lifetime. Letthem be instantly liberated. This is my first act of gratitude to God, who has so infinitely blessed me!"

Anielka longed ardently to behold her native land. They left Viennaimmediately after the wedding, although it was in the middle ofJanuary. 

It was already quite dark when the carriage, with its four horses, stopped in front of the portico of the palace of Olgogrod. Whilst thefootman was opening the door on one side, a beggar soliciting almsappeared at the other, where Anielka was seated. Happy to perform agood action as she crossed the threshold of her new home, she gave himsome money; but the man, instead of thanking her, returned her bountywith a savage laugh, at the same time scowling at her in the fiercestmanner from beneath his thick and shaggy brows. The strangenessof this circumstance sensibly affected Anielka, and clouded herhappiness. Leon soothed and reassured her. In the arms of her belovedhusband she forgot all but the happiness of being the idol of hisaffections. 

Fatigue and excitement made the night most welcome. All was dark andsilent around the palace, and some hours of the night had passed, when suddenly flames burst forth from several parts of the building atonce. The palace was enveloped in fire; it raged furiously. The flamesmounted higher and higher; the windows cracked with a fearful sound, and the smoke penetrated into the most remote apartments. 

A single figure of a man was seen stealing over the snow, which laylike a winding-sheet on the solitary waste; his cautious steps wereheard on the frozen snow as it crisped beneath his tread. It was thebeggar who had accosted Anielka. On a rising ground he turned to gazeon the terrible scene. 

"No more unfortunate creatures will now be doomed to pass their livesin your dungeons, " he exclaimed. "What was _my_ crime? Reminding mymaster of the lowness of his birth. For this they tore me from my onlychild--my darling little Anielka; they had no pity even for her orphanstate; let them perish all!"

Suddenly a young and beautiful creature rushes wildly to one of theprincipal windows: she makes a violent effort to escape. For a momenther lovely form, clothed in white, shines in terrible relief againstthe background of blazing curtains and walls of fire, and as instantlysinks back into the blazing element. Behind her is another figure, vainly endeavoring to aid her--he perishes also: neither of them areever seen again!

This appalling tragedy horrified even the perpetrator of the crime. Herushed from the place, and as he heard the crash of the falling walls, he closed his ears with his hands, and darted on faster and faster. 

The next day some peasants discovered the body of a man frozento death, lying on a heap of snow--it was that of the wretchedincendiary. Providence, mindful of his long, of his cruel imprisonmentand sufferings, spared him the anguish of knowing that the mistress ofthe palace he had destroyed, and who perished in the flames, was hisown beloved daughter--the Serf of Pobereze!

 * * * * *

A TRUE POET never takes a "poetic license. "

 * * * * *

FROM THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE. 

THE MYSTERIOUS COMPACT. 

IN TWO PARTS. --PART I. 

In the latter years of the last century, two youths, Ferdinand VonHallberg and Edward Von Wensleben were receiving their education inthe military academy of Mariensheim. Among their schoolfellows theywere called Orestes and Pylades, or Damon and Pythias, on accountof their tender friendship, which constantly recalled to theirschoolfellows' minds the history of these ancient worthies. Both weresons of officers who had long served the state with honor, both weredestined for their father's profession, both accomplished and endowedby nature with no mean talents. But fortune had not been so impartialin the distribution of her favors--Hallberg's father lived on a smallpension, by means of which he defrayed the expenses of his son'sschooling at the cost of the government; while Wensleben's parentswillingly paid the handsomest salary in order to insure to theironly child the best education which the establishment afforded. This disparity in circumstances at first produced a species of proudreserve, amounting to coldness, in Ferdinand's deportment, whichyielded by degrees to the cordial affection that Edward manifestedtoward him on every occasion. Two years older than Edward, of athoughtful and almost melancholy turn of mind, Ferdinand soon gaineda considerable influence over his weaker friend, who clung to him withalmost girlish dependence. 

Their companionship had now lasted with satisfaction and happiness toboth, for several years, and the youths had formed for themselves themost delightful plans--how they were never to separate, how they wereto enter the service in the same regiment, and if a war broke out, how they were to fight side by side, and conquer or die together. Butdestiny, or rather Providence--whose plans are usually opposed to thedesigns of mortals--had ordained otherwise. 

Earlier than was expected, Hallberg's father found an opportunity tohave his son appointed to an infantry regiment, and he was orderedimmediately to join the staff in a small provincial town, in anout-of-the-way mountainous district. This announcement fell like athunderbolt on the two friends; but Ferdinand considered himself byfar the more unhappy, since it was ordained that he should be the oneto sever the happy bond that bound them, and to inflict a deep woundon his loved companion. His schoolfellows vainly endeavored to consolehim by calling his attention to his new commission, and the preferencewhich had been shown him above so many others. He only thought of theapproaching separation; he only saw his friend's grief, and passed thefew remaining days that were allowed him at the academy by Edward'sside, who husbanded every moment of his Ferdinand's society withjealous care, and could not bear to lose sight of him for an instant. In one of their most melancholy hours, excited by sorrow and youthfulenthusiasm, they bound themselves by a mysterious vow, namely, thatthe one whom God should think fit to call first from this world, should bind himself (if conformable to the Divine will) to give somesign of his remembrance and affection to the survivor. 

The place where this vow was made was a solitary spot in the garden, by a monument of gray marble, overshadowed by dark firs, which theformer director of the institution had caused to be erected to thememory of his son, whose premature death was recorded on the stone. 

Here the friends met at night, and by the fitful light of the moonthey pledged themselves to the rash and fanciful contract, andconfirmed and consecrated it the next morning by a religious ceremony. After this they were able to look the approaching separation in theface more manfully, and Edward strove hard to quell the melancholyfeeling which had lately arisen in his mind on account of the constantforeboding that Ferdinand expressed of his own early death. "No, "thought Edward, "his pensive turn of mind and his wild imaginationcause him to reproach himself without a cause for my sorrow and hisown departure. Oh, no, Ferdinand will not die early--he will not diebefore me. Providence will not leave me alone in the world. "

 * * * * *

The lonely Edward strove hard to console himself, for afterFerdinand's departure, the house, the world itself, seemed a desert;and absorbed by his own memories, he now recalled to mind many a darkspeech which had fallen from his absent friend, particularly in thelatter days of their intercourse, and which betokened but too plainlya presentiment of early death. But time and youth exercised, evenover these sorrows, their irresistible influence. Edward's spiritsgradually recovered their tone, and as the traveler always has theadvantage over the one who remains behind, in respect of new objectsto occupy his mind, so was Ferdinand even sooner calmed and cheered, and by degrees he became engrossed by his new duties and newacquaintances, not to the exclusion, indeed, of his friend's memory, but greatly to the alienation of his own sorrow. It was natural, insuch circumstances, that the young officer should console himselfsooner than poor Edward. The country in which Hallberg foundhimself was wild and mountainous, but possessed all the charms andpeculiarities of "far off" districts--simple, hospitable manners, old-fashioned customs, many tales and legends which arise fromthe credulity of the mountaineers, who invariably lean toward themarvelous, and love to people the wild solitudes with invisiblebeings. 

Ferdinand had soon, without seeking for it, made acquaintance withseveral respectable families in the town; and as it generallyhappens in such cases, he had become quite domesticated in the bestcountry-houses in the neighborhood; and the well-mannered, handsome, and agreeable youth was welcomed everywhere. The simple, patriarchallife in these old mansions and castles--the cordiality of the people, the wild, picturesque scenery, nay, the very legends themselves, wereentirely to Hallberg's taste. He adapted himself easily to his newmode of life, but his heart remained tranquil. This could not last. Before half a year had passed, the battalion to which he belonged wasordered to another station, and he had to part with many friends. Thefirst letter which he wrote after this change bore the impressionof impatience at the breaking up of a happy time. Edward found thisnatural enough; but he was surprised in the following letters todetect signs of a disturbed and desultory state of mind, whollyforeign to his friend's nature. The riddle was soon solved. Ferdinand's heart was touched for the first time, and perhaps becausethe impression had been made late, it was all the deeper. Unfavorablecircumstances opposed themselves to his hopes: the young lady wasof an ancient family, rich, and betrothed since her childhood to arelation, who was expected shortly to arrive in order to claim herpromised hand. Notwithstanding this engagement, Ferdinand and theyoung girl had become sincerely attached to each other, and hadboth resolved to dare everything with the hope of being united. Theypledged their troth in secret; the darkest mystery enveloped not onlytheir plans, but their affections; and as secrecy was necessary tothe advancement of their projects, Ferdinand entreated his friend toforgive him if he did not intrust his whole secret to a sheet of paperthat had at least sixty miles to travel, and which must pass throughso many hands. It was impossible from his letter to guess the name ofthe person or the place in question. "You know that I love, " he wrote, "therefore you know that the object of my secret passion is worthyof any sacrifice; for you know your friend too well to believe himcapable of any blind infatuation, and this must suffice for thepresent. No one must suspect what we are to each other; no one here orround the neighborhood must have the slightest clew to our plans. Anawful personage will soon make his appearance among us. His violenttemper, his inveterate obstinacy, (according to all that one hears ofhim, ) are well calculated to confirm in _her_ a well-founded aversion. But family arrangements and legal contracts exist, the fulfillmentof which the opposing party are bent on enforcing. The struggle willbe hard--perhaps unsuccessful; notwithstanding, I will strain everynerve. Should I fail, you must console yourself, my dear Edward, with the thought, that it will be no misfortune to your friend tobe deprived of an existence rendered miserable by the failure of hisdearest hopes, and separation from his dearest friend. Then may allthe happiness which Heaven has denied me be vouchsafed to you and her, so that my spirit may look down contentedly from the realms of light, and bless and protect you both. "

Such was the usual tenor of the letters which Edward received duringthat period, His heart was full of anxiety--he read danger anddistress in the mysterious communications of Ferdinand; and everyargument that affection and good sense could suggest did he make useof, in his replies, to turn his friend from this path of peril whichthreatened to end in a deep abyss. He tried persuasion, and urged himto desist for the sake of their long-tried affection--but when didpassion ever listen to the expostulations of friendship?

Ferdinand only saw one aim in life--the possession of the belovedone. All else faded from before his eyes, and even his correspondenceslackened, for his time was much taken up in secret excursions, arrangements of all kinds, and communications with all manner ofpersons; in fact every action of his present life tended to thefurtherance of his plan. 

All of a sudden his letters ceased. Many posts passed without a signof life. Edward was a prey to the greatest anxiety; he thought hisfriend had staked and lost. He imagined an elopement, a clandestinemarriage, a duel with a rival, and all these casualties were the morepainful to conjecture, since his entire ignorance of the real stateof things gave his fancy full range to conjure up all sorts ofmisfortunes. At length, after many more posts had come in without aline to pacify Edward's fears, without a word in reply to his earnestentreaties for some news, he determined on taking a step which he hadmeditated before, and only relinquished out of consideration for hisfriend's wishes. He wrote to the officer commanding the regiment, and made inquiries respecting the health and abode of Lieutenant VonHallberg, whose friends in the capital had remained for nearly twomonths without news of him, he who had hitherto proved a regular andfrequent correspondent. 

Another fortnight dragged heavily on, and at length the announcementcame in an official form. Lieutenant Von Hallberg had been invitedto the castle of a nobleman whom he was in the custom of visiting, inorder to be present at the wedding of a lady; that he was indisposedat the time, that he grew worse, and on the third morning had beenfound dead in his bed, having expired during the night from an attackof apoplexy. 

Edward could not finish the letter--it fell from his trembling hand. To see his worst fears realized so suddenly, overwhelmed him at first. His youth withstood the bodily illness which would have assailed aweaker constitution, and perhaps mitigated the anguish of his grief. He was not dangerously ill, but they feared many days for his reason;and it required all the kind solicitude of the director of thecollege, combined with the most skillful medical aid, to stem thetorrent of his sorrow, and to turn it gradually into a calmer channel, until by degrees the mourner recovered both health and reason. Hisyouthful spirits, however, had received a blow from which theynever rebounded, and one thought lay heavy on his mind, which he wasunwilling to share with any other person, and which, on that account, grew more and more painful. It was the memory of that holy promisewhich had been mutually contracted, that the survivor was to receivesome token of his friend's remembrance of him after death. Now twomonths had already passed since Ferdinand's earthly career had beenarrested, his spirit was free, why no sign? In the moment of deathEdward had had no intimation, no message from the passing spirit, andthis apparent neglect, so to speak, was another deep wound in Edward'sbreast. Do the affections cease with life? Was it contrary to the willof the Almighty that the mourner should taste this consolation? Didindividuality lose itself in death, and with it memory? Or did onestroke destroy spirit and body? These anxious doubts, which havebefore now agitated many who reflect on such subjects, exercised theirpower over Edward's mind with an intensity that none can imagine saveone whose position is in any degree similar. 

Time gradually deadened the intensity of his affliction. The violentparoxysms of grief subsided into a deep but calm regret. It was asif a mist had spread itself over every object which presented itselfbefore him, robbing them indeed of half their charms, yet leaving themvisible, and in their real relation to himself. During this mentalchange the autumn arrived, and with it the long-expected commission. It did not indeed occasion the joy which it might have done in formerdays, when it would have led to a meeting with Ferdinand, or atall events to a better chance of meeting, but it released him fromthe thraldom of college, and it opened to him a welcome sphere ofactivity. Now it so happened that his appointment led him accidentallyinto the very neighborhood where Ferdinand had formerly resided, onlywith this difference, that Edward's squadron was quartered in thelowlands, about a short day's journey from the town and woodlandenvirons in question. 

He proceeded to his quarters, and found an agreeable occupation in theexercise of his new duties. 

He had no wish to make acquaintances, yet he did not refuse theinvitations that were pressed upon him, lest he should he accused ofeccentricity and rudeness; and so be found himself soon entangled inall sorts of engagements with the neighboring gentry and nobility. Ifthese so-called gayeties gave him no particular pleasure, at least forthe time they diverted his thoughts; and with this view he acceptedan invitation (for the new-year and carnival were near at hand) toa great shooting-match which was to be held in the mountains--a spotwhich it was possible to reach in one day, with favorable weatherand the roads in good state. The day was appointed, the air tolerablyclear; a mild frost had made the roads safe and even, and Edward hadevery expectation of being able to reach Blumenberg in his sledgebefore night, as on the following morning the match was to take place. But as soon as he got near the mountains, where the sun retires soearly to rest, snow-clouds drove from all quarters, a cutting windcame roaring through the ravines, and a heavy fall of snow began. Twice the driver lost his way, and daylight was gone before he hadwell recovered it; darkness came on sooner than in other places, walled in as they were by dark mountains, with dark clouds above theirheads. It was out of the question to dream of reaching Blumenberg thatnight; but in this hospitable land, where every householder welcomesthe passing traveler, Edward was under no anxiety as to shelter. He only wished, before the night quite set in, to reach somecountry-house or castle; and now that the storm had abated in somedegree, that the heavens were a little clearer, and that a fewstars peeped out, a large valley opened before them, whose boldoutline Edward could distinguish, even in the uncertain light. Thewell-defined roofs of a neat village were perceptible, and behindthese, half-way up the mountain that crowned the plain, Edward thoughthe could discern a large building which glimmered with more than onelight. The road led straight into the village. Edward stopped andinquired. 

That building was indeed a castle: the village belonged to it, andboth were the property of the Baron Friedenberg. "Friedenberg!"repeated Edward: the name sounded familiar to him, yet he could notcall to mind when and where he had heard it. He inquired if the familywere at home, hired a guide, and arrived at length by a rugged pathwhich wound itself round steep rocks, to the summit of them, andfinally to the castle, which was perched there like an eagle's nest. The tinkling of the bells on Edward's sledge attracted the attentionof the inmates; the door was opened with prompt hospitality; servantsappeared with torches; Edward was assisted to emerge from under thefrozen apron of his carriage, out of his heavy pelisse, stiff withhoar-frost, and up a comfortable staircase into a long saloon ofsimple construction, where a genial warmth appeared to welcome himfrom a huge stove in the corner. The servants here placed two largeburning candles in massive silver sconces, and went out to announcethe stranger. 

The fitting-up of the room, or rather saloon, was perfectly simple. Family portraits, in heavy frames, hung round the walls, diversifiedby some maps. Magnificent stags' horns were arranged between; andthe taste of the master of the house was easily detected in thehunting-knives, powder-flasks, carbines, smoking-bags, and sportsmen'spouches, which were arranged, not without taste, as trophies of thechase. The ceiling was supported by large beams, dingy with smokeand age; and on the sides of the room were long benches, covered andpadded with dark cloth, and studded with large brass nails; whileround the dinner-table were placed several arm-chairs, also ofancient date. All bore the aspect of the good old times, of a simple, patriarchal life with affluence. Edward felt as if there were akind welcome in the inanimate objects which surrounded him, when theinner-door opened, and the master of the house entered, preceded by aservant, and welcomed his guest with courteous cordiality. 

Some apologies which Edward offered on account of his intrusion, weresilenced in a moment. 

"Come, now, Lieutenant, " said the Baron, "I must introduce you to myfamily. You are not such a stranger to us, as you fancy. "

With these words he took Edward by the arm, and, lighted by theservant, they passed through several lofty rooms, which were veryhandsomely furnished, although in an old-fashioned style, with fadedFlemish carpets, large chandeliers, and high-backed chairs: everythingin keeping with what the youth had already seen in the castle. Herewere the ladies of the house. At the other end of the room, by theside of an immense stove, ornamented with a large shield of the familyarms, richly emblazoned, and crowned by a gigantic Turk, in a mostcomfortable attitude of repose sat the lady of the house, an elderlymatron of tolerable circumference, in a gown of dark red satin, witha black mantle and a snow-white cap. She appeared to be playing cardswith the chaplain, who sat opposite to her at the table, and the BaronFriedenberg to have made the third hand at ombre, till he was calledaway to welcome his guest. On the other side of the room were twoyoung ladies, an elder person, who might be a governess, and a coupleof children, very much engrossed by a game at lotto. 

As Edward entered, the ladies rose to greet him, a chair was placedfor him near the mistress of the house, and very soon a cup ofchocolate and a bottle of tokay were served on a rich silver salver, to restore the traveler after the cold and discomfort of his drive:in fact it was easy for him to feel that these "far away" people wereby no means displeased at his arrival. An agreeable conversationsoon began among all parties. His travels, the shooting-match, theneighborhood, agriculture, all afforded subjects, and in a quarterof an hour Edward felt as if he had long been domesticated with thesesimple but truly well-informed people. 

Two hours flew swiftly by, and then a bell sounded for supper; theservants returned with lights, announced that the supper was on thetable, and lighted the company into the dining-room--the same intowhich Edward had first been ushered. Here, in the background, someother characters appeared on the scene--the agent, a couple of hissubalterns, and the physician. The guests ranged themselves round thetable. Edward's place was between the Baron and his wife. The chaplainsaid a short grace, when the Baroness, with an uneasy look, glanced ather husband over Edward's shoulder, and said, in a low whisper--

"My love, we are thirteen--that will never do. "

The Baron smiled, beckoned to the youngest of the clerks, andwhispered to him. The youth bowed, and withdrew. The servant took thecover away, and served his supper in the next room. 

"My wife, " said Friedenberg, "is superstitious, as all mountaineersare. She thinks it unlucky to dine thirteen. It certainly has happenedtwice (whether from chance or not who can tell?) that we have had tomourn the death of an acquaintance who had, a short time before, madethe thirteenth at our table. "

"This idea is not confined to the mountains. I know many people in thecapital who think with the Baroness, " said Edward. "Although in a townsuch ideas, which belong more especially to the olden time, are morelikely to be lost in the whirl and bustle which usually silenceseverything that is not essentially matter of fact. "

"Ah, yes, Lieutenant, " replied the Baron, smiling good-humoredly, "we keep up old customs better in the mountains. You see that by ourfurniture. People in the capital would call this sadly old-fashioned. "

"That which is really good and beautiful can never appear out ofdate, " rejoined Edward courteously; "and here, if I mistake not, presides a spirit that is ever striving after both. I must confess, Baron, that when I first entered your house, it was this very aspectof the olden time that enchanted me beyond measure. "

"That is always the effect which simplicity has on every unspoiledmind, " answered Friedenberg: "but townspeople have seldom a taste forsuch things. "

"I was partly educated on my father's estate, " said Edward, "which wassituated in the Highlands; and it appears to me as if, when I enteredyour house, I were visiting a neighbor of my father's, for the generalaspect is quite the same here as with us. "

"Yes, " said the chaplain, "mountainous districts have all a familylikeness: the same necessities, the same struggles with nature, thesame seclusion, all produce the same way of life among mountaineers. "

"On that account the prejudice against the number thirteen wasespecially familiar to me, " replied Edward. "We also dislike it;and we retain a consideration for many supernatural, or atleast inexplicable things, which I have met with again in thisneighborhood. "

"Yes, here, almost more than anywhere else, " continued the chaplain, "I think we excel all other mountaineers in the number and variety ofour legends and ghost stories. I assure you that there is not a caveor a church, or, above all, a castle, for miles round about, of whichwe could not relate something supernatural. "

The Baroness, who perceived the turn which the conversation was likelyto take, thought it better to send the children to bed; and when theywere gone, the priest continued, "Even here, in this castle--"

"Here!" inquired Edward, "in this very castle?"

"Yes, yes! Lieutenant, " interposed the Baron, "this house has thereputation of being haunted; and the most extraordinary thing is, thatthe matter cannot be denied by the skeptical, or accounted for by thereasonable. "

"And yet, " said Edward, "the castle looks so cheerful, so habitable. "

"Yes, this part which we live in, " answered the Baron; "but itconsists of only a few apartments sufficient for my family and thesegentlemen; the other portion of the building is half in ruins, anddates from the period when men established themselves on the mountainsfor greater safety. "

"There are some who maintain, " said the physician, "that a part of thewalls of the stern tower itself are of Roman origin; but that wouldsurely be difficult to prove. "

"But, gentlemen, " observed the Baroness, "you are losing yourselves inlearned descriptions as to the erection of the castle, and our guestis kept in ignorance of what he is anxious to hear. "

"Indeed, madam, " replied the chaplain, "this is not entirely foreignto the subject, since in the most ancient part of the building liesthe chamber in question. "

"Where apparitions have been seen?" inquired Edward, eagerly. 

"Not exactly, " replied the Baroness; "there is nothing fearful to beseen. "

"Come, let us tell him at once, " interrupted the Baron. "The fact is, that every guest who sleeps for the first time in this room (and ithas fallen to the lot of many, in turn, to do so, ) is visited by someimportant, significant dream or vision, or whatever I ought to callit, in which some future event is prefigured to him, or some pastmystery cleared up, which he had vainly striven to comprehend before. "

"Then, " interposed Edward, "it must be something like what is knownin the Highlands, under the name of second sight, a privilege, as someconsider it, which several persons and several families enjoy. "

"Just so, " said the physician, "the cases are very similar; yet themost mysterious part of this affair is, that it does not appear tooriginate with the individual, or his organization, or his sympathywith beings of the invisible world; no, the individual has nothing tosay to it--the locality does it all. Every one who sleeps there hashis mysterious dream, and the result proves its truth. "

"At least, in most instances, " continued the Baron, "when we have hadan opportunity of hearing the cases confirmed. I remember once, inparticular. You may recollect, Lieutenant, that when you first camein, I had the honor of telling you you were not quite a stranger tome. "

"Certainly, Baron; and I have been wishing for a long time to ask anexplanation of these words. "

"We have often heard your name mentioned by a particular friend ofyours--one who could never pronounce it without emotion. "

"Ah!" cried Edward, who now saw clearly why the Baron's name hadsounded familiar to him also--"ah! you speak of my friend Hallberg;truly do you say, we were indeed dear to each other. "

"Were!" echoed the Baron, in a faltering tone, as he observed thesudden change in Edward's voice and countenance; "can the blooming, vigorous youth be--"

"Dead!" exclaimed Edward; and the Baron deeply regretted that he hadtouched so tender a chord, as he saw the young officer's eyes fillwith tears, and a dark cloud pass over his animated features. 

"Forgive me, " he continued, while he leaned forward and pressedhis companion's hand; "I grieve that a thoughtless word should haveawakened such deep sorrow. I had no idea of his death; we all lovedthe handsome young man, and by his description of you were alreadymuch interested in you before we had ever seen you. "

The conversation now turned entirely on Hallberg. Edward related theparticulars of his death. Every one present had something to say inhis praise; and although this sudden allusion to his dearest friendhad agitated Edward in no slight degree, yet it was a consolation tohim to listen to the tribute these worthy people paid to the memory ofFerdinand, and to see how genuine was their regret at the tidings ofhis early death. The time passed swiftly away in conversation of muchinterest, and the whole company were surprised to hear ten o'clockstrike, an unusually late hour for this quiet, regular family. Thechaplain read prayers, in which Edward devoutly joined, and thenhe kissed the matron's hand, and felt almost as if he were in hisfather's house. The Baron offered to show his guest to his room, andthe servant preceded them with lights. The way led past the staircase, and then on one side into a long gallery, which communicated withanother wing of the castle. 

The high-vaulted ceilings, the curious carving on the ponderousdoorways, the pointed gothic windows, through many broken panes ofwhich a sharp nightwind whistled, proved to Edward that he was in theold part of the castle, and that the famous chamber could not be faroff. 

"Would it be possible for me to be quartered there, " he began, rathertimidly; "I should like it of all things. "

"Really!" inquired the Baron, rather surprised; "have not our ghoststories alarmed you?"

"On the contrary, " was the reply, "they have excited the most earnestwish--"

"Then, if that be the case, " said the Baron, "we will return. The roomwas already prepared for you, being the most comfortable and the bestin the whole wing; only I fancied, after our conversation--"

"Oh, certainly not, " exclaimed Edward; "I could only long for suchdreams. "

During this discourse they had arrived at the door of the famous room. They went in. They found themselves in a lofty and spacious apartment, so large that the two candles which the servant carried only shed aglimmering twilight over it, which did not penetrate to the furthestcorner. A high-canopied bed, hung with costly but old-fashioneddamask, of dark green, in which were swelling pillows of snowywhiteness, tied with green bows, and a silk coverlet of the samecolor, looked very inviting to the tired traveler. Sofa and chairsof faded needlework, a carved oak commode and table, a looking-glassin heavy framework, a prie-dieu and crucifix above it, constitutedthe furniture of the room, where, above all things, cleanliness andcomfort preponderated, while a good deal of silver plate was spreadout on the toilet-table. 

Edward looked round. "A beautiful room!" he said. "Answer me onequestion, Baron, if you please. Did he ever sleep here?"

"Certainly, " replied Friedenberg; "it was his usual room when hewas here, and he had a most curious dream in that bed, which, as heassured us, made a great impression on him. "

"And what was it?" inquired Edward. 

"He never told us, for, as you well know, he was reserved by nature;but we gathered from some words that he let slip, that an early andsudden death was foretold. Alas! your narrative has confirmed thetruth of the prediction. "

"Wonderful! He always had a similar foreboding, and many a time hashe grieved me by alluding to it, " said Edward; "yet it never madehim gloomy or discontented. He went on his way firmly and calmly, andlooked forward with joy, I might almost say, to another life. "

"He was a superior man, " answered the Baron. "whose memory will everbe dear to us. But now I will detain you no longer. Good night. Hereis the bell"--he showed him the cord in between the curtains--"andyour servant sleeps in the next room. "

"Oh, you are too careful of me, " said Edward, smiling; "I am used tosleep by myself. "

"Still, " replied the Baron, "every precaution should be taken. Nowonce more good night. "

He shook him by the hand, and, followed by the servant, left the room. 

Thus Edward found himself alone, in the large, mysterious-looking, haunted room, where his deceased friend had so often reposed; wherehe also was expected to see a vision. The awe which the place itselfinspired, combined with the sad and yet tender recollection of thedeparted Ferdinand, produced a state of mental excitement which wasnot favorable to his night's rest. He had already undressed with theaid of his servant (whom he had then dismissed, ) and had been inbed some time, having extinguished the candles. No sleep visited hiseyelids; and the thought recurred which had so often troubled him, why he had never received the promised token from Ferdinand, whetherhis friend's spirit were among the blest--whether his silence (so tospeak) proceeded from unwillingness or incapacity to communicate withthe living. A mingled train of reflections agitated his mind; hisbrain grew heated; his pulse beat faster and faster. The castle clocktolled eleven--half-past eleven. He counted the strokes: and atthat moment the moon rose above the dark margin of the rocks whichsurrounded the castle, and shed her full light into Edward's room. Every object stood out in relief from the darkness. Edward gazed, andthought, and speculated. It seemed to him as if something moved in thefurthest corner of the room. The movement was evident--it assumed aform--the form of a man, which appeared to advance, or rather to floatforward. Here Edward lost all sense of surrounding objects, and foundhimself once more sitting at the foot of the monument in the gardenof the academy, where he had contracted the bond with his friend. As formerly, the moon streamed through the dark branches of thefir-trees, and shed its pale cold light on the cold white marble ofthe monument. Then the floating form which had appeared in the room ofthe castle became clearer, more substantial, more earthly-looking; itissued from behind the tombstone, and stood in the full moonlight. Itwas Ferdinand, in the uniform of his regiment, earnest and pale, butwith a kind smile on his features. 

"Ferdinand, Ferdinand!" cried Edward, overcome by joy and surprise, and he strove to embrace the well-loved form, but it waved him asidewith a melancholy look. 

"Ah! you are dead, " continued the speaker; "and why then do I see youjust as you looked when living?"

"Edward, " answered the apparition, in a voice that sounded as if itcame from afar, "I am dead, but my spirit has no peace. "

"You are not with the blest?" cried Edward, in a voice of terror. 

"God is merciful, " it replied; "but we are frail and sinful creatures;inquire no more, but pray for me. "

"With all my heart, " cried Edward, in a tone of anguish, while hegazed with affection on the familiar features; "but speak, what can Ido for thee?"

"An unholy tie still binds me to earth. I have sinned. I was cut offin the midst of my sinful projects. This ring burns. " He slipped asmall gold ring from his left hand. "Only when every token of thisunholy compact is destroyed, and when I recover the ring which Iexchanged for this, only then can my spirit be at rest. Oh, Edward, dear Edward, bring me back my ring!"

"With joy--but where, where am I to seek it?"

"Emily Varnier will give it thee herself; our engagement was contraryto holy duties, to prior engagements, to earlier vows. God deniedhis blessing to the guilty project, and my course was arrested in afearful manner. Pray for me, Edward, and bring me back the ring, myring, " continued the voice, in a mournful tone of appeal. 

Then the features of the deceased smiled sadly but tenderly; then allappeared to float once more before Edward's eyes--the form was lostin mist, the monument, the fir-grove, the moonlight, disappeared; along, gloomy, breathless pause followed. Edward lay, half sleeping, half benumbed, in a confused manner; portions of the dream returnedto him--some images, some sounds--above all, the petition for therestitution of the ring. But an indescribable power bound his limbs, closed his eyelids, and silenced his voice; mental consciousness alonewas left him, yet his mind was a prey to terror. 

At length these painful sensations subsided--his nerves became morebraced, his breath came more freely, a pleasing languor crept over hislimbs, and he fell into a peaceful sleep. When he awoke it was alreadybroad daylight; his sleep toward the end of the night had beenquiet and refreshing. He felt strong and well, but as soon as therecollection of his dream returned, a deep melancholy took possessionof him, and he felt the traces of tears which grief had wrung fromhim on his eyelashes. But what had the vision been? A mere dreamengendered by the conversation of the evening, and his affection forHallberg's memory, or was it at length the fulfillment of the compact?

There, out of that dark corner, had the form risen up, and movedtoward him. But might it not have been the effect of light and shadeproduced by the moonbeams, and the dark branches of a large tree closeto the window, when agitated by the high wind? Perhaps he had seenthis, and then fallen asleep, and all combined, had woven itself intoa dream. But the name of Emily Varnier! Edward did not remember everto have heard it; certainly it had never been mentioned in Ferdinand'sletters. Could it be the name of his love, of the object of thatardent and unfortunate passion? Could the vision be one of truth? Hewas meditating, lost in thought, when there was a knock at his door, and the servant entered. Edward rose hastily, and sprang out ofbed. As he did so, he heard something fall with a ringing sound;the servant stooped and picked up a gold ring, plain gold, like awedding-ring. Edward shuddered: he snatched it from the servant'shand, and the color forsook his cheeks as he read the two words"Emily Varnier" engraved inside the hoop. He stood there like onethunderstruck, as pale as a corpse, with the proof in his hand thathe had not merely dreamed, but had actually spoken with the spiritof his friend. A servant of the household came in to ask whether theLieutenant wished to breakfast in his room, or down stairs with thefamily. Edward would willingly have remained alone with the thoughtsthat pressed heavily on him, but a secret dread lest his absenceshould be remarked, and considered as a proof of fear, after allthat had passed on the subject of the haunted room, determined himto accept the proposal. He dressed hastily, and arranged his haircarefully, but the paleness of his face, and the traces of tears inhis eyes, were not to be concealed, and he entered the saloon, wherethe family were already assembled at the breakfast-table, with thechaplain and the doctor. 

The Baron rose to greet him: one glance at the young officer's facewas sufficient; he pressed his hand in silence, and led him to aplace by the side of the Baroness. An animated discussion now beganconcerning the weather, which was completely changed; a strong southwind had risen in the night, so there was now a thaw. The snow was allmelted--the torrents were flowing once more, and the roads impassable. 

"How can you possibly reach Blumenberg, to-day?" the Baron inquired ofhis guest. 

"That will be well nigh impossible, " said the doctor. "I am justcome from a patient at the next village, and I was nearly an hourperforming the same distance in a carriage that is usually traversedon foot in a quarter of an hour. "

Edward had not given a thought this morning to the shooting-match. Nowthat it had occurred to him to remember it, he felt little regret atbeing detained from a scene of noisy festivity which, far from beingdesirable, appeared to him actually distasteful in his present frameof mind. Yet he was troubled by the thought of intruding too longon the hospitality of his new friends; and he said, in a hesitatingmanner--

"Yes! but I must try how far--"

"That you shall not do, " interrupted the Baron. "The road is alwaysbad: and in a thaw it is always dangerous. It would go againstmy conscience to allow you to risk it. Remain with us: we have noshooting-match or ball to offer you, but--"

"I shall not certainly regret either, " cried Edward, eagerly. 

"Well, then, remain with us, Lieutenant, " said the matron, layingher hand on his arm, with a kind, maternal gesture. "You are heartilywelcome; and the longer you stay with us, the better shall we bepleased. "

The youth bowed, and raised the lady's hand to his lips, and said--

"If you will allow me--if you feel certain that I am not intruding--Iwill accept your kind offer with joy. I never care much for a ball, at any time, and to-day in particular"--. He stopped short, and thenadded, "In such bad weather as this, the small amusement--"

"Would be dearly bought. " interposed the Baron. "Come, I am delighted;you will remain with us. "

He shook Edward warmly by the hand. 

"You know you are with old friends. "

"And, beside, " said the doctor, with disinterested solicitude, "itwould be imprudent, for M. De Wensleben does not look very well. Hadyou a good night, sir?"

"Very good, " replied Edward. 

"Without much dreaming?" continued the other, pertinaciously. 

"Dreaming! oh, nothing wonderful, " answered the officer. 

"Hem!" said the doctor, shaking his head, portentiously. "No oneyet--"

"Were I to relate my dream, " replied Edward, "you would understand itno more than I did. Confused images--"

The Baroness, who saw the youth's unwillingness to enlarge upon thesubject, here observed--

"That some of the visions had been of no great importance--those whichshe had heard related, at least. "

The chaplain led the conversation from dreams, themselves, to theirorigin, on which subject he and the doctor could not agree; and Edwardand his visions were left in peace at last. But when every one haddeparted, each to his daily occupation, Edward followed the Baron intohis library. 

"I answered in that manner, " he said, "to get rid of the doctorand his questioning. To you I will confess the truth. Your room hasexercised its mysterious influence over me. "

"Indeed!" said the baron, eagerly. 

"I have seen and spoken with my Ferdinand, for the first time sincehis death. I will trust to your kindness--your sympathy--not torequire of me a description of this exciting vision. But I have aquestion to put to you. "

"Which I will answer in all candor, if it be possible. "

"Do you know the name of Emily Varnier?"

"Varnier!--certainly not. "

"Is there no one in this neighborhood who bears that name?"

"No one: it sounds like a foreign name. "

"In the bed in which I slept I found this ring, " said Edward, while heproduced it; "and the apparition of my friend pronounced that name. "

"Wonderful! As I tell you, I know no one so called--this is thefirst time I ever heard the name. But it is entirely unaccountableto me, how the ring should have come into that bed. You see, M. VonWensleben, what I told you is true. There is something very peculiarabout that room: the moment you entered, I saw that the spell had beenworking on you also, but I did not wish to forestall or force yourconfidence. "

"I felt the delicacy, as I do now the kindness, of your intentions. Those who are as sad as I am can alone tell the value of tendernessand sympathy. "

Edward remained this day and the following at the castle, and feltquite at home with its worthy inmates. He slept twice in thehaunted room. He went away, and came back often; was always welcomedcordially, and always quartered in the same apartment. But, in spiteof all this, he had no clew, he had no means of lifting the vail ofmystery which hung round the fate of Ferdinand Hallberg and of EmilyVarnier. 

 * * * * *

FROM PUNCH. 

OUR "IN MEMORIAM. "

 Not in the splendor of a ruinous glory Emblazoned, glitters our lost Statesman's name: The great deeds that have earned him deathless fame Will cost us merely thanks. Their inventory Of peaceful heroism will be a story, Of wise assertion of a rightful claim, And Commerce freed by sagely daring aim. Famine averted; Revolution glory Disarmed; and the exhausted Commonweal Recruited; these are things that England long Will couple with the name of ROBERT PEEL, Of whom the worst his enemies can say Is, that he left the error of his way When Conscience told him he was in the wrong. 

 * * * * *

FROM THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER. 

TO W. J. R. , WITH A MS. 

 A little common weed, a simple shell, From the waste margent of a classic sea; A flower that grew where some great empire fell, Worthless themselves, are rich to Memory. And thus these lines are precious, for the hand That penned their music crumbles into mould; And the hot brain that shaped them now is cold In its own ashes, like a blackened brand. -- But where the fiery soul that wove the spell; Weeping with trailing wings beside his tomb? Or stretched and tortured on the racks of Hell Dark-scowling at the ministers of doom?-- Peace! this is but a dream, there cannot be More suffering for him in Eternity!

R. H. STODDARD

 * * * * *

FROM THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE. 

THE ACTUAL. 

 Away! no more shall shadows entertain; No more shall fancy paint and dreams delude; No more shall these illusions of the brain Divert me with their pleasing interlude; Forever are ye banished, idle joys; Welcome, stern labor-life--this is no world for toys!

 Blessed labor-life! victorious only he Who in its lists doth valiantly contend; For labor in itself is victory; Yield never to repose; but let the end Of Life's great battle be--the end of life: A glorious immortality shall crown the strife. 

R. B. X.