CHAPTER III.
Have you ever, dear reader, journeyed in the hot sun-shine, your brain literally broiling in the heat, and the dust driving, like a sleet-storm, into your face, filling your eyes, ears and throat with minute particles, which irritated you almost to phrenzy—and, when almost ready to drop down dead with fatigue, thirst and despair, suddenly seen, upon turning an abrupt angle in the path, a fair smiling woodland lawn stretching before you, and a cool, limpid stream of water gushing out from among the flowers, and a whole orchard of birds singing gaily in the branches? So, after the dusty and perplexing toils of life, return we to Undine and her strange fortunes.
Ah, she was a guilty thing—that beautiful and fairy girl! for what right had she to sacrifice her celestial nature, and become a mere thing of earth for worms to feed upon, just for a few mortal kisses? True, true—but those kisses! oh, what rapture lies hidden in the spell of that hour when the divine soul, with its cold immaculate brightness, yields to the warmer thrillings of terrestrial love, and melts away in ecstasy beneath the glance of passion-lighted eyes—the pressure of warm sweet lips! Immortals live in a bright round of perpetual purity and lustre. No o’erwrought heaving of the breast—no momentary thrilling of agonising bliss—no melting climax of joy, concentrating in its burning focus a whole life of hope and aspiration—repays the weary soul for all her watchings. Undine had drunk of the intoxicating draught till her lips grew to the goblet.
Ah, who can blame her? Who has not tasted moments of earthly bliss so intense that were immortality’s brightest visions spread palpably before him, he would spurn them all?
Soon after the knight left the little island, our good old hermit, upon going to Undine’s apartment, as was his wont, saw her not. He searched every where—the garden, the river bank, the thicket which surrounded his little plantation, were all examined in vain. She had fled away upon the wings of love, and, panting with toil and exhaustion, came at last to her knight’s castle, and ran like lightning through the court. What saw she? Lights were glancing in every niche,—loud and boisterous noises of merriment and gaiety echoed through the passages—and, bracing her little heart with the strength of despair, Undine rushed wildly to the great saloon, and saw the knight—her own beloved—him for whose love Heaven and its joys she had lightly thrown away—leading the pretty blue-eyed German girl to the altar. The white-robed priest was there—and, as he completed the ceremony, he raised his unconscious hands and blessed them in the name of the virgin. And the harp and tambour struck up their wild music—and away fled the bride and bride-groom with the joyous throng of revellers to the dance.
Undine was not yet all a woman. Revenge, as it were the dying spark of her immortal nature, burst brightly up in her bosom; and, rushing wildly out into the forest, she fell upon her knees and cried vehemently for her mother. She was at her side, and gazing wistfully and fondly upon her, ere the echoes had ceased whispering in the woods.
“Execute me this first and only prayer, dear, dear mother!” said Undine—“and forever I release you from the charge of your most miserable child!”
“What would you, sweet?”
“Strike him dead!—aye! but wait——” and her eyes flashed and her whole form seemed convulsed with demoniac passion—“wait till he enfolds her to his heart, as he has done me so often—and kisses her—hell and furies! as he has kissed me so many thousand times—then strike him, mother—let him wither in her arms, like a dead viper, until they shall both sink in base, earthly corruption together. Mother! mother! grant me this, as you love your child!”
On went the marriage feast—and never had Rhine’s blue waters wafted gayer notes or wilder revelry than echoed from the old baronial castle, where our young knight was immolating the beauteous dove that had nestled in his bosom on the altar of worldly pride and miscalled duty.
But when the feast was over, and the bride was led blushing to her chamber, a strange thrill shot through the bosom of the knight as he was about to follow, and he almost staggered into the room. The bride, frightened at his convulsive motions, ran and put her naked arms about him, and he unconsciously leaned his head upon her bosom—when suddenly a terrific burst of thunder shook the castle to its foundation, and the face of the knight became livid and distorted—and, even as Undine had prayed, he withered away ghastily in his bride’s arms, and they both fell shrieking to the earth.
The morning sun rose clear and beautiful over the old ivy crowned castle—but there were mourning and tears beneath that venerable roof; and when the sun slanted across the sighing forest tops at evening, they bore the young and noble knight to his peaceful home, and laid him to rest among the flowers of the green valley—and when all had departed with sorrowful footsteps from the spot, and the stealthy moon came with her bright limbs scantily clad in gauzy clouds, to meet her lover on the hill, she looked upon the celestial form of Undine, bending in sorrow and repentance o’er her lover’s grave—and the dew and the star-light mingling together, dissolved her frail and beautiful outline, until it mixed with the invisible odors that played above the flowers—and the next day there was bubbling a bright spring at the knight’s head, the waters of which, diverging into two graceful channels, clasped like loving arms the form of him Undine so fatally had loved.
And now, thou beautiful spirit, farewell forever! In thy companionship have we found solace from the weight of mortality’s burthen—and while sympathising with thy unhappy and yet blissful fate, have learned to feel that to preserve an immortal nature, it is necessary to forget that we have mortal passions.
LINES TO A PORTRAIT.
———
BY A. C. AINSWORTH.
———
It must be life which sits upon that brow
So calm—so full of mind’s nobility:
For I do gaze with homage even now,
As if her living lustre beamed on me.
There sleep the folds of her unrivalled hair—
There bloom those lips whose charm no words may speak,
And her divinest smile, which mocks at care,
Blends sweetly with the tints which clothe her cheek.
Rich rooms were lighted, and I wandered long,
Seeking a solace with the fair and bright;
But ever, as I moved amid the throng,
Thy large eyes haunted with their gentle light.
Ev’n through my fevered sleep, in wildest dreams,
Those features all seem’d over me to brood:
Alas! when midnight fails to hide those gleams,
How vainly seeks the heart a solitude!
But she was there—thy living counterpart:
Why gaze on thee, when I might look on her?
Ah, often in this world, the mourning heart
Seeks least, thro’ fear, the things it would prefer!
For when unto my lip there rose the jest,
And I seemed coldest, to the throng around,
Then most love burned within my wearied breast,
And strongest, with its chain, my heart was bound.
As o’er Italian seas the “Vesper Hymn”
Comes gently:—so her voice in music stole;
My tongue did falter, and mine eyes grew dim;
For fainting joy was throned within my soul.
I all forget the end; how we did part;
Or if she frowned on me—or if she smiled;
I slept with her bright image in my heart,
And the fair morning found me chained—beguiled!
LINES.
———
BY J. E. DOW.
———
Ask not for life, ’tis vain at best,
A period fraught with bitter woe,
A gaudy fiction when ’tis blest,
A constant struggle here below;
But Death! it bears the weary home,
Where sin and sorrow cannot come.
To die in youth, to ’scape the pain
That like a shadow marks our way,
To die, aye ’tis to live again
In brighter regions far away;
Where unknown glories ceaseless roll
Their floods of pleasure o’er the soul.
We weep above the early dead,
And crown the scanty grave with flowers;
We feel affliction when we tread
Amid the churchyard’s silent bowers:
But could we hear the spirits’ song
How blithely should we move along?
Free’d from the mockery of earth,
In the Almighty’s glory drest,
How mean appears their spot of birth?
How beautiful their place of rest?
Their voices ring ’mid angel choirs,
And love in sweetness tunes their lyres.
Then ask not life, but joy to know
That sinless they in heaven shall stand;
That death is not a cruel foe
To execute a wise command.
’Tis ours to ask, ’tis God’s to give.—
We live to die—and die to live.
THE RESCUE AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
———
BY J. MILTON SANDERS, AUTHOR OF “THE MIAMI VALLEY,” ETC.
———
I have a tale thou hast not dream’d—
If sooth—its truth must others rue.
Byron.
It was one of those lovely autumnal days of which we all often dream, and so fondly wish to enjoy, when lying upon the bed of sickness; such a day as we love to dwell upon in imagination, when we are closely housed and sitting by a sparkling fire during the long freezing winter nights.
Well, it was such a day as this that my friend Ned K—— and I started through the rich country which lies north of Dayton. The sun was just rising, glorious and unobscured by cloud or mist, his early rays dancing gaily upon the parti-colored foliage, like millions of those little bright elfins which people the glowing imagination of the oriental improvisitore.
Feeling the influence of the early morning air upon our spirits, we pricked forward our steeds; and as the noble animals danced over the earth, our hearts leaped to our lips, and we gave forth their joyousness in the glowing language which the poets numbered before us.
We gazed up into the deep blue vault of heaven above us; we saw the moon sailing along in cloudless majesty, and the stars peeping through their lingering drapery of darkness, and we raised our voices, and in gladness and lightness of heart, we shouted aloud. And the birds—those ceaseless lutes of the summer morning air—warbled a response.
We soon became short of breath; our lungs had expanded too freely, and our blood was too fiery after its slow and even circulation during the lethargy of the late night—our spirits boiled over, and like everything which boils over, they soon sank into a contrasting calmness, and we discovered that we were riding side and side with all of the sedateness of a Quaker preacher when he arrived in sight of the meeting house.
“How far does your old uncle reside from here?” I asked anxiously of my friend Ned.
“Be patient, my good fellow, and we will soon get there.”
“I wish we were there now, I am so anxious to see the old hero. You say he was an active participator in some of the principal incidents of our revolution?”
“He was, and that old musket which I showed you yesterday, accompanied him in many of his adventures. From the first bloodshed at Lexington till the final capture at Yorktown, did that hero bare his breast to the storm of the revolution. His blood has bathed the soil of many a battle-field, and innumerable are the hair-breadth perils which he has passed through. You are partial to these tales of perils, L——, and you shall now be gratified to your heart’s content.”
My heart leaped with joy, and I began already to calculate the time and expense which it would require to write a volume of his adventures; and what edification it would be to the devourers of omnivorous literature.
“Is he a great talker?” I immediately asked, for, but a short time previous I had made several trips to see pioneers solely for the purpose of committing to paper their adventures; and others, after much trouble I had reached their domicils, I found as uncommunicative as a Saracenic mute.
“He loves to talk, and nothing pleases him more than to have such patient and willing listeners as you are; with you he will talk from morning till night.”
I rubbed my hands with delight; the volume which had danced before my imagination for a few minutes past, now swelled in size from an octavo to a folio; and my impatience to see the hero, almost became insupportable.
“There is one failing which my old uncle has,” continued my friend, “and that is, he possesses a very exuberant imagination.”
“So much the better,” I exclaimed, “then his recitation will not continue on that dead level, which gives such prolixity to a narrative; now and then a flight of the imagination adds a marvellous spice to such things; a single narration, you know, only draws the picture and shades it—it is left for imagination to paint it.”
“But you do not precisely understand me; I mean that my uncle—who is getting old now, you know—is in the habit, if allowed to commence in that way, to dwell for hours together upon the most marvellous adventures, which he draws solely from imagination, and confounds with his real ones; but leave this to me, and I will set him on the right track; by the way, there is one incident connected with his very mutable life which I must prevail upon him to relate; I call his imagined adventures yarns—so let us ride forward, for yonder is the house.”
We dashed down the long lane—lined on each side with towering poplar trees, whose pointed tops reached far above the surrounding trees—and we soon stood at the door of the old soldier’s house.
We dismounted, and giving our horses to an attendant, we entered the house, and the first person that we saw was the old veteran himself. He hurried towards us—by aid of a stout cane—and bade us welcome.
Truly was the old man’s appearance equal to my ideal of him; his form—though somewhat bent with age—had once, I could easily perceive, been tall and sinewy; and his limbs still retained a degree of that muscular power, which had so repeatedly contributed to bring him safe from melées, where weaker men had perished. The old man’s hair was white as the snow, and accumulating years had continued to thin it, till only two small locks were left.
With sparkling eyes and animated features, the veteran grasped our hands, and gave us a true soldier’s welcome; and then leading us to a small room, he introduced us to his sister—a venerable and corpulent matron of fifty—and then to what was still more pleasurable, a smoking breakfast.
After partaking of as luxuriant a déjeuner as ever caused an epicure’s eyes to dance, we wandered around the farm—the old soldier limping along with us—and after bestowing the necessary eulogiums upon the fine appearance of his Berkshire pigs, his imported stallion, and his Durham cattle, we returned to the house; and then partaking of a glass of cider wine, (which excellent fluid needs but a high price to become as regal as champaigne) we got the old man seated.
“This young friend of mine,” began my cautious companion, “is passionately fond of revolutionary tales, and as he is now engaged in writing sketches embodying all the adventures of the revolution,” here Ned gave me a meaning look, “he wishes to hear a few of your adventures; couldn’t you gratify him, uncle?”
The veteran propped his rheumatic leg upon a chair, and laid aside his cane.
“Ha! he wishes to hear tales of the wars, does he? Well, then, ’spose I tell him about the death of poor old Joshua Brews——”
“Oh, no, uncle! I think something less melancholy will please him.”
“I don’t like melancholy tales,” I said.
“Then, ’spose I tell him about the fight that Ben Bunker and me had——”
“That I know wouldn’t please him,” and Ned quickly whispered in my ear “a yarn.”
“Ah, I have it now; tell him about ‘The Rescue at the Eleventh Hour.’ ”
“I hate to tell that; my blood freezes whenever I think of it.”
“ ’Tis surprising,” thought I, “how compatible it is for old men to delight in lies.”
“Which of the tales mentioned would you rather hear; we will leave the decision to you, won’t we, uncle?”
“Certainly, my son; but recollect that the fight which Ben Bunker and me had is mighty entertaining.”
“I have no doubt of it, sir; still, as I have taken a fancy to ‘The Rescue at the Eleventh Hour,’ you would oblige me by relating that.”
The old veteran bowed, swallowed a glass of wine, and commenced the tale.
“The days of which I now speak, my son, were pregnant with perils. When we retired to our beds at night, we knew not what the morning might bring forth. We might hear of the death of a father, mother, or sister, by the ruthless hand of a British forager, or equally sanguine tory. Or else our ears would be greeted with the wail of some outcast, who had travelled all night to flee the ravagers of his property. Every hour was pregnant with news, either in favor or against the interests of our country. The British, at the time of which I speak, were overrunning the land, devastating the fairest farms, and murdering or making captive their inhabitants.
“I was then young—but twenty years had passed over my head, and, of course, I possessed all the sanguine nature of youth: added to which, my soul was kindled to anger by the horrid accounts which reached us daily of British brutality. My father, who had fought in the old French and Indians wars, had taught me to despise oppression, but to worship freedom.
“Early impressions seldom fade from the mind, but become more vivid with the increase of our years, and so had the sentiments which my father had taught me.
“The next farm to that of my father’s, belonged to Charles Worthington, who had but one child, a daughter, about three years younger than I was. Even yet, after a lapse of fifty years, the blood bounds through my veins, and my heart heaves with an unusual emotion, as I think of that fair girl. Ah, she was surpassing fair, but yet her beauty was rivalled by her goodness of heart and her amiability. With a skin of the fairest white, deep blue eyes, forehead high and expansive, and features altogether classical, she was one whom any one could love; and, excuse me, my son, for indulging in reflections which may be of no interest to you, but these pictures, when they do arise in the memory, are still intensely vivid, while their being so long ago enacted, gives each small incident an interest with me, which to you may appear unworthy of a single thought.
“Lucy Worthington and I met, and we loved, and it was that deep love which casts its hue over all our future actions. It was the first love—when those whirlwind passions of the mind are first awakened to activity, and, like the sun rising over the landscape, throws its hues upon every object, and tinges them of its own peculiar color.
“For months Lucy and I were almost inseparable companions—we consumed the greater part of our days wandering in the fields and woods, gathering flowers and listening to each other’s words; and my greatest ambition was to please her, my only thoughts to elicit a smile of love from her bright eye. Thus passed away the days till the destroyer came.
“It was a bright morning in summer. The sun had just risen, and I was gazing upon its early rays, as they threw the shadows of the dancing foliage through the window upon the opposite wall; when I heard a distant crack of a gun, which was immediately followed by another, then another, and then others, in such quick succession that I could not count them.
“Suspecting that all was not right at our neighbor’s house, I sprang out of bed, hurriedly drew on my clothes, and, without speaking to any of our family, hastened over to Worthington’s. Before I reached the house I saw a blue smoke hanging over it; but not a human being was to be met; all was as lonely as a city of the dead. I leaped the fence and hurried to the house, and, oh! what a scene was suddenly presented to my sight! The father, the mother, and their only child, were stretched on the floor and weltering in their blood. The parents were dead, but the daughter—although evidently dying—still retained her speech and consciousness.
“Language would convey but a very faint impression of the agony which tortured my breast. I threw myself by her body and groaned aloud. It was the first misery which I had ever experienced, and it came upon me as the long accumulating avalanche upon the family of the mountaineer, and I was suddenly and unexpectedly overwhelmed with misery; and in the poignancy of the moment I cried like a child. But that poor girl—although gradually dying—whispered hope into my ear, and pointing to heaven, she bade me gaze there, where we would, ere long, meet to be separated no more. And for the first time in my life, did I direct my thoughts to the footstool of the everlasting throne, and addressed a prayer to its King for the gentle soul which was about to be placed in his hands.
“ ‘Charles,’ she exclaimed faintly, as she observed my agony, ‘I am dying: let all this pass, for I forgive those who committed the deed, as I hope to be forgiven myself in heaven. Do not seek to retaliate upon those deluded soldiers, who know nothing but to obey the behests of their king; why this useless grief? You see that I do not weep, although the pale face of my poor old mother lies at my side,’ and she placed her pale hand upon the rigid face of her parent, and, despite her efforts to prevent it, a tear forced itself from under her eyelid, and rolled down her cheek, as she gazed upon those dear features, now calmed in death.
“ ‘Charles, I am going—I forgive—forgive—’ and thus she expired. I threw myself on her body and groaned aloud, but in a moment a thought flashed through my mind, and immediately I was as calm as a statue. I arose and then sinking on one knee, I swore a solemn oath, and I prayed that the Dispenser of life might grant me mine together with health, till I should have fulfilled that oath, and so long as life lasted, I vowed to devote all my energies and means to its consummation; and then, with a pale face but a calm brow, I hastened home. Knowing that those who had committed this diabolical deed, would travel rapidly for fear of that just retribution which they knew would follow them, I hurriedly seized my rifle, and taking with me but a few bullets, I rapidly followed the tracks of the murderers. I ran at my greatest speed during the whole of that day. Their tracks led me into the depths of a thinly settled country, but the soil being loose, I could trace the deep impressions of their horses’ feet with the greatest ease. At dark I had not overtaken them, but with all the indefatigableness of one seeking revenge for a deadly and vital injury, I now groped my way over a rocky country, often stooping to examine whether I was still on their tracks. Finally the country became so rocky that I entirely lost all traces of my victims, and with a brain burning from disappointed revenge, I prepared to pass the night under a ledge of rocks which protruded in the road.
“I had heard the name of the leader of this party, and although I could not seek reparation at the present, yet I prepared to lie down with a stern determination to follow him to the four corners of the earth before I would forego the revenge I had in store for him. With a heart aching with grief and disappointment, I prepared to throw myself upon my flinty bed, when, casting my sight to the left, I observed a lurid hue dwelling upon the tops of some tall trees below me, and plainly indicating that a fire was burning beneath them. This fire might have been kindled by the very person whom I sought. I immediately shouldered my rifle, and, in my eagerness to reach the spot, nearly ran over the brow of a high precipice, down which had I fallen, I would have been dashed to atoms against the rocks below. Avoiding the impending danger by deviating to the right, I reached the level country, where travelling was comparatively easy, and started at a rapid gait for the distant light.
“The country—now so thickly settled—was almost a wilderness, and still abounded with wild and savage animals, which—as I was aware—seek their prey by night. I observed the strictest caution, lest some lurking panther should pounce upon me; and then, being necessitated to shoot it, I would alarm my enemies. By the greatest exertion, I avoided one of these animals, and in the course of several hours, I approached the fire. The country was studded thickly with giant oaks, whose matted branches and thick foliage cast a deep gloom beneath them; but from this contrast the fire appeared more brilliant, and shot far out into the surrounding darkness, a gleam of brightness.
“I neared the fire unobserved, but what were my sensations upon perceiving arrayed around it the very persons I sought. For the first time since morning, I felt a degree of hope swell my breast, as I gazed upon the murderers of all I loved.
“Ten horses were hobbled close by me, and scenting me if they did not see me, they snorted and gazed in the direction where I was hid, but their masters were so busily engaged in conversing and boasting over their day’s exploits, that they heard not these never-failing omens, that danger was nigh.
“The spirit of revenge grew strong in me as I beheld those whom I had labored all day to see; and that wish which troubled me now was, that I had not brought along with me a party sufficiently formidable to have taken them all prisoners, and thus revenge would be gratified by piece-meal. I was not long in deciding what to do. Observing the officer who commanded the party sitting among the rest, I singled him out as the first victim to be offered upon the altar of my vengeance. I cautiously cocked my gun, and taking a deliberate aim at his breast, I pulled the trigger—but the sparks missed the pan, and the gun did not go off. The men heard the noise, and several saw the sparks fly, and in a moment every man was on his feet, and gazing intently at the spot where I stood; but in a second of time I had re-cocked my gun, and taking another aim, I fired. The officer sprang up, screamed, and fell upon his face. With curses, several of the soldiers rushed forward towards the spot where I lay, but with superior woodsmanship I evaded them and fled into the depths of the woods, and taking a circuitous route, I came to the fire again at the other side. Every man had left in pursuit of me but two, who were busily stripping off the coat of the officer. I again fired and one of the soldiers fell. With a yell and a fearful oath, I was met as I turned to flee, by one of the soldiers who had been pursuing me.
“I drew a knife, the soldier drew his bayonet, and we engaged in a desperate encounter. Knowing that the noise we made would soon guide others to the spot, and that I would assuredly be captured, I commenced a retrograde movement for the purpose of effecting my escape, when I was clinched by an iron hand from behind, and the person missing at the same time a firm foot-hold, he fell to the earth, bearing me with him.
“Oh, how I struggled! how fearfully I wielded my knife! but it was not that I feared dying—what was life to me then? It was that I feared being foiled in my revenge, and with this fear uppermost in my mind, I hurled my knife about me with giant energy; with the maddened and thoughtless desperation of the panther, when she struggles for her screaming young, did I battle for my revenge; but now they rushed up upon every side—they threw themselves upon me—they bore me again to the earth, but this time senseless, and when I became conscious, I was lying on my back, and bound hands and feet.
“The soldier whom I had shot, died a few moments after receiving his wound; but the officer still survived, although mortally wounded—the ball having broke, in its course, the sternum and ribs, and passed directly through his lungs.
“The soldiers soon gathered around the spot where I lay—their eyes gleaming hate, and their rough features expressing all the atrocity of their nature.
“ ‘Accursed Yankee!’ exclaimed one, ‘would to God you were possessed of nine lives, that we might glut our hatred of you, by depriving you of each by inches,’ and the monster ground his teeth, and kicked me with such force as to nearly deprive me of breath.
“ ‘Depraved and blood-thirsty rebel!’ thundered another, ‘what fiend from hell tempted you to this diabolical act?’
“ ‘The same fiend which tempted you to murder my family,’ I answered.
“Immediately the man’s gaze of hatred began to soften in its expression, and my keen eyes detected a slight emotion dwelling, for an instant, upon his features, as he turned to the first speaker and muttered:
“ ‘I told you not to commit that murderous deed; still you would persist, and now you see how speedily retribution has winged its flight to you. By heaven, this man has served you justly, and ought not to perish for it.’
“ ‘No power save that of heaven can prevent his dying this day,’ muttered the other through his clenched teeth.
“ ‘Beware how you speak to me, sir,’ said the other; the man made an inclination of the head, and walked off.
“The young man—for he appeared to be no older than myself—again cast his glance upon me, and what a change was there in the expression of his eyes! It was like the mother’s glance when her sleeping infant lies upon her lap; or the father’s, as he looks for the last time upon his condemned son, who was the hope and the pride of his declining years.
“ ‘What age are you?’ he kindly asked.
“ ‘Had you not murdered all I held dear on earth, I would next autumn be twenty years old; as it is, I never expect to be older than nineteen years and nine months.’
“ ‘So young, and yet so determined and brave! It must not be; they shall not deprive you of life, when you might make such a powerful auxiliary to our cause. Listen to me, young stranger. Would you be willing to repudiate all your rebel prejudices and join the cause of your king, if you could obtain your freedom?’
“Life is sweet, and who would not at that age dissemble a little and play the hypocrite for such a precious boon? I pretended to undergo a great internal emotion, and spoke long of the glory and righteousness of our cause; but my policy at last made me a proselyte to his arguments, and I yielded to his proposal; and the young man left me. My eyes sought him constantly after that, and several times I discovered him in earnest conversation with the wounded officer. Towards noon the young man obtained an opportunity to speak with me.
“ ‘I have been trying,’ said he, ‘to prevail upon our officer to release you upon the conditions which I proposed this morning, but he obstinately refuses, and persists in making you the victim of his revenge; but be of good cheer. I think he cannot last long, his countenance momentarily changes, and when he dies I will free you at all hazards,’ and with these words he left me.
“An hour had not passed away when the young man’s suspicions were fulfilled. The officer was seized with the most violent paroxysm; his features worked fearfully, and it required several men to hold down his writhing limbs. Strange as it may appear to the tender-hearted, there was one who gazed upon that man’s terrible throes with feelings partaking of pleasure, although the sufferer was my fellow mortal. Under any other circumstances, I would have stood by that man’s side with tearful eyes, but the cause of my present stoicism is evident. The officer soon expired, and immediately after his burial I was set at liberty; and soon afterwards signed my name to an instrument binding me a liege subject and soldier of his Majesty King George.
“What a change was there now in the conduct of these soldiers towards me! Instead of the brutal language and fearful threats which they had hurled at me, they were now declared friends and ready to share with me their last morsel. We ate together, we drank each other’s health, and we slept upon the same blanket.
“The deeds which I had perpetrated, and which had deprived two of their number of life, were apparently forgotten, for they looked upon me now as a formidable addition to their party.
“Many an expression which dwells upon the risible faculties, belies the secret thoughts of the breast, and it was so with the glad expression which mantled my features as I travelled along with them, externally appearing joyful, but heavy and sad within.
“I did not neglect the oath which I had made; I had not forgotten the pale serene features of one whom I had ever worshipped, as they lay in the calmness of death; but whenever I closed my eyes those mild and fading eyes were before me, with their love and holy resignation vividly expressed, and their glow rapidly fading.
“ ‘The time will soon arrive,’ I thought as I looked upon my reckless comrades, ‘when you will all be stiffened in death, pale monuments of the revenge of one whom you have so vitally injured—thoughtless fools! do you imagine that I am but as a brute which perishes, that I can so soon forget the misery which you have caused me?’ And in the secret chambers of my breast there was a wild orgie of passions, in anticipation of the rich feast which my revenge would soon enjoy.
“The next morning we started over a mountainous country, committing several depredations on the way. With the rest I fired several valuable barns, for all of which I afterwards remunerated their owners. This depraved spirit upon my part gave great joy to my companions, and when we reached a section of the royal army under command of Cornwallis, I received a smile of approbation from the general, as reward for my loyalty.
“Now the wishes of my heart were about to be gratified. I was dispatched on a secret service, in company with several of the murderers of Lucy Worthington, and now I determined to put into execution that revenge, whose flame could no longer lie smothered in my breast.
“About sunset we arrived in a deep gorge—the bed of many a mountain torrent—where we prepared for our night’s lodging. At midnight I cautiously arose; the fire had died away to embers, and every thing around was wrapped in gloom. The deep and regular breathing of the sleepers promised me an uninterrupted opportunity for the execution of my purpose. I seized a pistol; the principal murderer lay locked in total unconsciousness of his fate. I cautiously drew near him, and placed the muzzle of the pistol against his temple, and even then the poor wretch smiled! Perhaps at that moment he was wandering in his dream to the home of his parents, and beheld the smiles of a glad mother, and felt upon his lips the warm kiss of a welcoming sister; or, perhaps, he imagined that he held in his arms the fragile form of some loved one, and smiled as he gazed upon the glow of her welcoming eye, and felt the sealing kiss of her love. Is it not happier to leave the world under these bright illusions than when the mind is awake, and cold judgment already calculating the chances of an immortal and happy future?
“I pulled the trigger; the loud explosion started every man to his feet, but with a yell of the wildest joy I cleared the spot, and soon was buried among the tangled bushes, which grew plentifully around.
“Now the deep-mouthed bay of a blood-hound, which we had brought with us, reverberated among the old rocks in the gorge, and soon I heard the voices of those who were following the animal, close by my lurking place. At once I comprehended my danger—that the dog was on my track, and with my teeth clenched, with desperate determination I rushed from my place of concealment, closely followed by the excited and enraged animal. In a few moments the dog reached me, and springing, seized me by the coat collar. I grasped him by the throat, and with all the nervous energy of one in my circumstance, I throttled him; but the furious animal—as if he was aware of the importance of his grip—retained his firm hold, despite my powerful efforts to free myself.
“The soldiers rushed up, and with many a fearful oath and rude blow, they forced my hands behind my body and securely bound them in that position; and then with furious cries of exultation they dragged me back to camp.
“In the morning I was unanimously condemned to be shot, but in all the plenitude of their mercy, they granted me two hours to make my peace with heaven.
“Now I was left alone with but my own thoughts for company. I was condemned and must die in two hours—but two short hours had I left, to take my leave of this world, and prepare for a voyage, I knew not where—to leave this world which had ever been before but a garden of roses. Then the dreadful truth at once flashed on my mind! to leave all, my father, mother, sisters, friends, and all those who had ever met me with a smile; whose roughest words were blessings, whose prayers were ever my own. Ah, how hard it is to die when the bright clouds of youth cluster around our horizon; when the mind is yet young and free from the diseases which the experiences of a rude world engender! When the physical faculties are all active, and most capable of contributing to our enjoyment; and when death appears but a monster to the young mind whose riper faculties teach us to hope for a glorious future.
“It is hard indeed, and the rapid approach of my last moments only enhanced my agony. The time drew nigh and I saw no hope of succor; and it was now that the dreadful thought intruded itself, that there was no longer hope—that I must die, and before many minutes more be but a pale bleeding corpse. My heart ached, my feelings grew insupportable, and I groaned aloud in the bitterest agony. Ah! the horrors of that moment! All the most poignant sufferings of a life time, if converged in one breast, could not have tortured more.
“While in this state of horror, I chanced to look towards the top of the rocks which lined the gorge, and with surprise I beheld the same young man who had previously saved my life. He caught my glance, and with his hand motioned me to silence, and then instantly disappeared. What could this mean? We had left that individual in the army when we left it. Let it mean what it might it augured well, and immediately a complete reaction of feelings took place in my breast. I became calm and apparently careless of my fate, for I felt that I had a friend close by, who was willing and able to save me.
“The time for the execution of my sentence arrived, and with a file of soldiers as a guard, I was led to the fatal tree. A bandage was brought forward, but I refused it, and bade them with a loud voice hurry with the execution. The file of soldiers, with loaded muskets, were drawn in a line fronting me, and I was bade to kneel.
“Now all was a deep silence; you might have heard a pin drop, and then was heard the voice of the one in command—‘Attention, men! make ready, take aim—fire’—and I rolled on the earth a bleeding corpse——.”
“What!”
“That is one of my uncle’s yarns,” said my friend Ned.
“Pshaw!”
THE CHOICE OF HEARTS.
———
BY THOMAS G. SPEAR.
———
Ye laughing nymphs! ye bright-ey’d girls!
Triumphing in your beauty,
Who blush beneath the shining curls
That round your brows the zephyr furls,
What kind of hearts will suit ye?
“True Valor’s heart,” says one anigh,
“Upon his war-horse dashing—
That rous’d to fight will never fly,
With sword, and plume, and ardent eye,
In battle brightly flashing.”
“Soft Pleasure’s heart,” another’s word,
“Alive to each emotion—
That can be blythesome as a bird,
Caress or sigh, and oft be heard
Proclaiming its devotion.”
“Ambition’s heart,” one maiden says,
“That loves in strife to riot—
That spurns control in every place—
That rushes on its daring race,
And rules ’midst life’s disquiet.”
“The generous heart,” says one fair elf,
“That thrives amidst confusion—
That never hoards or life or pelf,
But gives its all, then gives itself,
And revels in profusion.”
“The cheerful heart,” doth one declare,
“With sense and wit united—
That joys in music, laughs at care,
Still pleased and mirthful every where,
And never undelighted.”
“Proud Honor’s heart!” another cries,
“That brooks no man’s dictation—
That’s quick to seek the hero’s prize,
And stand, though with the deed it dies,
’Gainst wrong and usurpation.”
“The constant heart!” says one fair maid,
While blushes crown her beauty:—
“To ask for more I am afraid,
But take the heart that thus is swayed,
And trust it for its duty!”
Sweet girls! If I might dare express,
A word for your discretion,
’Twould be, that you should favor less
The flatterer’s, gamester’s, rake’s address,
And man of mere profession.
Men’s lives are in their daily deeds—
Thought oft disguises action.
Choose then the heart that clearly reads
Its glory where its duty leads,
Amidst the world’s distraction.
To such resign’d, of that fair band
Of daughters fit to cherish,
Each shall be cheer’d in heart and hand,
And feel love’s holy fires expand
Till lost to things that perish.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
Poetical Remains of the late Lucretia Maria Davidson, Collected and Arranged by her Mother: with a Biography by Miss Sedgwick. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia.
Some few months since, we had occasion to speak of “The Biography and Poetical Remains of the late Margaret Miller Davidson”—a work given to the public by Washington Irving. In common with all who read, we had been deeply interested in the narrative set forth. The portrait of the young and beautiful enthusiast, simply yet most effectively painted by one who touches nothing which he does not adorn, could not have failed to excite our warmest sympathies; and we dwelt upon the pleasing yet melancholy theme with a lingering delight. Of the biographical portion of the book we said, indeed, what every one says, and most justly—that nothing could be more intensely pathetic. In respect, however, to the “Poetical Remains,” the tone of our observations was not fully in accordance with that of the mass of our contemporaries. Without calling in question the extreme precocity of the child—a precocity truly wonderful—we were forced, in some slight measure, to dissent from that extravagant eulogium, which had its origin, beyond doubt, in a confounding of the interest felt in the poetess and her sad fortunes, with a legitimate admiration of her works. We did not, in truth, conceive it to be either honest or necessary, to mislead in any degree the public taste or opinion, by styling “Lenore,” as it exists, a fine poem, merely because its author might have written a fine poem had she lived. We emphasize the “might”; for the history of all intellect demonstrates that the point is a questionable one indeed. The analogies of Nature are universal; and just as the most rapidly growing herbage is the most speedy in its decay—just as the ephemera struggles to perfection in a day only to perish in that day’s decline—so the mind is early matured only to be early in its decadence; and when we behold in the eye of infancy the soul of the adult, it is but indulging in a day dream to hope for any farther proportionate development. Should the prodigy survive to ripe age, a mental imbecility, not far removed from idiocy itself, is too frequently the result. From this rule the exceptions are rare indeed; but it should be observed that, when the exception does occur, the intellect is of a Titan cast even to the days of its extreme senility, and acquires renown not in one, but in all the wide fields of fancy and of reason.
Lucretia Maria Davidson, the subject of the memoir now before us, and the elder of the two sweet sisters who have acquired so much of fame prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of poetical emulation in her own family. In her genius, be it what it may, there is more of self-dependence—less of the imitative. Her mother’s generous romance of soul may have stimulated, but did not instruct. Thus although she has actually given less evidence of power (in our opinion) than Margaret—less written proof—still its indication must be considered at higher value. Both perished at sixteen. Margaret, we think, has left the better poems—certainly the more precocious—while Lucretia evinces more unequivocally the soul of the poet. In our August number we quoted in full some stanzas composed by the former at eight years of age. The latter’s earliest effusions are dated at fourteen. Yet the first compositions of the two seem to us of nearly equal merit.
The most elaborate production of Margaret is “Lenore,” of which we have just now spoken. It was written not long before her death, at the age of fifteen, after patient reflection, with much care, and with all that high resolve to do something for fame with which the reputation of her sister had inspired her. Under such circumstances, and with the early poetical education which she could not have failed to receive, we confess that, granting her a trifle more than average talent, it would have been rather a matter for surprise had she produced a worse, than had she produced a better poem than “Lenore.” Its length, viewed in connexion with its keeping, its unity, its adaptation, and its completeness (and all these are points having reference to artistical knowledge and perseverance) will impress the critic more favorably than its fancy, or any other indication of poetic power. In all the more important qualities we have seen far—very far finer poems than “Lenore” written at a much earlier age than fifteen.
“Amir Khan,” the longest and chief composition of Lucretia, has been long known to the reading public. It was originally published, with others, in a small volume to which Professor Morse, of the American Society of Arts, contributed a Preface. Partly through the Professor, yet no doubt partly through their own merits, the poems found their way to the laureate, Southey, who, after his peculiar fashion, and not unmindful of his previous furores in the case of Kirke White, Chatterton, and others of precocious ability, or at least celebrity, thought proper to review them in the Quarterly. This was at a period when we humbled ourselves, with a subserviency which would have been disgusting had it not been ludicrous, before the crudest critical dicta of Great Britain. It pleased the laureate, after some squibbing in the way of demurrer, to speak of the book in question as follows:—“In these poems there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons and the friends and parents of the deceased could have formed.” Meaning nothing, or rather meaning anything, as we choose to interpret it, this sentence was still sufficient (and in fact the half of it would have been more than sufficient) to establish upon an immovable basis the reputation of Miss Davidson in America. Thenceforward any examination of her true claims to distinction was considered little less than a declaration of heresy. Nor does the awe of the laureate’s ipse dixit seem even yet to have entirely subsided. “The genius of Lucretia Davidson,” says Miss Sedgwick in the very volume now before us, “has had the meed of far more authoritative praise than ours; the following tribute is from the London Quarterly Review.” What this lady—for whom and for whose opinion we still have the highest respect—can mean by calling the praise of Southey “more authoritative” than her own, is a point we shall not pause to determine. Her praise is at least honest, or we hope so. Its “authority” is in exact proportion with each one’s estimate of her judgment. But it would not do to say all this of the author of “Thalaba.” It would not do to say it in the hearing of men who are sane, and who, being sane, have perused the leading articles in the “London Quarterly Review” during the ten or fifteen years prior to that period when Robert Southey, having concocted “The Doctor,” took definitive leave of his wits. In fact, for any thing that we have yet seen or heard to the contrary, the opinion of the laureate, in respect to the poem of “Amir Khan,” is a matter still only known to Robert Southey. But were it known to all the world, as Miss Sedgwick supposes with so charmingly innocent an air;—we mean to say were it really an honest opinion,—this “authoritative praise,”—still it would be worth, in the eyes of every sensible person, only just so much as it demonstrates, or makes a show of demonstrating. Happily the day has gone by, and we trust forever, when men are content to swear blindly by the words of a master, poet-laureate though he be. But what Southey says of the poem is at best an opinion and no more. What Miss Sedgwick says of it is very much in the same predicament. “Amir Khan,” she writes, “has long been before the public, but we think it has suffered from a general and very natural distrust of precocious genius. The versification is graceful, the story beautifully developed, and the orientalism well sustained. We think it would not have done discredit to our most popular poets in the meridian of their fame; as the production of a girl of fifteen it seems prodigious.” The cant of a kind heart when betraying into error a naturally sound judgment, is perhaps the only species of cant in the world not altogether contemptible.
We yield to no one in warmth of admiration for the personal character of these sweet sisters, as that character is depicted by the mother, by Miss Sedgwick, and by Mr. Irving. But it costs us no effort to distinguish that which, in our heart, is love of their worth, from that which, in our intellect, is appreciation of their poetic ability. With the former, as critic, we have nothing to do. The distinction is one too obvious for comment; and its observation would have spared us much twaddle on the part of the commentators upon “Amir Khan.”
We will endeavor to convey, as concisely as possible, some idea of this poem as it exists, not in the fancy of the enthusiastic, but in fact. It includes four hundred and forty lines. The metre is chiefly octo-syllabic: At one point it is varied by a casual introduction of an anapæst in the first and second foot; at another (in a song) by seven stanzas of four lines each, rhyming alternately; the metre anapæstic of four feet alternating with three. The versification is always good, so far as the meagre written rules of our English prosody extend; that is to say, there is seldom a syllable too much or too little; but long and short syllables are placed at random, and a crowd of consonants sometimes renders a line unpronounceable. For example:
He loved,—and oh, he loved so well
That sorrow scarce dared break the spell.
At times, again, the rhythm lapses, in the most inartistical manner, and evidently without design, from one species to another altogether incongruous; as, for example, in the sixth line of these eight, where the tripping anapæstic stumbles into the demure iambic, recovering itself, even more awkwardly, in the conclusion:
Bright Star of the Morning! this bosom is cold—
I was forced from my native shade,
And I wrapped me around with my mantle’s fold,
A sad, mournful Circassian maid!
And I then vow’d that rapture should never move
This changeless cheek, this rayless eye,
And I then vowed to feel neither bliss nor love,
But I vowed I would meet thee and die.
Occasionally the versification rises into melody and even strength; as here—
’Twas at the hour when Peris love
To gaze upon the Heaven above
Whose portals bright with many a gem
Are closed—forever closed on them.
Upon the whole, however, it is feeble, vacillating, and ineffective; giving token of having been “touched up” by the hand of a friend, from a much worse, into its present condition. Such rhymes as floor and shower—ceased and breast—shade and spread—brow and wo—clear and far—clear and air—morning and dawning—forth and earth—step and deep—Khan and hand—are constantly occurring; and although, certainly, we should not, as a general rule, expect better things from a girl of sixteen, we still look in vain, and with something very much akin to a smile, for aught even approaching that “marvellous ease and grace of versification” about which Miss Sedgwick, in the benevolence of her heart, discourses.
Nor does the story, to our dispassionate apprehension, appear “beautifully developed.” It runs thus:—Amir Khan, Subahdar of Cachemere, weds a Circassian slave who, cold as a statue and as obstinately silent, refuses to return his love. The Subahdar applies to a magician, who gives him
a pensive flower
Gathered at midnight’s magic hour;
the effect of whose perfume renders him apparently lifeless while still in possession of all his senses. Amreeta, the slave, supposing her lover dead, gives way to clamorous grief, and reveals the secret love which she has long borne her lord, but refused to divulge because a slave. Amir Khan hereupon revives, and all trouble is at an end.
Of course, no one at all read in Eastern fable will be willing to give Miss Davidson credit for originality in the conception of this little story; and if she have claim to merit at all, as regards it, that claim must be founded upon the manner of narration. But it will be at once evident that the most naked outline alone can be given in the compass of four hundred and forty lines. The tale is, in sober fact, told very much as any young person might be expected to tell it. The strength of the narrator is wholly laid out upon a description of moonlight (in the usual style) with which the poem commences—upon a second description of moonlight (in precisely the same manner) with which a second division commences—and in a third description of the hall in which the entranced Subahdar reposes. This is all—absolutely all; or at least the rest has the nakedness of mere catalogue. We recognize, throughout, the poetic sentiment, but little—very little—of poetic power. We see occasional gleams of imagination: for example—
And every crystal cloud of Heaven
Bowed as it passed the queen of even.
Amreeta was cold as the marble floor
That glistens beneath the nightly shower.
At that calm hour when Peris love
To gaze upon the Heaven above,
Whose portals bright with many a gem
Are closed—forever closed on them.
The Subahdar with noiseless step
Rushed like the night-breeze o’er the deep.
We look in vain for another instance worth quoting. But were the fancy seen in these examples observable either in the general conduct or in the incidents of the narrative, we should not feel obliged to disagree so unequivocally with that opinion which pronounces this clever little production “one which would not have done discredit to our most popular poets in the meridian of their fame!”
“As the work of a girl of sixteen,” most assuredly we do not think it “prodigious.” In regard to it we may repeat what we said of “Lenore,”—that we have seen finer poems in every respect, written by children of more immature age. It is a creditable composition; nothing beyond this. And, in so saying, we shall startle none but the brainless, and the adopters of ready-made ideas. We are convinced that we express the unuttered sentiment of every educated individual who has read the poem. Nor, having given the plain facts of the case, do we feel called upon to proffer any apology for our flat refusal to play ditto either to Miss Sedgwick, to Mr. Irving, or to Mr. Southey.
The Seaman’s Friend; Containing a Treatise on Practical Seamanship, with Plates; A Dictionary of Sea Terms; Customs and Usages of the Merchant Service; Laws Relating to the Practical Duties of Masters and Mariners. By R. H. Dana, Jr. Author of “Two Years Before the Mast.” Little and Brown: Boston. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia.
The publishers of this neat little volume have very prudently stereotyped it; anticipating an extensive and continuous demand. In truth, the work belongs to the class of the obviously needful, and its circulation and appreciation are matters of certainty. Ever since men “went down to the sea in ships,” there has been a difficulty in procuring exact, compact, and universally intelligible information on the very topics which Mr. Dana now discusses. The necessary knowledge was to be gleaned, imperfectly and superficially, from amid a mass of technical jargon, diffused over a world of questionable authority. Books on Seamanship are extant, to be sure—works of the highest scientific merit and ability—and the writings of Captain Basil Hall give, incidentally, a vast fund of intelligence on naval subjects; but the true desideratum was a work which could only be written by an individual placed exactly in the circumstances which surrounded Mr. Dana. It is well known that he is a man of talent and well educated; that ill-health induced him to try a sea-voyage in the capacity of common sailor; and that thus he has been enabled to combine the advantages of theoretical and practical science. His “Two Years Before the Mast” was, very deservedly, one of the most popular books ever published, and proved immensely profitable—at least to his booksellers. It gave, in a rich strain of philosophical observation, all the racy spirit, as the present volume conveys all the exact letter of the sea.
There is only one improvement which we could wish to suggest. An appendix, we think, should be added; embracing, first, in as popular, that is to say, in as untechnical a form as possible, the philosophy of latitude and longitude—the general principles of which may be rendered intelligible to almost any understanding—and, secondly, the formulæ employed in the application of these principles to navigation, with concise rules for the use of the sextant and chronometer, and for solar, lunar, and stellar observations.
The Miser, or the Convicts of Lisnamona. By William Carleton, Author of “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.” Two Volumes. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia.
This story originally appeared in the “Dublin University Magazine,” under the title of “Fardorougha, or The Miser.” It was much copied and admired, and has all the Irish merit for which its author is so famous.
Fragments From German Prose Writers. Translated by Sarah Austin. With Biographical Sketches of the Authors. D. Appleton and Company. New York.
This is a book about which little can be said, except in the way of general and pointed commendation. Its title fully explains its character; although the fair authoress is at the trouble of enlarging upon the nature of the fragmentary contents. These scraps embody specimens of every variety of the prose literature of Germany—convey, in petto, its whole soul. The lives of the authors are invaluable. The volume is, in point of mechanical appearance, one of the most beautiful ever issued, even by the Appletons.
Confession; Or the Blind Heart. A Domestic Story. By the Author of “The Kinsmen,” “The Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” etc. Two Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia.
In general, Mr. Simms should be considered as one giving indication, rather than proof of high genius. He puts us in mind of a volcano, from the very darkness issuing from whose crater we judge of the fire that is weltering below. So far, with slight exceptions, he has buried his fine talent in his themes. He should never have written “The Partisan,” nor “The Yemassee,” nor his late book (whose title we just now forget) about the first discovery of the Pacific. His genius does not lie in the outward so much as in the inner world. “Martin Faber” did him honor; and so do the present volumes, although liable to objection in some important respects. We welcome him home to his own proper field of exertion—the field of Godwin and Brown—the field of his own rich intellect and glowing heart. Upon reading the first few pages of “Confession,” the stirring words of Scott arose to our lips—“My foot is on my native heath, and my name is McGregor.”
It is our design to speak in full of the volumes before us; but we have left ourselves no space for the task, and must defer it, perforce, until the new year.
Cecil; Or The Adventures of a Coxcomb. A Novel. Two Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia.
This work is an obvious but very spirited and excellent imitation of the Pelhams and Vivian Greys. It abounds, even more than either of these works, in point, pungency and vivacity, but falls below them in true wit, and in other higher qualities. Altogether, it is richly entertaining, and will meet with success. The theme is a good one well managed.
SECRET WRITING.
The annexed letter from a gentleman whose abilities we very highly respect, was received, unfortunately, at too late a period to appear in our November number:
Dear sir:
I should perhaps apologise for again intruding a subject upon which you have so ably commented, and which may be supposed by this time to have been almost exhausted; but as I have been greatly interested in the articles upon “cryptography,” which have appeared in your Magazine, I think that you will excuse the present intrusion of a few remarks. With secret writing I have been practically conversant for several years, and I have found, both in correspondence and in the preservation of private memoranda, the frequent benefit of its peculiar virtues. I have thus a record of thoughts, feelings and occurrences,—a history of my mental existence, to which I may turn, and in imagination, retrace former pleasures, and again live through by-gone scenes,—secure in the conviction that the magic scroll has a tale for my eye alone. Who has not longed for such a confidante?
Cryptography is, indeed, not only a topic of mere curiosity, but is of general interest, as furnishing an excellent exercise for mental discipline, and of high practical importance on various occasions;—to the statesman and the general—to the scholar and the traveller,—and, may I not add “last though not least,” to the lover? What can be so delightful amid the trials of absent lovers, as a secret intercourse between them of their hopes and fears,—safe from the prying eyes of some old aunt, or it may be, of a perverse and cruel guardian?—a billet doux that will not betray its mission, even if intercepted, and that can “tell no tales” if lost, or, (which sometimes occurs,) if stolen from its violated depository.
In the solution of the various ciphers which have been submitted to your examination, you have exhibited a power of analytical and synthetical reasoning I have never seen equalled; and the astonishing skill you have displayed,—particularly in deciphering the cryptograph of Dr. Charles J. Frailey, will, I think, crown you the king of “secret-readers.” But notwithstanding this, I think your opinion that the construction of a real cryptograph is impossible, not sufficiently supported. Those examples which you have published have indeed not been of that character, as you have fully proved. They have, moreover, not been sufficiently accurate, for where the key was a phrase, (and consequently the same character was employed for several letters,) different words would be formed with the same ciphers. The sense could then only be ascertained from the context, and this would amount to a probability—generally of a high degree, I admit—but still not to a positive certainly. Nay, a case might readily be imagined, where the most important word of the communication, and one on which the sense of the whole depended, should have so equivocal a nature, that the person for whose benefit it was intended, would be unable, even with the aid of his key, to discover which of two very different interpretations should be the correct one. If necessary, this can easily be shown; thus, for example, suppose a lady should receive from her affianced, a letter written in ciphers, containing this sentence, “4 5663 967 268 26 3633,” and that a and n were represented by the figure 2,—e, m, and r by 3,—i by 4,—l by 5,—o, s, and v by 6,—u by 7,—w by 8,—and y by 9; a moment’s inspection will show that the sentence might either be “I love you now as ever,” or “I love you now no more.” How “positively shocking,” “to say the least of it;” and yet several of the ciphers that you have published, have required a greater number of letters to be represented by one character, than any to be found in the example before us. It is evident, then, that this is not a very desirable system, as it would scarcely be more useful than a lock without its key, or with one that did not fit its wards.
I think, however, that there are various methods by which a hieroglyphic might be formed, whose meaning would be perfectly “hidden;” and I shall give one or two examples of what I consider such. A method which I have adopted for my own private use, is one which I am satisfied is of this nature, as it cannot possibly be solved without the assistance of its key, and that key, by which alone it can be unlocked, exists only in my mind; at the same time it is so simple, that with the practice in it which I have had, I now read it, and write it, with as much facility as I can the English character. As I prefer not giving it here, I shall be compelled to have recourse to some other plan that is more complicated. By a CRYPTOGRAPH, I understand—a communication which, though clearly ascertained by means of its proper key, cannot possibly be without it. To most persons, who have not thought much upon the subject, an article written in simple cipher, (by which I mean with each letter uniformly represented by a single distinct character,) would appear to be an impenetrable mystery; and they would doubtless imagine that the more complicated the method of constructing such a cipher, the more insoluble—to use a chemical expression—would be the puzzle, since so much less would be the chance of discovering its key. This very natural conclusion is, however, erroneous, as it is founded on the supposition that possession must first be obtained of the key, in order to unravel the difficulty,—which is not the case. The process of reasoning employed in resolving “secret writing” has not the slightest relation to the form or description of the characters used, but refers simply to their succession, and to a comparison of words in which the same letters occur. By these means any cipher of this nature can be unriddled, as experience has fully shown. A very successful method of avoiding detection, would be to apply the simple cipher to words written backwards and continuously. This, I conceive, might be called a perfect cryptograph, since from the want of spaces, and consequently the impossibility of comparing words, it would utterly perplex the person attempting to discover its hidden import, and yet with the help of the key, each letter being known, the words could easily be separated and inverted. I give a short specimen of this style, and would feel much gratified with your opinion of the possibility of reading it.
Should this not be considered perfect, (though I suspect it would puzzle even the ingenious editor to detect its meaning,) I shall give another method below, which I can show must be, and if I am successful I think you will do me the justice to admit that “human ingenuity” has contrived “a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.” I wish to be distinctly understood; the secret communication above, and the one following, are not intended to show that you have promised more than you can perform. I do not take up the gauntlet. Your challenge, I am happy to testify, has been more than amply redeemed. It is merely with an incidental remark of yours, that I am at present engaged, and my object is to show that however correct it may be generally,—it is not so universally.
Agreeably to a part of my foregoing definition, that cannot be a proper cryptograph, in which a single character is made to represent more than one letter. Let us for a moment see what would be the result if this was reversed,—that is, if more than one cipher were used for a single letter. In case each letter were represented by two different characters, (used alternately or at random,) it is evident that while the certainty of reading such a composition correctly, by help of the key, would not be at all diminished, the difficulty of its solution without that help, would be vastly increased. This then is an approach to the formation of a secret cipher. If, now, the number of the characters were extended to three or four for each letter, it might be pronounced with tolerable certainty that such a writing would be “secret.” Or, to take an extreme case, a communication might be made, in which no two characters would be alike! Here all reasoning would be entirely baffled, as there would evidently be no objects of comparison; and even if half a dozen words were known, they would furnish no clue to the rest. Here, then, is a complete non plus to investigation, and we have arrived at a perfect cryptograph. For, since any given cipher would stand for but one letter in the key, there could be but a single and definite solution; and thus both conditions of my definition are fully satisfied. In the following specimen of this method, I have employed the Roman-capital, small letter, and small capital, with their several inversions, giving me the command of 130 characters, or an average of five to each letter. This is to “make assurance doubly sure,” for I am satisfied that were an average of three characters used for each letter, such a writing would be emphatically secret. If you will be so kind as to give my cipher a place in your interesting Magazine, I will immediately forward you its key. Hoping that you will not be displeased with my tedious letter,
I am most respectfully yours.
W. B. TYLER.
To Edgar A. Poe, Esq.
The difficulty attending the cipher by key-phrase, viz: that the same characters may convey various meanings—is a difficulty upon which we commented in our first article upon this topic, and more lately at greater length in a private letter to our friend F. W. Thomas. The key-phrase cryptograph is, in fact, altogether inadmissible. The labor requisite for its elucidation, even with the key, would, alone, render it so. Lord Bacon very properly defines three essentials in secret correspondence. It is required, first, that the cipher be such as to elude suspicion of being a cipher; secondly, that its alphabet be so simple of formation as to demand but little time in the construction of an epistle; thirdly, that it shall be absolutely insoluble without the key—we may add, fourthly, that, with the key, it be promptly and certainly decipherable.
Admitting, now, that the ingenious cryptograph proposed by our correspondent be absolutely what he supposes it, impenetrable, it would still, we think, be inadmissible on the first point above stated, and more so on the second. But of its impenetrability we are by no means sure, notwithstanding what, at a cursory glance, appears to be the demonstration of the writer. In the key-phrase cipher an arbitrary character is sometimes made to represent five, six, seven, or even more letters. Our correspondent proposes merely to reverse the operation:—and this simple statement of the case will do more towards convincing him of his error than an elaborate argument, for which we would neither have time, nor our readers patience. In a key-phrase cryptograph, equally as in his own, each discovery is independent, not necessarily affording any clue to farther discovery. Neither is the idea of our friend, although highly ingenious, philosophical, and unquestionably original with him, (since he so assures us,) original in itself. It is one of the many systems tried by Dr. Wallis and found wanting. Perhaps no good cipher was ever invented which its originator did not conceive insoluble; yet, so far, no impenetrable cryptograph has been discovered. Our correspondent will be the less startled at this, our assertion, when he bears in mind that he who has been termed the “wisest of mankind”—we mean Lord Verulam—was as confident of the absolute insolubility of his own mode as our present cryptographist is of his. What he said upon the subject in his De Augmentis was, at the day of its publication, considered unanswerable. Yet his cipher has been repeatedly unriddled. We may say, in addition, that the nearest approach to perfection in this matter, is the chiffre quarré of the French Academy. This consists of a table somewhat in the form of our ordinary multiplication tables, from which the secret to be conveyed is so written that no letter is ever represented twice by the same character. Out of a thousand individuals nine hundred and ninety-nine would at once pronounce this mode inscrutable. It is yet susceptible, under peculiar circumstances, of prompt and certain solution.
Mr. T. will have still less confidence in his hastily adopted opinions on this topic when we assure him, from personal experience, that what he says in regard to writing backwards and continuously without intervals between the words—is all wrong. So far from “utterly perplexing the decipherer,” it gives him no difficulty, legitimately so called—merely taxing to some extent his patience. We refer him to the files of “Alexander’s Weekly Messenger” for 1839—where he will see that we read numerous ciphers of the class described, even when very ingenious additional difficulties were interposed. We say, in brief, that we should have little trouble in reading the one now proposed.
“Here,” says our friend, referring to another point, “all reasoning would be entirely baffled, as there would evidently be no objects of comparison.” This sentence assures us that he is laboring under much error in his conception of cipher-solutions. Comparison is a vast aid unquestionably; but not an absolute essential in the elucidation of these mysteries.
We need not say, however, that this subject is an excessively wide one. Our friend will forgive us for not entering into details which would lead us—God knows whither. The ratiocination actually passing through the mind in the solution of even a simple cryptograph, if detailed step by step, would fill a large volume. Our time is much occupied; and notwithstanding the limits originally placed to our cartel, we have found ourselves overwhelmed with communications on this subject; and must close it, perforce—deeply interesting as we find it. To this resolution we had arrived last month; but the calm and truly ingenious reasoning of our correspondent has induced us to say these few words more. We print his cipher—with no promise to attempt its solution ourselves—much as we feel inclined to make the promise—and to keep it. Some of our hundred thousand readers will, no doubt, take up the gauntlet thrown down; and our pages shall be open for any communication on the subject, which shall not tax our own abilities or time.
In speaking of our hundred thousand readers (and we can scarcely suppose the number to be less), we are reminded that of this vast number, one and only one has succeeded in solving the cryptograph of Dr. Frailey. The honor of the solution, is however, due to Mr. Richard Bolton, of Pontotoc, Mississippi. His letter did not reach us until three weeks after the completion of our November number, in which we should, otherwise, have acknowledged it.
THE CLOSING YEAR.
Perhaps the editors of no magazine, either in America or Europe, ever sat down, at the close of a year, to contemplate the progress of their work with more satisfaction than we do now. Our success has been unexampled, almost incredible. We may assert without fear of contradiction that no periodical ever witnessed the same increase during so short a period. We began the year almost unknown; certainly far behind our cotemporaries in numbers; we close it with a list of twenty-five thousand subscribers, and the assurance on every hand that our popularity has as yet seen only its dawning. But if such is the orient, what will our noonday be? Nor, if we may for once play the egotist, is this success wholly undeserved. Everything that talent, taste, capital, or energy could do for “Graham’s Magazine” has been done, and that too without stint. The best typography, the choicest engravers, the finest writers, the most finished artists, and the utmost punctuality in our business department, have lent their aid to forward our enterprise; and what neither could have done singly, all combined have effected. Nothing has been spared. The splendor of our embellishments has never been equalled: the variety and richness of our literary matter are not to be surpassed. We not only present a choicer list of contributors than any other magazine in the country, but we rejoice in more than one writer whom we alone have been able to tempt from their retreats, and who cannot be induced to contribute to any cotemporary. We have secured the exclusive services of Sartain, and have made a permanent engagement with Sadd. Our Fashion Plates have become the standards in that department, and the line engravings we have furnished have been universally cited as superior to those of the richest Annuals. In literary rank we are assigned the first place of our class, and our criticisms on books are deferred to as the best in the country. We may speak thus boldly, because, although we may be only Snug the Joiner, yet whenever we roar as now, it is in the character of the lion. Reviewing, therefore, our past success, and taking it—and why not?—as an earnest for the future, we can afford, we opine, to sip our cup of choice Mocha at ease, and if not to “shoulder our crutch,” at least to “tell how fields were won.”
We shall begin the new year determined to surpass even what we have done. As we have introduced a new era into magazine history we shall not pause until the revolution is complete. We shall not follow the namby-pamby style of periodical literature, but aim at a loftier and more extended flight. For this purpose we shall increase the amount of our reading matter, although, at the same time, our embellishments shall even be superior in beauty to what they are at present. We have made arrangements by which the graceful pens of two lady-editors will be added to our strength. Our editorial list will then be as follows:
Geo. R. Graham,
Chas. J. Peterson,
Mrs. E. C. Embury,
Mrs. A. S. Stephens,
Edgar A. Poe.
Our Prospectus will show the number of American writers, in addition to the editors, enlisted in the work. With such a corps we may make any promises.
To ensure a supply of the best original engravings we have, in addition to Messrs. Sartain and Sadd, procured the aid of Messrs. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch and Smillie, and Mr. Dick,—all well known for the elegance of their work. Our chief illustrations shall, however, be as heretofore, mezzotinto engravings,—they being decidedly the most effective, elegant, rare, and desirable. This field we shall enjoy without even an attempt at serious competition, it being impossible for any other like magazine to bring out the same or equal talent in this way.
And now, as the play is over and we have spoken the epilogue, we will draw the curtain with a single wish: “a happy new year, and many of them, to our subscribers.”
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For the text only version of this eBook, in the article “A Chapter on Autograpy”, the various signatures which were given in other formats as an illustration, are represented in the text version as text with variable spacing and punctuation representing the way in which the particular signature is handwritten.
page 259, remark of the gentleman ==> remark of the [gentlewoman]
[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 6, December 1841, George R. Graham, Editor]