Graham's Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 6, December 1841

by Various

THE CONCLUSION.

The cool breath of morning was blowing through the open casement, when I awoke on the ensuing day, and as the wind dallied with the curtains of my bed and kissed my fevered brow, I felt an exhiliration of spirits which no one can fully appreciate who has not experienced the torture of a bed of sickness.

My dreams had been pleasant during my repose, for they were of Beatrice. Overcome by exhaustion, I had sank into a slumber almost immediately after my faint attempt to address her; but I knew not how long I slept; for, although it was now early morning, I had no means of telling at what hour I had awoke the day before. No one appeared to be stirring in the room. The mild light of an October sun lay in rich masses on the carpet, while occasionally the brown vine leaves outside the casement, would rustle pleasantly in the breeze. How I gazed on the patch of blue sky discernible through that open window—how I longed to be wandering free and uncontrolled over the rich plains and up the glowing hill-sides that stretched away before the vision. Oh! there is nothing so glorious to the sick man as a sunny morning. At this instant a bird whistled outside the casement. How my blood danced at the lightsome tone! A succession of dreamy, delicious feelings floated through my soul, and I lay for some moments motionless, but dissolved in gratitude.

I raised myself feebly up, and faintly pushing aside the curtain, strove to obtain a survey of my apartment. At length my thoughts reverted to my situation. When I lost my consciousness, I was on a deserted deck—now I was lying in a spacious apartment, in perfect security. Who could explain this mystery? It was a rich, even luxurious room. The furniture was of the costliest and most tasteful pattern, and the arrangement of the different articles was made with an artist’s eye to the keeping—if I may so speak—of the whole. A stand just in front of me held a bouquet of fresh flowers, which, from their rarity, must have come from some green house. On the opposite wall hung a glorious picture of the Madonna, with her golden hair and beatified countenance, gazing down, with that smile which Raphael has made immortal, on the infant on her knee. A dim recollection floated through my brain that I had seen that smile before, only the features which then accompanied it, had been like those of Beatrice, rather than of the picture. Suddenly that angel face I had seen in my dream, flashed on me. I knew it all now. It had been, while gazing on this divine portrait in my delirium, that my fancy had imagined it the face of Beatrice, smiling down upon me from the clouds.

It was evident that Beatrice had some connexion with my present situation, for I was convinced that I had seen her the preceding day. Where was she now?—How long had I been sick in this place?—And in what manner was she I loved involved in my rescue, were questions that continually forced themselves on my mind, until my still weak brain began to be dizzy with the mystery. Putting my hands to my brow I strove to drive away such thoughts; but they only returned with ten-fold force. I would have risen to solve the mystery, but my strength proved inefficient to the task, and I sank back on my pillow. A half hour must thus have passed, when I heard a light footstep on the carpet, and in an instant my heart was throbbing, and the blood dancing in my veins. In a moment I should see Beatrice again. I gazed in the direction whence the sound of the steps proceeded, and the name of her I adored was already trembling on my lips, when a hand gathered back the curtain, and I saw, not Beatrice, but an elderly French woman, whose dress bespoke her a nurse. Never did a way-worn pilgrim, fancying he beheld the minaret of the holy city in the distance, gaze on a mirage with more disappointment than I did on the countenance of my visitor. But my curiosity soon triumphed over my disappointment. Perhaps she read my thoughts, for a smile of equivocal meaning gradually stole into the corners of her month as she returned my gaze. She was the first to speak:

“Is Monsieur better?” she inquired.

“Yes,” I replied, “I am almost well—sufficiently so, at least, to feel curiosity. In a word, how and when did I come here? Who am I to thank as my preserver?”

“Monsieur has more questions to ask than even a Parisian grisette could answer,” she replied, evasively. “Besides, his physician says he must be kept quiet. I can only tell him for the present that he is in France. Let him be patient and he shall soon know all. He is at any rate among friends, and when he gets stronger he shall hear his story from other lips than mine.”

As this was accompanied with a meaning smile that left no doubt on my mind to whom she alluded, and as she seconded her words by drawing the curtains together as if to retire, I was fain to be content. In addition to this moreover, I felt that I had already exerted myself sufficiently in conversation, for my brain was dizzy with the few words I had spoken. So I closed my eyes, and, like one wearied out with toil, in a few minutes was asleep.

Several days elapsed, during which I saw no one but the nurse, and now and then a servant or two in a rich livery, who brought in the tray. To all my inquiries I received the same answer, until at length, unbounded as was my curiosity, I gave over the attempt, comforting myself with the conviction that, in a day or two more, I should hear my story from the loved lips of Beatrice herself.

At length I was able to sit up, and when the formal old physician appeared, he announced to me with a meaning smile, that he would now permit me to receive visitors. He added that my host and hostess were anxious to pay their compliments in person, and had only been prevented hitherto from doing so by my extreme weakness, and his express commands. All this had an air of mystery about it which, however, I had not time to unravel, for the physician had scarcely ceased speaking when the door opened and my entertainers entered, announced by a servant in a rich livery. I started and crimsoned to the brow, but a hasty glance assured me that Beatrice was not there. The wonder increased,—but the physician left me no time for thought, for, advancing on the instant, he introduced my visitors to me formally as a Baron and Baroness de St. Allaire. They were both somewhat in years, at least past their prime, but their manners, apart from their former kindness to me, would have attracted me to them at once. The Baron was a stately Frenchman, of the school of le grand monarque, very formal, very dignified, but withal kind hearted. His lady possessed one of the most benignant countenances I ever recollect to have seen. Her smile was peculiarly sweet. Her years sat on her lightly, and with all the propriety of her age she had all the liveliness of youth. It was not long, therefore, before I was perfectly at ease. The Baron expressed his satisfaction at my rapid improvement for the better, complimented himself on his good fortune in being my host, hoped that I found the prospect from my window pleasant, and all this, too, with a formality, yet an affability that realized my idea of the old French chevalier. His lady was less precise, and consequently more winning. She conversed even gaily, and on a variety of subjects, all, however, having a bearing on my illness. Yet, with a tact which I could not but admire, she avoided every allusion to the means by which I had become her guest, reminding me of a skilful advocate in a bad cause, always hovering about but never approaching the issue. A quarter of an hour was thus spent and I had determined to relieve my eager curiosity by broaching the subject myself at the first pause in the conversation, but, as if anticipating my design, the Baroness suddenly rose, and still continuing her gay remarks, fairly complimented herself out of the room before I had a chance to speak without violating all etiquette by interrupting the good lady. I fancied, as she closed the door with an “adieu, Monsieur,” that there was malice in her provoking smile, betokening a lurking consciousness that she had outwitted me. At first I was half disposed to feel angry, it was so evident that my curiosity was trifled with. My patience nearly gave way at these continued disappointments. Yet I had nothing at which I could rationally get displeased. It was in vain for me to feel angry—my discomfiture had been too adroitly managed—and at length I fairly burst into a laugh at my own expense.

“You are pleased to be merry,” said a silvery voice behind me, and a low glad laugh that rung through the chamber like fairy music, echoed my own. I started up at once. I knew I could not be mistaken. The next moment Beatrice was in my arms.

The rapture of that re-union I shall not attempt to portray. If my readers have been young, and after having been separated for years from the one they loved, have met her as their preserver, they can appreciate my feelings. I draw a veil over the sacred emotions of that interview. Nor will I repeat the thousand questions which were asked and answered almost in the same breath.

It was some ten minutes before Beatrice narrated the circumstances which had transpired since I parted with her in Charleston. Nor did she, even when she began, give me a connected account. There were too many questions to be asked, and too many inquiries to be answered, all growing, it is true, out of her story, but all sadly at variance with the course of the narration, to permit a continuous tale. At length, however, I learned all, or nearly all, for there were a few things which the dear girl did not tell me until long after,—and even then not without a blush at her avowal.

My first inquiry was about her own fortunes, but she would not answer me until I had told her how I came on the wreck, and she had acquainted me with the manner of my rescue. I will give it in her own words.

“When you lost your consciousness you were, I fancy, nearer to aid than you imagine, for a French privateer that was hovering along the coast discovered the wreck, and making for it rescued you, almost exhausted it is true, but still retaining life. You were insensible, and well nigh frozen to death. But the exertions of your preservers finally restored you to life, though not to consciousness. You fell into a raging fever in which you raved in a constant delirium. The captain of the privateer, having occasion to put into port the following day, brought you on shore, and suspecting you to be an Englishman from your language, unfeelingly consigned you to the common jail hospital, among the poorest and most degraded of human beings. There you lay the whole of the ensuing night, scarcely tended even by the callous nurses of those establishments. No one knew your name; your dress was not a uniform; and death was rapidly approaching to consign you to an unknown grave. But Providence did not will that such should be your fate. An all-seeing eye beheld you; an omnipotent arm interposed to save you. And the means of your preservation were so fortuitous as to seem almost those of chance. The confessor of the Baroness was in the habit of visiting the prison—for we reside but a short drive from the town—and while giving consolation to one of those miserable wretches—oh! I shudder to think that you were once there—he heard a sick man in a neighboring ward raving of a name,” and here the dear girl covered her face in confusion, “which was familiar to him. Need I say it was mine? He listened, and heard enough to satisfy him that you were acquainted with me. He made inquiries, learned how you came there—and you can imagine the rest.”

“That I was brought here and saved from death,” said I, looking fondly into Beatrice’s face. “But you have not told me how you came here, or what tie exists between you and our hostess.”

“Oh! she is my cousin. I spent some years here in early childhood. But to tell my story I must go back to when we last parted in Charleston.”

“Very well. I listen.”

“You know,” sweetly began Beatrice, “how much I feared, when you were in Charleston, that my uncle would make himself obnoxious to the colonial authorities, and endanger perhaps his life. You knew also, that he seemed resolved to bring about a union betwixt his son and myself. The necessity of obtaining my uncle’s sanction to my marriage under the penalty of forfeiting my fortune, weighed but lightly with me, for I knew his hostility to you to be unjust. Yet, as the representative of my deceased parent, I wished, if possible, to win Mr. Rochester’s sanction. His persevering determination to unite me to his son prevented all hope of this; and it was not long after our parting that I saw he would never consent to my becoming the bride of any one but his heir. Besides, he grew every day more openly hostile to the colonies. Unjust as I felt he was to me, I yet loved him as my mother’s brother, and I trembled for his life. But death suddenly interposed and calmed my fears, only however to awaken my grief. In the grave I buried my wrongs. I saw in him then only my protector in a strange land—my nearest living relative—the one with whom my sainted mother had spent her childhood.

“My uncle’s decease at once changed my fortunes. The only impediment to my enjoyment of my father’s estate was now removed, and I was free to bestow my hand on whomsoever I wished. My cousin renewed his offer, at a decent interval after his father’s death, but, need I say, I courteously yet firmly refused it. My longer stay in Charleston was now a matter of delicacy, for I had no relatives there except the family of Mr. Rochester, and they naturally viewed my decision with feelings more favorable to my cousin than to myself. Under these circumstances I availed myself of an opportunity that just then presented to sail for this country, where my relative the Baroness, with whom I had spent some years in childhood, resided. She had continued in correspondence with me ever since, and had urged me in every letter to visit her, even if I could not come and make my home with her. Little did I think that I should meet you under the circumstances in which I did.”

I have little more to add. Of the letters which I had written to Beatrice some miscarried, some were lost in captured ships, and a few reached her months after they had been penned. Her answers came with even more irregularity, for since the day we had parted in Charleston I had received but a solitary epistle from her. Now, however, every disappointment was amply redressed. She sat beside me with her hand in mine, and her soft eyes looking smilingly up into my face.

“But why,” said I at length, “was so much mystery preserved respecting your presence here? And why, after I had recognized you on my first awaking from delirium, did you order the nurse—for you only could have done so—to avoid all mention of your name, to conceal from me in whose house I was?”

“That was a scheme adopted as much from the orders of the physician as from any other motive. He feared that the least agitation would bring back your fever, and he enjoined secresy on the nurse, as the surest way to keep you composed.”

I would have said how much he had failed of success had I not been too full of happiness to condemn even a formal old physician.

The period of my convalescence is one written on my inmost heart in characters never to be obliterated. Oh! those were delicious hours. With Beatrice beside me I would sit gazing out on the sunny landscape beneath the window, or wander through the rich garden which surrounded the chateau. Or perhaps she would ply her needle while I would read to her. And then she would sing some of the old songs of her native land. And by and by the Baroness would come in, and with her ever sunny mind join in the conversation. Years, long eventful years, have passed since then, and God knows too many of those I loved are now in their graves, but the memory of that fortnight of happiness never fails to restore gladness to my heart even in its utmost sorrow.

But I have too long forgotten the little Fire Fly. It will be recollected that I had left Holland with the intention of joining my old commander at Paris, and I now seized the earliest opportunity of communicating my present situation to him by letter. A reply soon arrived by which I learned that, although the Fire Fly had been condemned, a brig had been chartered, and that he intended returning to America with his officers and most of his crew in her. They had been in the greatest anxiety respecting my fate, and had finally given me up for lost. The letter informed me that the day of sailing had been fixed, and that before I could return an answer the brig would have broke ground. My old commander ended by hoping that I might soon be able to rejoin him in the United States—although he added a gay postscript to say that he understood there was great probability of my choosing another mistress than glory.

Meanwhile I slowly recovered, and as every obstacle to my union with Beatrice was now removed, I did not hesitate to press the dear girl to name an early day for the realization of our nuptials. With a thousand blushes she referred me to the Baron and his lady, promising in the softest whisper, as if she feared to trust herself to speak, to abide by their decision. Need I say how speedily I availed myself of the permission, or how warmly I petitioned for as short a delay as possible?

At length the day was named, and though I was condemned to wait a whole month, in the company of Beatrice it glided away almost insensibly.

The morning at length dawned. It was a bright sunny day in early winter, and never shall I forget the cheery sound of the village bells ringing to announce my approaching nuptials. The air was keen and frosty; not a cloud was in the sky; the brown woods fairly glowed in the sunlight; and, in a word, had I chosen the day a more fitting one could not have been selected. My lady readers may expect a description of the dress of the bride, the carriage, the feast, and a thousand other things, but as I am no Sir Charles Grandison, I shall pass them over without comment. I will only say that Beatrice—my own Beatrice at last—never looked lovelier than when she descended to the room, where we were all awaiting her, on that marriage morn. The smile, the blush, the look of unreserved affection as her eye was raised timidly to my face and then dropped, I shall never forget. The Baron gave her away, the nuptial vow was said, and with a tumult of feelings I cannot describe, I pressed her to my bosom, a wife. A tear was on her cheek, but I kissed it holily away.

We remained in France for nearly a year after our union, and even after that prolonged stay, could hardly tear ourselves from the Baron and his lady. But the prospect of peace daily growing stronger we availed ourselves of the kind offer of the French monarch, and sailed for America in one of our allies’ frigates. I never, however, served again, for the war was in fact terminated, but thereafter I spent my life in the bosom of my family.

As the magician after having summoned up and marshalled before him a phantasmagoria of shadowy figures, at length perceives them fading from his sight, and, conscious that the spell is fast departing, lays down his rod, so we, approaching to the end of our task, find that the charm is beginning to lose its power, and that the beings we have conjured up are melting rapidly from our vision. Even now they seem to us only as a dream. Yet there is one glimpse more afforded to us before the magic curtain falls on them forever. It is that of a happy fireside and a smiling circle around it. Nor are the principals in that domestic scene wholly unfamiliar to us, for in the mild eyes and Madonna-like countenance of the one, and in the well-known face and embrowned features of the other, we recognize two of those who have figured as the chief personages in our story. Years have not impaired the beauty of Beatrice, for they have fallen as light on her as blossoms. But she is not now alone in her loveliness, for at her knee is one, like and yet unlike her, younger but not more beautiful, gayer but with scarcely less sweetness. Need we say of whom the group is composed?

And now, reader, let me drop my disguise and come before you in my own character as

Harry Danforth.

---

HE WOO’D ME AT THE FOUNTAIN.

———

BY A. M’MAKIN.

———

He woo’d me at the fountain,

When the moon shone bright above,

And with the murmuring of the stream,

He pledged his vows of love.

I bade him to my father hie,

The pleasing tale to tell,

Then seek again the fountain sheen,

Down in the sylvan dell.

He woo’d me in the bower,

When the songsters fill’d the grove,

And with the dove’s soft tones he sigh’d

His ardent tale of love.

I bade him seek my mother’s side,

Her blessing first to win,

Then claim me for his chosen bride,

The trelliced bower within.

He woo’d me at the festal,

Where music reigned supreme,

And ’mid the revel wild and light

He breath’d his chosen theme;

Yet all unbless’d I could not yield

To man the heart’s rich mine,

Or falsely dash the holy light

From filial duty’s shrine.

At length ’twas at the altar,

’Neath the organ’s pealing sound,

He sought again my trembling hand,

While friends were smiling round;

No more I bade him others seek,

Or waved him from my side:

With blushes mantling o’er my cheek,

I knelt his happy bride.

---

THE STOLEN MINIATURE.

———

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.

———

“The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more.”

Othello.

It was near midnight, on one of the beautiful summer evenings that brood over our Western Land, as some fair spirit hovers near to Paradise—and which can be realized only by those who have witnessed them—that one of the numerous strangers that throng the waters of “La Belle Rivière,” paused on its upward course before a small town which lay upon the banks of the aforesaid stream. When the boat had effected a landing, a few passengers, who either blind to the charms of Morpheus, or more allied to those of sundry packs of cards, that strewed the tables of the “social hall,” stepped upon shore to enjoy a moonlight view of the village. Among the number, was a group of three individuals, who, withdrawing from the rest, strolled carelessly along one of the principal streets, until they arrived at a cross, turning down whose short but secluded walk, several large buildings, evidently the residences of the most wealthy portion of the inhabitants, were situated. As they passed into this beautiful and peaceful retreat, a slight whispering, which presently broke forth into loud and angry words, disturbed the slumbering echoes of the night.

“I tell you, Layton, it is impossible! I will not—cannot do it!”

“Spoken like a fool, and a milksop, as you are; there is a way to stop your whining scruples, and curse me if I’ll not show it you.”

Quick as thought, the first speaker turned, and confronting his companion, exclaimed in a voice trembling with passion,—“Ay, there is a way to rouse the sleeping devil, even in my coward frame; but your threats fall regardless on my ear, while I have this good blade to protect me,”—and a long glittering Bowie-knife flashed beneath the soft rays of the harvest moon.

“By Heavens! I believe you both to be mad! Put up your knife, Bradley, and you, Layton, keep your infernal tongue within your teeth, unless you want to have this goodly town about our ears.” This soothing speech was spoken by the third, and hitherto silent companion; and while the altercation is progressing in lower tones, you, my gentle reader, shall have a Daguerreotype sketch of at least one of the party.

Bradley Spencer was the son of one of the most wealthy and aristocratic planters in Louisiana, but maternal affection he never knew, at least was not conscious of it, his mother having been snatched away in his childhood, by one of the fearful epidemics peculiar to that portion of the South. His father, a high-principled, noble-minded man, richly endowed with the warm blood and chivalrous feelings of the Southerner, having thus lost that which he considered as the better part of life, gave his undivided heart to this “sole scion of his stock,” and for his boy’s sake, no second lady darkened his halls, or cast a shadow over the golden sunlight of the young heir’s youthful existence. Thus fondly nurtured and cherished, every wish indulged to the utmost, the young Bradley grew apace; but, with all his paternal prejudice, the elder Spencer could not but note the wavering acts and vacillating mind of his darling boy, betokening, even in youth, the indecision of the man. With prophetic sorrow, he saw the consequences entailed on one, who, ever willing to follow, had no projects to offer, or will of his own, to oppose those of others. To eradicate this “crying evil,” the boy was sent, at the age of fifteen, to college. There, at least, argued the parent, he will learn independence of thought and expression. But how widely was he mistaken! An universal favorite among his class-mates, winning “golden opinions” from all, by his pliant disposition, and suavity of manners, and being allowed an unlimited sum for his passing expenditures, he bore the palm, and reigned any thing but a despot, over his more firmly-minded companions. It is not our intention to follow him through the mazes of college life, and we pass in silence over the four succeeding years, when at the age of nineteen, he was re-called, to receive the last blessing and injunctions of a dying father. Still true to his erroneous system of indulgence, Mr. Spencer left his property to the undivided control of his son, fondly imagining, that unlimited sway would overcome the imbecile principles of youth, and teach him that firmness of mind, and stability of purpose, so essential to manhood.

Youth is the season of luxury and enjoyment. Joy is evanescent; and grief, in the young bosom, is but the sudden o’ercasting of a summer sky; the cloud passes away, and the bow of promise is bent in the now smiling heavens. Thus was it with Bradley’s grief; a few short weeks in New Orleans did wonders; they initiated him in the mysteries and delights of the gaming table; they did more: they introduced him to the lowest haunts of vice and infamy, cloaked, indeed, for the decoy of this rich windfall; but so thin and flimsy was the protecting veil of decency and morality, that any other than Bradley Spencer’s eyes would have pierced the wily folds, and laid bare the monsters lurking behind them. Thus early possessed with the fatal passion of gaming, night after night saw the infatuated youth wound deeper and deeper in the toils of his betrayers. Mortgage after mortgage was given,—though not having a shadow of legality about them, they were accepted as eagerly by these human leeches, as the red gold for which they had sold their souls to perdition. The men with whom it was Spencer’s fate to become connected, were most of them from thirty to forty years of age; wily, unprincipled villains, well calculated to govern the simple youth, whom they remorselessly plundered of all at his present command, and accepted his honor as pledge for the rest, when he should become of age. Nor were the months tardy in their flight. At the end of two short years, his property was formally yielded by his passive guardian, and the day that gave him house and land, stock and slave, saw him resign it to the fiends who had possessed him with a love of all that was degrading to human nature, and taught him to scoff at all who were truly poor and virtuous.

It is the same Bradley Spencer, kind reader, whose brief career we have endeavored to trace, that we left in the little village, with his knavish companions, who, fresh from the hiding places of loathsome vice, were intent on drawing the young man into yet greater depths of wickedness. But they struck upon the wrong chord—Spencer had been culpable, most culpable, it is true, but he was to himself his worst foe; he had not willingly injured others, but had been the dupe, in every instance. Thus, when his brutal comrade expressed his determination to rob one of the habitations before them, and urged his assistance, his nobler spirit that had slept so long, was aroused, and he gave vent to his feelings in the manner we have described.

Brief was their consultation, and the arguments they held with him bade fair to be of no avail, until the elder and more polite villain, declared that Bradley could not now withdraw in honor, as they should suspect he meant to betray them; that they would not require his assistance, if he had any foolish prejudice to the contrary; but he should accompany them, as a mere looker-on. Without pausing for an answer, he passed his arm in that of the young man’s, and followed by Layton, they stepped into a small yard, at the gable end of one of the mansions. There, a window had been left open by the unsuspecting inmates, for the benefit of the air. Springing lightly in, he was followed by the others. Groping their way by the light of a dark lantern, which Layton pulled from the bosom of his coat—thus showing himself perfectly au fait in such proceedings—they ascended a staircase, and pausing in a long passage, bade Bradley be watchful, and give a low whistle upon the slightest alarm. The two less scrupulous ruffians then pursued their way down the passage. What Spencer’s reflections would have been, he had not leisure to ascertain, for, fancying he heard a low breathing, like one in deep slumber, he turned and discovered, by the light of the moon, which was streaming in a window near, a door, the which, on applying his hand, yielded to the impulse. Impelled by curiosity, or some more definable feeling, he stepped softly into the room. A night-lamp was burning dimly upon a table, near a small couch, where, in her bright and youthful loveliness, slept a fair girl. Scarce had the breath of sixteen summers passed over the clear brow that lay upturned in its marble whiteness, for

“Death’s twin-sister, sleep,”

weighed down the veined lids, the long dark lashes of which rested on the faintly-tinged cheek beneath. As Spencer turned from this unexpected vision, his glance fell on a small book, that lay open on the table. Some light pencil-mark, that pointed to an admired passage, drew his attention. As he bent to read, his brow crimsoned, and his frame trembled with emotion. It was a volume of the ill-fated Shelley’s Poems, open at “Adonais,” and as he read

“Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee,

Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,”

a full sense of his degradation, and how he had “fallen from his high estate,” rushed upon his stricken heart, and feelings that had slumbered long, were now fully awakened by the thrilling lines of the mystical poet, and the strange scene before him. As he turned quickly to leave where his presence was a sacrilege, his attention was caught by a small miniature, one glance at which showed him the waking likeness of the sleeping beauty before him. Involuntarily catching it, he fled from the room, and giving the signal agreed upon, to his companions, the next moment saw them wending their way to the boat, which, having discharged the freight that detained her, was soon flying upon her onward course.

Three years had passed away, since Bradley Spencer, leagued with common thieves, accompanied them on their nefarious night expedition, in the little village already mentioned. Bradley Spencer, then the companion of gamblers and low debauchees, was now Henry Murray, the trusted head clerk of one of the most wealthy mercantile houses in New York. From the ever memorable night of the robbery, the wretched young man forsook his unworthy associates. “Remorse and self-contempt” did indeed cling to him, and despair and shame at first conquered his remaining energy. But the spirit was present with him; it only needed to be roused into action. He had parted with his last dollar, when he arrived in New York, and the change of name was decided on to soothe the pride that came to his aid after so long a time. Deprivations only rendered him stronger in his virtuous purposes, thus proving at once the false system of indulgence adopted by his parent.

Clement Archer, Esq., was a stern, unbending, business man. Strictly moral in his walk before men, he required all around him to show the same regard for the welfare of society. With a heart filled with benevolence, though veiled with an air of sternness, he received Bradley in his counting-house, as Henry Murray, knowing it to be a fictitious name, for Spencer scorned to impose on his benefactor in this respect, and though Bradley’s past history was a sealed book which his employer never attempted to pry into, he could not help fancying some misdemeanor had driven the young man from his home and friends. He contented himself, therefore, by placing a strict watch upon his conduct, but after months had passed away, indeed, years, and saw Henry the same attentive, hard-laboring clerk he was at first, his patron took pleasure in showing him favor, and in placing the most unlimited confidence in him. Thus had the three years glided by. That Henry was comparatively happy, we admit, but many an agonizing night had passed, ere he acquired even this slight tranquility, and shall we confess it, kind reader? the stolen miniature, the witness of his involuntary crime, was cherished as a precious relic, for instead of serving to remind him of his errors, and fill him with shame, it was regarded as a mute angel, that had snatched him from ignominy and vice. And who could blame him for loving to look upon that fair countenance, with its deep and eloquent eyes forever speaking of the intellectual worth within? It was not so much the beautiful form of the features, that arrested the gaze, as the whole-soul expression that shone around them. Long would the infatuated youth gaze on the memento of his crime, but there was little penitence in his looks, and not one thought of sorrow for the grief the loss of it must have given the fair original, for enclosed in the back was a braid of dark hair, slightly silvered with grey, and beneath was engraved, “from a fond mother to her daughter, on her sixteenth birthday.”

Bradley had carefully avoided every print which he thought would be likely to contain the intelligence of the robbery, and as no communication passed between himself and the perpetrators on this subject, he was consequently ignorant of the amount abstracted, or of the names of the sufferers.

It was a cold winter morning, when Mr. Archer suddenly entered his counting-house and ordered it to be immediately closed. On Henry’s (for so must we call him) looking up, he perceived his friend’s countenance was clothed with grief, and the fresh crape upon his hat told that death had been busy with his house. Bidding Henry, who was domesticated in his family, accompany him home, he informed him he had just received letters announcing the death of an only and well-beloved brother, and added, he was hourly expecting the arrival of an orphan niece, now committed to his charge. His companion asked no questions, for fear of stirring the fountain of grief afresh. On entering the drawing-room at night, he was presented to Miss Archer, but what was his surprise and consternation on lifting his eyes to her face, to see the fair sleeper before him! The face was paler than the miniature’s, and wore a more chastened and somewhat older expression, for sorrow had indeed visited her. Both parents had slept their last sleep, since she slumbered so unconsciously in his presence. Stammering forth some faint apologies, Bradley left the room and the house, and who may say what wild visions thronged his restless couch that night!

Months glided away, and Mr. Archer beheld, with some slight misgivings, the growing intimacy between his niece and Henry. Not but that he would willingly have given her to his protégé, could the cloudy mystery which hung over the young man have been cleared to his satisfaction. But during the three years Henry had been with him, he had never received letter or communication, of any kind, from friend or foe. For a young man to stand so utterly alone, “looked strange,” to say the least of it.

Entering the room one evening, where Miss Archer and Henry were sitting, her uncle, in a light and laughing tone, said,

“How is this, Emily? Young Dalton has been making serious complaints concerning the obduracy of heart of an ungrateful niece of mine. What has he done to provoke her displeasure? ‘and why won’t she wed?’ ”

“Nay, dear uncle, you know my heart and hand have long been pledged to the restorer of my miniature.”

“And so my Emily stands pledged to a nameless robber! Would she like it to reach his ear through the walls of a prison?”

“Most sincerely do I hope he is free, for he must be a gentle ruffian, and having stolen naught but my picture, I can’t find it in my heart to be very angry; the compliment, dear uncle, only think of the compliment!”

“Ay, but the compliment paid to your father was a little more costly, was it not?”

“With that I have nothing to do,” replied Emily, blushing; “but I would willingly forgive the robber, would he restore my mother’s gift,” and the tears sprang to her eyes, at the mention of her loss. Mr. Archer saw her emotion, and said no more. But Bradley, how did he hear the secret? How often was he tempted, as he heard the beautiful and enthusiastic girl plead for him so eloquently, and regret the loss of what was so dear to her, to throw himself on her mercy and confess all, but happily he restrained his emotion, and soon after left the apartment.

“Now, gentlemen, while you are discussing your hot rolls and coffee, I will read this delightful retailer of news and scandal,” exclaimed Miss Archer, on seating herself at the breakfast table, the morning succeeding the conversation already detailed. “Here is ‘latest foreign news,’ ‘home affairs,’ ‘politics’ and ‘poetry;’ which will you have? Ah! let me see; here is a mysterious affair:

‘The Governor of Louisiana offers five hundred dollars reward to any person or persons, who will intimate any knowledge of the residence of one Bradley Spencer, or satisfactorily prove that the said Bradley is living. He having left New Orleans about three years since, in company with a party of gamblers, and not having since been heard of, it is feared by his friends that he has fallen a victim to the machinations of the said men, as through a confession lately made by one of the party, who was stabbed in an affray, Spencer will be restored his property, of which he was most nefariously deprived. Should this meet his eye, he is earnestly requested to return and take possession of the same.’ ”

As Emily read this paragraph in a clear, distinct voice, Mr. Archer fastened his eye on the young man who sat at his table. No power on earth could have controlled Bradley’s emotions, and after the reader paused, Mr. Archer arose, and taking his hand, said,

“Be candid, Henry; whatever faults you have been guilty of, these last three years have expiated——”

“You know not the half of my rash acts,” passionately interrupted the young man; “you would both loathe and spurn me, were I to tell all; but I will perform one just act. Miss Archer,” taking the miniature from his bosom, “here is the deity that has preserved me from sin, and before you stands the—robber!”

Both Mr. Archer and Emily were mute with surprise and amazement at this confession; but when they eagerly questioned him, and learned what he had to offer in extenuation, it is needless to say he was freely forgiven.

It is sufficient to add that Bradley recovered the major portion of his property, and as he gazes upon the generous and forgiving girl, who is now his bride, he invokes blessings on the being who, by the interposition of a Divine Providence, was the means of preserving him from the “gambler’s fate.”

---

VENICE.

“Oh! thou, that once was wedded to the sea—

Queen of the Adriatic—where are thy glories now?”

Oh Death! thy palaces are here,

Thy footsteps echo round,

And chills the heart with nameless fear

At that unearthly sound—

And Venice, at thy outer gate,

Sits widowed, bowed and desolate,

A queen, yet all discrowned,

With ashes heaped upon her head—

A mother wailing for her dead!

It was not thus in ages past

Oh! mistress of the sea,

When to the wind thy banner cast

Would rally forth the free—

It was not thus when ev’ry shore

From farthest Ind to Scylla bore

Its richest gifts for thee—

Nor thus when at Lepanti fell

The fiery hordes of Ishmaël.

Thou saw’st proconsuls on the Rhone,

The Gaul beyond the Rhine,

The Cæsar on his eastern throne,

The English Alfred’s line—

Thou saw’st the first and last crusade

And Florence in her shackles laid,

And Rome all drunk with wine,

And haughty Stamboul’s overthrow

Before the blind old Dandolo.

Thou wast when Moslems ravaged Spain,

Thou saw’st Grenada fall,—

Thou wast when France received the Dane,

When murder reigned in Gaul,—

Thou wast before the Turk was known,

When Huns were on the Roman throne,

And England yet in thrall,—

And still, as nations rose and died,

Thy Titan front the world defied!

But now thou art all desolate,

The very mock of fame,

With nothing save thy fallen state,

Thy ruins, and—a name.

And silent are thy songs of mirth,

Thy form is prostrate on the earth,

Thy brow is white with shame—

Oh God! a harlot in her woe!

Did ever grandeur fall so low?

And waving from thy palace walls

The long grass rankly grows—

Lamenting, through its dull canals,

The sluggish water flows—

And ’neath the Lion of St. Mark—

That scourge of vanished empires—hark!

The tramp of Austrian foes.

How long, Oh! Venice, o’er thy grave

Shall jeer the coward and the slave?

I stand beside the Lion’s mouth

And gaze across the sea,

The breeze is wafting from the south

No argosies to thee!

Thy hundred seers, thy fearful TEN.

Are not, and shall not be again

While God is for the free!

Yet they a deathless name shall find,

A scorn, a hissing to mankind!

Go! let her moulder where she fell—

We only weep the brave—

Her destiny befits her well,

A traitor, then a slave,—

Betraying all, herself betrayed,

And smote by parricidal blade,

She sank into her grave—

Shall nations shed a tear for her

Whose life was Freedom’s sepulchre?

ß.

---

THE MARRIAGE OF ACHILLES.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.

———

It was a day of Truce in the fair Troad!—the festival of the great Doric and Ionian God, sacred to either nation—it was a day of general peace, of general rejoicing! The ninth year of the war was far advanced toward its termination. Hector, the mighty prop of Troy, had fallen; yet did the Grecian host still occupy their guarded camp by the dark waters of the Hellespont; nor had the indomitable valor of the Goddess-born prevailed to level with the dust the towers of Troy divine. For fresh allies had buckled on their armor for the defence of Priam—Memnon, son of the morning, like his great rival half immortal, with his dark Coptic hosts, had rushed from the far banks of the giant Nile—ill-fated prince and hero!—rushed, but to swell the triumphs of the invincible Thessalian, to water with his life-blood the flowery pastures of the land he vainly hoped to save. Penthesilea, virgin queen of the man-defying virgins—fairest of earth’s fair daughters—had left her boundless plains beside the cold Thermodon—had called her quivered heroines from warring with the mountain pard, and chasing the huge urus of the plain, to launch the unerring shaft and ply the two-edged axe against the sevenfold shield of Salamis, against the Pelian spear. Alas! not her did her unrivalled horsemanship, in which she set her trust—in which she might have coped successfully with the world-famed Bellerophontes—not her did her skill with the feathered reed avail, against the speed of him who left the winds behind in his career, whose might was more than human. She too lay prone before him—the dazzling charms of her voluptuous bosom revealed to the broad sunshine, as he tore off the jewelled cincture—tore off the scaly breastplate—the hyacinthine tresses, soiled in the gory dust—tresses wherewith she might have veiled her form even to the ankles, so copious was their flow! Oh she was beautiful in death—and avenged by her beauty!—For the fierce conqueror wept and bore her to his own pavilion, and hung enamored for long days over those fatal charms; and pressed the cold form to his fiery heart, and kissed with fervid lips the cold and senseless eyelids, the mouth that answered not to his unnatural rapture. The fate of Troy, as on the bravest of her sons, had fallen on the best of her allies—the fiat of the destinies had long ago gone forth—the fiat which the dwellers of Olympus, the revellers on Nectar and Ambrosia,—which Jove himself, although he were reluctant, must obey! The ancestral curse was on the walls of Ilium, and all who should defend them. They fell there one by one, valiant, sometimes victorious—Sarpedon, Cyenus fell—Memnon, Penthesilea! Yet falling they deferred the ruin which they might not avert—so Troy still stood, although her mightiest were down—and when the brazen cymbals of Cybele summoned her sons to battle, they still rushed forth in throngs, determined to the last and unsubdued; and with Deiphobus to lead—worthy successor of their mightier hero—they battled it still bravely on the plain, between the city and the sea.

But now it was all harmony and peace!—the spears were pitched into the yellow sand beside the Grecian galleys, or hung, each on its owner’s wall, within the gates of Ilium. The plain, the whole fair plain, was crowded now—more densely crowded than it had ever showed, when in the deadliest fight the kindred nations mingled—for now not warriors only, but the whole population of the camp, the country and the town, traversed its grassy surface in gay and gorgeous companies. Gray headed men were there, counsellors and contemporaries of old Priam, eager to look upon the field whereon such exploits had been done—matrons come out to weep above the green graves of their sons and spouses, graves which till then they ne’er had visited, nor decked with votive garlands, nor watered with a tear—maidens in all the frolic mirth of their blythe careless youth, panting to gather flowrets from the green banks of Simois and Xanthus, Phrygian streams, to chase the gaudy butterfly, to listen to the carol of the bird—to drink in with enchanted ears the sylvan harmonies from which they had so long been shut within the crowded walls of the beleaguered city.

It was a wondrous spectacle—Yea! beautiful exceedingly! Men in those days were indeed images of the immortal—women, types of ideal loveliness!—many a form was there of youthful warriors, such as were models unto him who wrought from the inanimate rock of Paros, that breathing, deathless god, the slayer of the Python—many a girlish shape such as we worship in the poet’s dream, Psyche, or Hebe, or Europa—many a full blown figure, ripe in the perfect luxury of womanhood, such as enchants the eyes, intoxicates the hearts, enthrals the souls, of all who look upon the Medicean Venus. Then the rich oriental garbs—the half transparent robes of gauze-like Byssus, revealing all the symmetry, and half the delicate hues, of the rich charms they seemed to veil—the jewelled zones and mitres, the golden network, scarce restraining the downward sweep of the redundant ringlets!—the priests in stoles of purest snow, sandalled and crowned with gold!—the sacrificers in their garbs succinct—the spotless, flower-crowned victims!—the music—and the odors!—and the song! The wild exulting bursts of the mad Bacchic Dithyramb!—the statelier and more solemn chant, warbled by hundred tongues of boys and stainless virgins, in honor of the Pure, Immaculate God—the silver-bowed—the light-producer—the golden-haired, and yellow-sworded—the healer—the averter—the avenger!—son of Latona and of Jove—Delian and Thymbrœan King!—the blast of the shrill trumpets, blent with the deep, deep roll of the Corybantian drum, loud as the deafening roar of subterranean thunder, and the sharp clashing of the Cretan cymbal, and the shrill rattle of the systrum! the chariots and the coursers of the god!—chariots of polished brass, reflecting every beam of the broad Asiatic sun till they seemed cars of living flame—coursers of symmetry unmatched, snow-white, with full spirit-flashing eyes, and nostrils wide distended, trampling the flowery sod as if they were proud of their golden trappings, and conscious of the God their owner!

Far in a haunted grove, beneath the towering heights of Ida, where never yet, during the whole nine years of deadly strife, had the red hand of war intruded—far in a haunted grove, whither no beam of the broad day-god pierces even from his meridian height—so densely is it set with the eternal verdure of the laurel, high over-canopied by green immortal palm—so closely do the amorous vines embrace both palm and laurel weaving a vault of solid everlasting greenery—where the perpetual chant of the nightingale is mingled only with the faint sigh of the breeze that plays forever among the emerald alleys, and the sweet tinkling voice of the Thymbrœan rill, cold from its icy cradle on the cloud-curtained hill of Jove—unvisited by feet of profane visitor, stands the secluded shrine of the Pure God—a circular vault of whitest Parian marble, reared on twelve Doric shafts, their pedestals and bases of bright virgin gold. Beneath the centre of the dome is placed a circular altar of the same chaste materials, wrought with the most superb reliefs, descriptive of the birth, the exploits, and the histories of the great Deity—and in a niche immediately behind it—the Deity himself—the naked limbs—all grace and youthful beauty—the swell of the elastic muscles, the life-like, almost breathing protrusion of the expanded chest—the swan-like curvature of the proud neck, the scornful curl of the almost girlish lips, the wide indignant nostril, the corded veins of the broad forehead from which the clustered locks stream back, waved as it were by some spiritual breath prophetic, the lightning glance of the triumphant eye shot from beneath the brows half bended in a frown, proclaimed the Python killer—the Boy-god now in the flush of his first triumph!— The fierceness kindled by the perilous strife was not yet faded from the eye—yet he smiles, scornfully smiles, at the very ease with which he has prevailed over his dragon foe!

A dim religious twilight reigned through that solemn shrine; it would have been a solemn darkness, but for the pencils of soft emerald-colored light, which streamed down here and there full of bright wandering motes, among the tangled foliage—and for the pale transparent glow soaring up from the marble altar, whereon fed by the richest spices and the most generous wine, the sacred flame played to and fro, lambent and imitative of the lights that stud the empyrean.

Splendid, however, as was the picture offered by the interior of the shrine, decked with all those appliances that operate most strongly on the mind, or at least on the imaginative portion of the mind of man—pervading all the senses with a calm, sweet, luxurious languor—filling the soul with strange voluptuous fantasies—half poetry, half superstition; yet infinitely were all the splendors, all the elegance of the spot surpassed by the transcendant majesty of those who stood around the altar.

On the right hand and left, next to the statue of Apollo, ministered the chief pontiffs of that solemn and mysterious deed; they were both old, even beyond the usual old age of mortals, yet perfectly erect and stately in their forms—their long locks were indeed of perfect silvery whiteness, their wide expanded foreheads wrinkled with many a line and furrow, their lips pale as ashes, their whole complexion bloodless!—yet did their eyes beam out from the deep cavernous recesses of their sockets with a wild and spirited brilliance that savored not a little of the unearthly light of inspiration; and their whole air and bearing went far to denote that their long years had nought diminished the pervading powers of the soul, though they had wasted not a little the mere mortal clay; but rather had given freer scope to the far-darting mind, in limiting the operations of the coarser matter.

Their robes were white immaculate linen, and they wore chaplets of the green bay tree on their heads, and carried sceptres in their hands of gold, enwreathed with sprays of laurels, and bound with woollen fillets. All motionless they stood, and silent; stirring not hand, nor foot, nor even so much as winking an eyelid, save when they poured the fat spiced wine from golden pateræ upon the altar, to feed the sacred flame. Behind them were assembled the ministers, the choristers, and sacrifices of the temple, waking at times wild harmonies from many a golden lyre, many a silver flute; while, to fill up the pauses between the bursts of instrumental music, soft symphonies arose from virgin lips invisible, singing, “all glory to unshorn Apollo, and her, the sister of his soul, the unstained goddess of the groves—queen of the silver bow!”

A little way advanced by the right hand of the altar, bowed down by many years and many sorrows, yet still serene, and dignified, and king-like—for he was yet a king!—aye, and in after days, when his Troy sunk in ashes never to rise again, a king he died, right kingly—leaning on his ivory staff stood the great offspring of Laomedon—good, hapless Priam. His limbs, which had been framed in the gigantic mould of the old heroic ages, still larger than the degenerate thews of his descendants, were all relaxed and nerveless; and the great veins and sinews, which stood out upon his shrivelled hands like a network of cordage, betokened the vast strength which once must have dwelt in that large frame, so sinewless and feeble now—so impotent and helpless. His golden crown was on his lofty brow, serene and venerable in its polished baldness—a flowing mantle of rich regal purple, lined with white lambskins, flowed down from his shoulders and swept the marble pavement with its rich broidered edge and bullion fringes—a tunic of white linen, gathered about his waist by a broad belt of golden arabesques, sandals of purple leather clasped and embossed with gold, completed his attire—while, ministers of regal state, the god-like heralds stood behind him, Jalthybius, and Eurybates the sage—messengers of high kings, interpreters of gods, clad in their mystic garments, and bearing high, advanced their sacred rods, the emblems of their office—close around these were gathered the councillors and sages of the city, Antenor, and Ucalegon, and wise Anchises—reverend and grave seniors, who, having long laid by the falchion, now governed by their proved experience the realm which they had formerly protected by their enthusiastic valor—near these a dozen slaves—slaves of the royal palace, waited with offerings for the altar; two snow-white lambs, two vases of rich wine, and frankincense, and myrrh, aloes and cassia—garments of needle-work, and garlands of rich flowers, and crowns and sceptres of wrought gold.

Upon the other hand, facing her aged father, was one whom but to look upon, would have excited the coldest, dullest heart to passionate, enamored phrenzy—the young, the beautiful Polyxena, the destined bride of the goddess-born—the bravest of the brave, the noblest of the noble, victor of victors, unsurpassed of men, magnificent Achilles. He had beheld her first, before her gallant brother fell, by his hand, beside the Scæan gates, while with her aged mother, and mad Cassandra and her train, she was engaged in mystic rites upon the plain—beheld and loved upon the instant! A few days had elapsed—days of fierce strife between his patriotism and his passion—and then he had demanded of his good, gallant enemy, pledge of conciliation and of peace, the hand of his sweet sister. Oh! demand frantically rejected; oh! pledge of peace madly refused, and fatally! For fate it was, the damning fate of Troy, that steeled the heart of Hector!

Achilles had all-honorably proposed peace; Hector demanded treason—treason to Greece and the confederates, as the sole price of young Polyxena! The reply of the indignant Greek was renewed war—and Hector fell, and Troy quailed to its base and tottered! Then Memnon buckled on his armor for Troy, and he too fell! Penthesilea, and she likewise!—and now, all her chief captains down, all her allies retired, Troy was again in her extremity, and again—peaceable and courteous as he was fierce and valiant in the field—Achilles offered terms, peace for Polyxena. And now his terms were heard;—for they were old heads now to whom he made his proffers—heard and accepted. And here, in the Thymbrœan shrine, they met to plight their faith upon the treaties—to solemnize the marriage of Achilles.

She was indeed most exquisite in her young loveliness; words cannot tell her loveliness. Scarce sixteen years of age, yet a mature and perfect woman; mature in the voluptuous development of her unrivalled person; mature in the development of her luxurious oriental nature. Tall, slender, and erect as the graceful palm of her native plains, her figure was yet admirably moulded; her ample sloping shoulders; her full glowing bust, tapering downward to a waist scarcely a span in circuit, and thence the sweeping swell of her full lower limbs down to the sylph-like ankle and small, delicate foot, that peered out from beneath the golden fringes of her nuptial robe, constituted, in fact, the very perfection of ideal female symmetry. Her snow-white, swan-like neck languidly drooping with a graceful curve, like a white lily’s stalk when the sweet chalice is surcharged with summer dew, concealed, but could not hide the beauty of her head and features; the clean and classic outlines of the smooth brow, from which the auburn hair, parted in two broad, massive braids, waved off behind the small white ears, and there was clustered in a full bunch of ringlets, was relieved by the well marked arches of her dark eye-brows—the eyes themselves could not be seen, for modestly were they cast down upon the pavement; though now and then a stolen glance toward her lover would flash out from beneath the long, long jetty lashes, like the gleam of a war-sword leaping from its scabbard, or the lightning from the gloom of the thunder cloud. Her cheeks were pale as the snow on Ida—save when a rich carnation flush, emblem of overmastering passion, would suffuse brow, and cheeks, and neck, and bosom—aye, and the moulded curves of those smooth ivory shoulders, with a transparent transitory glow as rich, and, oh! as evanescent as the bright hues of sunset touching the top of some heaven-kissing hill! A wreath of orange flowers, blended with myrtle—sacred plant of Venus,—even then the bridal wreath—encompassed the fair temples, and shone out resplendently from the dark tresses of the auburn hair. The nuptial veil—a tissue as it were, of woven air, gemmed with bright golden stars—fell off in graceful waves, and floated down her back till it spread out in a long train upon the marble floor; her robe of the like gauzy tissue, fastened on either shoulder by a large stud of brilliants, covered, but veiled not the beauties of her voluptuous bosom; below her bust, plaited in massy folds, it was confined by the virgin zone, and thence flowed down five several tunics, each shorter than that next below it, each fringed with golden tassels, and looped with golden cords, down to her golden sandals. Behind her stood Cassandra, clad in one plain, close-fitting stole of linen, with her dark locks dishevelled, streaming in strange disorder about her rich, majestic person; a laurel wreath set carefully upon her head, and a large branch of the same tree in her right hand. Her full dark eye, that gleamed so often with the intolerable lustre of prophetic phrenzy, was now suffused with moisture, languid, abstracted, and even sad; but no such wo-begone expression sat on the brows or on the laughing lips of the attendant maidens, who clustered, a bright bevy of girlish forms and lovely nymph-like faces behind the beauteous bride.

Just before the altar, facing the image of the god, scarce less sublimely beautiful than that unrivalled marble, alone, and unadorned, and unattended, behold the glorious bridegroom! Language may not describe the splendor, the almost intolerable glory of his soul-fraught, enthusiastic eye—the ardor of the warrior; the inspiration of the host, the œstrum of the prophet when he is fullest of his god, were all combined in that spirit-flashing feature. You saw that eye, and you saw all—the chiselled outlines of the nose, the generous expansive nostril, the proud voluptuous lip, were all unseen, all lost, all swallowed up in the pervading glory of that immortal eye. His form was such as must have been the form of him who could outstrip the speed of the most fiery coursers; bounding along all armed, in his full panoply of gold, beside the four horse chariot; although the mettled chargers strained every nerve to conquer—although Eumelus drove them. His garb was simple even to plainness; a short and narrow tunic of bright crimson cloth, leaving his mighty limbs exposed in their own glorious beauty, was belted round his waist by a small cord of gold—his head was covered only by its long silky tresses; sandals of gold were on his feet; he wore no weapons, but a long oaken sceptre studded with knobs of gold, supported his right hand.

Such was the glorious group which tenanted the shrine of the Thymbrœan god on that auspicious day—such was the ceremonial of Achilles’ marriage! Yet was it passing strange that not one of the Grecian chiefs stood by the bravest of their nation, his comrade and his friend on that sublime occasion; it was yet stranger that not one of all her noble brethren, not one of Priam’s fifty sons stood by their lovely sister. Yet such had been the will of Priam; and with the noble confidence—the proud contempt, which were a portion of his nature—confidence in his own dauntless and unrivalled valor, contempt of any mortal peril, Achilles had acceded to the terms.

And now the rites were finished—the sacrifice complete—the bridal chorus chanted! The pontiffs slew two lambs; one for the royal prince—one for the princely bridegroom—and filled two cups of wine, and they, the sire and son, touched the dead lambs and raised the wine-cups, and grasped each other’s hand in amity, and swore eternal peace, eternal amity, and love! They stretched their right hands to the god, tasted the wine, and poured the red libations over the holy altar—praying aloud—solemn and awful prayer—“that thus his blood should flow upon the earth—his own life-blood, his wife’s, his child’s, and that of all his race—who should the first transgress that solemn vow and treaty.”

They swore, and it was ended! The hero turned to clasp his blooming bride—— Whence—what—was that keen twang—keen, shrill, and piercing, which broke the hush of feeling, that followed on that awful oath sworn between noble foes, now foes no longer? Why does Achilles start with a convulsive shudder! He reels, he staggers, he falls head-long—and see the arrow—fell and accursed deed—buried up to the very feather in the right heel of the prostrate hero! There was a moment’s pause—one moment’s!—and then, with the bow in his left hand, and the broad falchion gleaming in his right, forth from among the priests—forth from the inmost shrine—forth leaped the traitor Paris! Deiphobus, the warrior—Helenus, the priest, followed!—all armed from head to foot, all with their weapons bare and ready! There was one frantic cry—the shriek of the heart-broken bride—and then no other sound except the clash of the weapons, driven sheer through the body of the hero, against the desecrated pavement.

“Thus Hector is avenged—thus is Troy freed”—shouted the slaughterers of the mighty Greek; but if the shade of Hector was so appeased by a base vengeance, yet so was Troy not freed! For not long afterward, the flames rolled over it, that even its ruins perished, its site was lost forever!—and if Polyxena was then snatched from her spouse, yet, when in after days her living form was immolated on his tomb—their manes were united, never to part again, in the Elysian fields—the Islands of the Blessed.

---

LINES.

When all a woman’s eye is fire,

And ev’ry look the passions move,

The voice as sweet as Nature’s lyre—

What can a poor man do but love?

When all his light is in one eye,

And all his heaven within one breast—

Oh! blame him not, if he doth sigh

For light like this to make him blest!

Then blame him not—oh! blame him not,

For madness only is his crime,—

Oh! never will you be forgot,

While all your image is on time.

A heart like thine—an eye so bright,

Will ever all the passions move—

When gazing on those eyes of light,

What can a poor man do but love?

J. T.

---

A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY.

BY

[In this, our second “Chapter on Autography,” we conclude the article and the year together. When we say that so complete a collection has never been published before, we assert only that which is obvious; and we are pleased to see that our exertions upon this head have been well received. As we claim only the sorry merit of the compiler, we shall be permitted to say that no Magazine paper has ever excited greater interest than the one now concluded. To all readers it has seemed to be welcome—but especially so to those who themselves dabble in the waters of Helicon:—to those and their innumerable friends. The diligence required in getting together these autographs has been a matter of no little moment, and the expense of the whole undertaking will be at once comprehended; but we intend the article merely as an earnest of what we shall do next year. Our aim shall be to furnish our friends with variety, originality, and piquancy, without any regard to labor or to cost.]

F. W. Thomas, who began his literary career, at the early age of seventeen, by a poetical lampoon upon certain Baltimore fops, has since more particularly distinguished himself as a novelist. His “Clinton Bradshawe” is perhaps better known than any of his later fictions. It is remarkable for a frank, unscrupulous portraiture of men and things, in high life and low, and by unusual discrimination and observation in respect to character. Since its publication he has produced “East and West” and “Howard Pinckney,” neither of which seem to have been so popular as his first essay; although both have merit.

“East and West,” published in 1836, was an attempt to portray the every-day events occurring to a fallen family emigrating from the East to the West. In it, as in “Clinton Bradshawe,” most of the characters are drawn from life. “Howard Pinckney” was published in 1840.

Mr. Thomas was, at one period, the editor of the Cincinnati “Commercial Advertiser.” He is also well known as a public lecturer on a variety of topics. His conversational powers are very great. As a poet, he has also distinguished himself. His “Emigrant” will be read with pleasure by every person of taste.

His MS. is more like that of Mr. Benjamin than that of any other literary person of our acquaintance. It has even more than the occasional nervousness of Mr. B.’s, and, as in the case of the editor of the “New World,” indicates the passionate sensibility of the man.

Thomas G. Spear is the author of various poetical pieces which have appeared from time to time in our Magazines and other periodicals. His productions have been much admired, and are distinguished for pathos, and grace. His MS. is well shown in the signature. It is too clerky for our taste.

Mr. Morris ranks, we believe, as the first of our Philadelphia poets, since the death of Willis Gaylord Clark. His compositions, like those of his late lamented friend, are characterised by sweetness rather than strength of versification, and by tenderness and delicacy rather than by vigor or originality of thought. A late notice of him in the “Boston Notion,” from the pen of Rufus W. Griswold, did his high qualities no more than justice. As a prose writer, he is chiefly known by his editorial contributions to the Philadelphia “Inquirer,” and by occasional essays for the Magazines.

His chirography is usually very illegible, although at times sufficiently distinct. It has no marked characteristics, and like that of almost every editor in the country, has been so modified by the circumstances of his position, as to afford no certain indication of the mental features.

Ezra Holden has written much, not only for his paper, “The Saturday Courier,” but for our periodicals generally, and stands high in the public estimation, as a sound thinker, and still more particularly as a fearless expresser of his thoughts.

His MS. (which we are constrained to say is a shockingly bad one, and whose general features may be seen in his signature,) indicates the frank and naïve manner of his literary style—a style which not unfrequently flies off into whimsicalities.

Mr. Matthias is principally known by his editorial conduct of the “Saturday Chronicle” of Philadelphia, to which he has furnished much entertaining and instructive matter. His MS. would be generally termed a fine one, but it affords little indication of mental character.

Mr. Graham is known to the literary world as the editor and proprietor of “Graham’s Magazine,” the most popular periodical in America, and also of the “Saturday Evening Post,” of Philadelphia. For both of these journals he has written much and well.

His MS. generally, is very bad, or at least very illegible. At times it is sufficiently distinct, and has force and picturesqueness, speaking plainly of the energy which particularly distinguishes him as a man. The signature above is more scratchy than usual.

Colonel Stone, the editor of the New York “Commercial Advertiser,” is remarkable for the great difference which exists between the apparent public opinion respecting his abilities, and the real estimation in which he is privately held. Through his paper, and a bustling activity always prone to thrust itself forward, he has attained an unusual degree of influence in New York, and, not only this, but what appears to be a reputation for talent. But this talent we do not remember ever to have heard assigned him by any honest man’s private opinion. We place him among our literati, because he has published certain books. Perhaps the best of these are his “Life of Brandt,” and “Life and Times of Red Jacket.” Of the rest, his story called “Ups and Downs,” his defence of Animal Magnetism, and his pamphlets concerning Maria Monk, are scarcely the most absurd. His MS. is heavy and sprawling, resembling his mental character in a species of utter unmeaningness, which lies, like the nightmare, upon his autograph.

The labors of Mr. Sparks, Professor of History at Harvard, are well known and justly appreciated. His MS. has an unusually odd appearance. The characters are large, round, black, irregular, and perpendicular—the signature, as above, being an excellent specimen of his chirography in general. In all his letters now before us, the lines are as close together as possible, giving the idea of irretrievable confusion; still none of them are illegible upon close inspection. We can form no guess in regard to any mental peculiarities from Mr. Sparks’ MS., which has been no doubt modified by the hurrying and intricate nature of his researches. We might imagine such epistles as these to have been written in extreme haste by a man exceedingly busy among great piles of books and papers, huddled up around him like the chaotic tomes of Magliabechi. The paper used in all our epistles is uncommonly fine.

The name of H. S. Legare is written without an accent on the final e, yet is pronounced, as if this letter were accented,—Legray. He contributed many articles of high merit to the “Southern Review,” and has a wide reputation for scholarship and talent. His MS. resembles that of Mr. Palfrey, of the North American Review, and their mental features appear to us nearly identical. What we have said in regard to the chirography of Mr. Palfrey will apply with equal force to that of the present Secretary.

Mr. Griswold has written much, but chiefly in the editorial way, whether for the papers, or in books. He is a gentleman of fine taste and sound judgment. His knowledge of American literature, in all its details, is not exceeded by that of any man among us. He is not only a polished prose writer, but a poet of no ordinary power; although, as yet, he has not put himself much in the way of the public admiration.

His MS. is by no means a good one. It appears unformed, and vacillates in a singular manner; so that nothing can be predicated from it, except a certain unsteadiness of purpose.

Mr. George Lunt, of Newburyport, Massachusetts, is known as a poet of much vigor of style and massiveness of thought. He delights in the grand, rather than in the beautiful, and is not unfrequently turgid, but never feeble. The traits here described, impress themselves with remarkable distinctness upon his chirography, of which the signature gives a perfect idea.

Mr. Chandler’s reputation as the editor of one of the best daily papers in the country, and as one of our finest belles lettres scholars, is deservedly high. He is well known through his numerous addresses, essays, miscellaneous sketches, and prose tales. Some of these latter evince imaginative powers of a superior order.

His MS. is not fairly shown in his signature, the latter being much more open and bold than his general chirography. His hand-writing must be included in the editorial category—it seems to have been ruined by habitual hurry.

Count L. Fitzgerald Tasistro has distinguished himself by many contributions to the periodical literature of the day, and by his editorial conduct of the “Expositor,”—a critical journal of high merit in many respects, although somewhat given to verbiage.

His MS. is remarkable for a scratchy diminutiveness, and is by no means legible. We are not sufficiently cognizant of his literary character, to draw any parallel between it and his chirography. His signature is certainly a most remarkable one.

H. T. Tuckerman has written one or two books consisting of “Sketches of Travel.” His “Isabel” is, perhaps, better known than any of his productions, but was never a popular work. He is a correct writer so far as mere English is concerned, but an insufferably tedious and dull one. He has contributed much of late days to the “Southern Literary Messenger,” with which journal, perhaps, the legibility of his MS. has been an important, if not the principal recommendation. His chirography is neat and distinct, and has some grace, but no force—evincing, in a remarkable degree, the idiosyncrasies of the writer.

Mr. Bryan has written some very excellent poetry, and is appreciated by all admirers of “the good old Goldsmith school.” He is, at present, postmaster at Alexandria, and has held the office for many years, with all the good fortune of a Vicar of Bray.

His MS. is a free, sloping, and regular one, with more boldness than force, and not ungraceful. He is fond of underscoring his sentences; a habit exactly parallel with the argumentative nature of some of his best poems.

Mr. Godey is only known to the literary world as editor and publisher of “The Lady’s Book;” but his celebrity in this regard entitles him to a place in this collection. His MS. is remarkably distinct and graceful; the signature affording an excellent idea of it. The man who invariably writes so well as Mr. G. invariably does, gives evidence of a fine taste, combined with an indefatigability which will ensure his permanent success in the world’s affairs. No man has warmer friends or fewer enemies.

Mr. Du Solle is well known, through his connection with the “Spirit of the Times.” His prose is forcible, and often excellent in other respects. As a poet, he is entitled to higher consideration. Some of his Pindaric pieces are unusually good, and it maybe doubted if we have a better versifier in America.

Accustomed to the daily toil of an editor, he has contracted a habit of writing hurriedly, and his MS. varies with the occasion. It is impossible to deduce any inferences from it, as regards the mental character. The signature shows rather how he can write, than how he does.

Mr. French is the author of a “Life of David Crockett”, and also of a novel called “Elkswatawa”, a denunciatory review of which in the “Southern Messenger,” some years ago, deterred him from further literary attempts. Should he write again, he will probably distinguish himself, for he is unquestionably a man of talent. We need no better evidence of this than his MS., which speaks of force, boldness, and originality. The flourish, however, betrays a certain floridity of taste.

The author of “Norman Leslie” and “The Countess Ida”, has been more successful as an essayist about small matters, than as a novelist. “Norman Leslie” is more familiarly remembered as “The Great Used Up”, while “The Countess” made no definite impression whatever. Of course we are not to expect remarkable features in Mr. Fay’s MS. It has a wavering, finicky, and over-delicate air, without pretension to either grace or force; and the description of the chirography would answer, without alteration, for that of the literary character. Mr. F. frequently employs an amanuensis, who writes a very beautiful French hand. The one must not be confounded with the other.

Dr. Mitchell has published several pretty songs which have been set to music, and become popular. He has also given to the world a volume of poems, of which the longest was remarkable for an old-fashioned polish and vigor of versification. His MS. is rather graceful than picturesque or forcible—and these words apply equally well to his poetry in general. The signature indicates the hand.

General Morris has composed many songs which have taken fast hold upon the popular taste, and which are deservedly celebrated. He has caught the true tone for these things, and hence his popularity—a popularity which his enemies would fain make us believe is altogether attributable to his editorial influence. The charge is true only in a measure. The tone of which we speak is that kind of frank, free, hearty sentiment (rather than philosophy) which distinguishes Béranger, and which the critics, for want of a better term, call nationality.

His MS. is a simple unornamented hand, rather rotund than angular, very legible, forcible, and altogether in keeping with his style.

Mr. Calvert was at one time principal editor of the “Baltimore American,” and wrote for that journal some good paragraphs on the common topics of the day. He has also published many translations from the German, and one or two original poems—among others an imitation of Don Juan called “Pelayo,” which did him no credit. He is essentially a feeble and common-place writer of poetry, although his prose compositions have a certain degree of merit.

His chirography indicates the “common-place” upon which we have commented. It is a very usual, scratchy, and tapering clerk’s hand—a hand which no man of talent ever did or could indite, unless compelled by circumstances of more than ordinary force. The signature is far better than the general manuscript of his epistles.

Dr. Snodgrass was at one time the associate of Mr. Brooks in the “Baltimore Museum”, a monthly journal published in the City of Monuments some years since. He wrote for that Magazine, and has occasionally written for others, articles which possessed the merit of precision of style, and a metaphysical cast of thought. We like his prose much better than his poetry.

His chirography is bad—stiff, sprawling and illegible, with frequent corrections and interlineations, evincing inactivity not less than fastidiousness. The signature betrays a meretricious love of effect.

Mr. McJilton is better known from his contributions to the journals of the day than from any book-publications. He has much talent, and it is not improbable that he will hereafter distinguish himself, although as yet he has not composed anything of length which, as a whole, can be styled good.

His MS. is not unlike that of Dr. Snodgrass, but it is somewhat clearer and better. We can predicate little respecting it, beyond a love of exaggeration and bizarrerie.

Mr. Gallagher is chiefly known as a poet. He is the author of some of our most popular songs, and has written many long pieces of high but unequal merit. He has the true spirit, and will rise into a just distinction hereafter. His manuscript tallies well with our opinion. It is a very fine one—clear, bold, decided and picturesque. The signature above does not convey, in full force, the general character of his chirography, which is more rotund, and more decidedly placed upon the paper.

Mr. Dana ranks among our most eminent poets, and he has been the frequent subject of comment in our Reviews. He has high qualities, undoubtedly, but his defects are many and great.

His MS. resembles that of Mr. Gallagher very nearly, but is somewhat more rolling, and has less boldness and decision. The literary traits of the two gentlemen are very similar, although Mr. Dana is by far the more polished writer, and has a scholarship which Mr. Gallagher wants.

Mr. McMichael is well known to the Philadelphia public by the number and force of his prose compositions, but he has seldom been tempted into book publication. As a poet, he has produced some remarkably vigorous things. We have seldom seen a finer composition than a certain celebrated “Monody.”

His MS., when not hurried, is graceful and flowing, without picturesqueness. At times it is totally illegible. His chirography is one of those which have been so strongly modified by circumstances that it is nearly impossible to predicate any thing with certainty respecting them.

Mr. N. C. Brooks has acquired some reputation as a Magazine writer. His serious prose is often very good—is always well-worded—but in his comic attempts he fails, without appearing to be aware of his failure. As a poet he has succeeded far better. In a work which he entitled “Scriptural Anthology” among many inferior compositions of length, there were several shorter pieces of great merit:—for example “Shelley’s Obsequies” and “The Nicthanthes”. Of late days we have seen little from his pen.

His MS. has much resemblance to that of Mr. Bryant, although altogether it is a better hand, with much more freedom and grace. With care Mr. Brooks can write a fine MS. just as with care he can compose a fine poem.

The Rev. Thomas H. Stockton has written many pieces of fine poetry, and has lately distinguished himself as the editor of the “Christian World.”

His MS. is fairly represented by his signature, and bears much resemblance to that of Mr. N. C. Brooks, of Baltimore. Between these two gentlemen there exists also, a remarkable similarity, not only of thought, but of personal bearing and character. We have already spoken of the peculiarities of Mr. B’s chirography.

Mr. Thompson has written many short poems, and some of them possess merit. They are characterized by tenderness and grace. His MS. has some resemblance to that of Professor Longfellow, and by many persons would be thought a finer hand. It is clear, legible and open—what is called a rolling hand. It has too much tapering, and too much variation between the weight of the hair strokes and the downward ones, to be forcible or picturesque. In all those qualities which we have pointed out as especially distinctive of Professor Longfellow’s MS. it is remarkably deficient; and, in fact, the literary character of no two individuals could be more radically different.

The Reverend W. E. Channing is at the head of our moral and didactic writers. His reputation both at home and abroad is deservedly high, and in regard to the matters of purity, polish and modulation of style, he may be said to have attained the dignity of a standard and a classic. He has, it is true, been severely criticised, even in respect to these very points, by the Edinburg Review. The critic, however, made out his case but lamely, and proved nothing beyond his own incompetence. To detect occasional, or even frequent inadvertences in the way of bad grammar, faulty construction, or mis-usage of language, is not to prove impurity of style—a word which happily has a bolder signification than any dreamed of by the Zoilus of the Review in question. Style regards, more than anything else, the tone of a composition. All the rest is not unimportant, to be sure, but appertains to the minor morals of literature, and can be learned by rote by the meanest simpletons in letters—can be carried to its highest excellence by dolts who, upon the whole, are despicable as stylists. Irving’s style is inimitable in its grace and delicacy; yet few of our practised writers are guilty of more frequent inadvertences of language. In what may be termed his mere English, he is surpassed by fifty whom we could name. Mr. Tuckerman’s English on the contrary is sufficiently pure, but a more lamentable style than that of his “Sicily” it would be difficult to point out.

Besides those peculiarities which we have already mentioned as belonging to Dr. Channing’s style, we must not fail to mention a certain calm, broad deliberateness which constitutes force in its highest character, and approaches to majesty. All these traits will be found to exist plainly in his chirography, the character of which is exemplified by the signature, although this is somewhat larger than the general manuscript.

Mr. Wilmer has written and published much; but he has reaped the usual fruits of a spirit of independence, and has thus failed to make that impression on the popular mind which his talents, under other circumstances, would have effected. But better days are in store for him, and for all who “hold to the right way,” despising the yelpings of the small dogs of our literature. His prose writings have all merit—always the merit of a chastened style. But he is more favorably known by his poetry, in which the student of the British classics will find much for warm admiration. We have few better versifiers than Mr. Wilmer.

His chirography plainly indicates the cautious polish and terseness of his style, but the signature does not convey the print-like appearance of the MS.

Mr. Dow is distinguished as the author of many fine sea-pieces, among which will be remembered a series of papers called “The Log of Old Ironsides.” His land sketches are not generally so good. He has a fine imagination, which as yet is undisciplined, and leads him into occasional bombast. As a poet he has done better things than as a writer of prose.

His MS., which has been strongly modified by circumstances, gives no indication of his true character, literary or moral.

Mr. Weld is well known as the present working editor of the New York “Tattler” and “Brother Jonathan.” His attention was accidentally directed to literature about ten years ago, after a minority, to use his own words, “spent at sea, in a store, in a machine shop, and in a printing office.” He is now, we believe, about thirty-one years of age. His deficiency of what is termed regular education would scarcely be gleaned from his editorials, which, in general, are unusually well written. His “Corrected Proofs” is a work which does him high credit, and which has been extensively circulated, although “printed at odd times by himself, when he had nothing else to do.”

His MS. resembles that of Mr. Joseph C. Neal in many respects, but is less open and less legible. His signature is altogether much better than his general chirography.

Mr. McMakin is one of the editors of the “Philadelphia Saturday Courier,” and has given to the world several excellent specimens of his poetical ability. His MS. is clear and graceful; the signature affording a very good idea of it. The general hand, in fact, is fully as good.

Mrs. M. St. Leon Loud is one of the finest poets of this country; possessing, we think, more of the true divine afflatus than any of her female contemporaries. She has, in especial, imagination of no common order, and unlike many of her sex whom we could mention, is not

Content to dwell in decencies forever.

While she can, upon occasion, compose the ordinary metrical sing-song with all the decorous proprieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures very frequently into a more ethereal region. We refer our readers to a truly beautiful little poem entitled the “Dream of the Lonely Isle,” and lately published in this Magazine.

Mrs. Loud’s MS. is exceedingly clear, neat and forcible, with just sufficient effeminacy and no more.

Dr. Pliny Earle, of Frankford, Pa., has not only distinguished himself by several works of medical and general science, but has become well known to the literary world, of late, by a volume of very fine poems, the longest, but by no means the best, of which, was entitled “Marathon.” This latter is not greatly inferior to the “Marco Bozzaris” of Halleck; while some of the minor pieces equal any American poems.

His chirography is peculiarly neat and beautiful, giving indication of the elaborate finish which characterises his compositions. The signature conveys the general hand.

Dr. John C. McCabe, of Richmond, Virginia, has written much and generally well, in prose and poetry, for the periodicals of the day—for the “Southern Literary Messenger” in especial, and other journals.

His MS. is in every respect a bad one—an ordinary clerk’s hand, meaning nothing. It has been strongly modified, however, by circumstances which would scarcely have permitted it to be otherwise than it is.

John Tomlin, Esq., Postmaster at Jackson, Tennessee, has contributed many excellent articles to the periodicals of the day—among others to the “Gentleman’s” and to “Graham’s” Magazine, and to several of the Southern and Western journals.

His chirography resembles that of Mr. Paulding in being at the same time very petite, very beautiful, and very illegible. His MSS., in being equally well written throughout, evince the indefatigability of his disposition.

David Hoffman, Esq., of Baltimore, has not only contributed much and well to monthly Magazines and Reviews, but has given to the world several valuable publications in book form. His style is terse, pungent and otherwise excellent, although disfigured by a half comic half serious pedantry.

His MS. has about it nothing strongly indicative of character.

S. D. Langtree, has been long and favorably known to the public as editor of the “Georgetown Metropolitan,” and, more lately, of the “Democratic Review,” both of which journals he has conducted with distinguished success. As a critic he has proved himself just, bold and acute, while his prose compositions generally, evince the man of talent and taste.

His MS. is not remarkably good, being somewhat too scratchy and tapering. We include him, of course, in the editorial category.

Judge Conrad occupies, perhaps, the first place among our Philadelphia literati. He has distinguished himself both as a prose writer and a poet—not to speak of his high legal reputation. He has been a frequent contributor to the periodicals of this city, and, we believe, to one at least of the Eastern Reviews. His first production which attracted general notice was a tragedy entitled “Conrad, King of Naples.” It was performed at the Arch Street Theatre, and elicited applause from the more judicious. This play was succeeded by “Jack Cade,” performed at the Walnut Street Theatre, and lately modified and reproduced under the title of “Aylmere.” In its new dress, this drama has been one of the most successful ever written by an American, not only attracting crowded houses, but extorting the good word of our best critics. In occasional poetry Judge Conrad has also done well. His lines “On a Blind Boy Soliciting Charity” have been highly admired, and many of his other pieces evince ability of a high order. His political fame is scarcely a topic for these pages, and is, moreover, too much a matter of common observation to need comment from us.

His MS. is neat, legible, and forcible, evincing combined caution and spirit in a very remarkable degree.

The chirography of Ex-President Adams (whose poem, “The Wants of Man,” has, of late, attracted so much attention,) is remarkable for a certain steadiness of purpose pervading the whole, and overcoming even the constitutional tremulousness of the writer’s hand. Wavering in every letter, the entire MS. has yet a firm, regular, and decisive appearance. It is also very legible.

P. P. Cooke, Esq., of Winchester, Va., is well known, especially in the South, as the author of numerous excellent contributions to the “Southern Literary Messenger.” He has written some of the finest poetry of which America can boast. A little piece of his, entitled “Florence Vane,” and contributed to the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of this city, during our editorship of that journal, was remarkable for the high ideality it evinced, and for the great delicacy and melody of its rhythm. It was universally admired and copied, as well here as in England. We saw it not long ago, as original, in “Bentley’s Miscellany.” Mr. Cooke has, we believe, nearly ready for press, a novel called “Maurice Werterbern,” whose success we predict with confidence.

His MS. is clear, forcible, and legible, but disfigured by some little of that affectation which is scarcely a blemish in his literary style.

Prof. Thomas R. Dew, of William and Mary College in Virginia, was one of the able contributors who aided to establish the “Southern Literary Messenger” in the days of its débût. His MS. is precisely in keeping with his literary character. Both are heavy, massive, unornamented and diffuse in the extreme. His epistles seemed to have been scrawled with the stump of a quill dipped in very thick ink, and one or two words extend sometimes throughout a line. The signature is more compact than the general MS.

Mr. J. Beauchamp Jones has been, we believe, connected for many years past with the lighter literature of Baltimore, and at present edits the “Baltimore Saturday Visiter,” with much judgment and general ability. He is the author of a series of papers of high merit now in course of publication in the “Visiter,” and entitled “Wild Western Scenes.”

His MS. is distinct, and might be termed a fine one; but is somewhat too much in consonance with the ordinary clerk style to be either graceful or forcible.

Mr. Charles J. Peterson has for a long time been connected with the periodical literature of Philadelphia, as one of the editors of “Graham’s Magazine” and of “The Saturday Evening Post.”

His MS., when unhurried, is a very good one—clear, weighty, and picturesque; but when carelessly written is nearly illegible, on account of a too slight variation of form in the short letters.

Mr. Burton is better known as a comedian than as a literary man; but he has written many short prose articles of merit, and his quondam editorship of the “Gentleman’s Magazine” would, at all events, entitle him to a place in this collection. He has, moreover, published one or two books. An annual issued by Carey and Hart in 1840, consisted entirely of prose contributions from himself, with poetical ones from Charles West Thompson, Esq. In this work many of the tales were good.

Mr. Burton’s MS. is scratchy and petite, betokening indecision and care or caution. The whole chirography resembles that of Mr. Tasistro very nearly.

Richard Henry Wilde, Esq., of Georgia, has acquired much reputation as a poet, and especially as the author of a little piece entitled “My Life is like the Summer Rose,” whose claim to originality has been made the subject of repeated and reiterated attack and defence. Upon the whole it is hardly worth quarrelling about. Far better verses are to be found in every second newspaper we take up. Mr. Wilde has also lately published, or is about to publish, a “Life of Tasso,” for which he has been long collecting material.

His MS. has all the peculiar sprawling and elaborate tastelessness of Mr. Palfrey’s, to which altogether it bears a marked resemblance. The love of effect, however, is more perceptible in Mr. Wilde’s than even in Mr. Palfrey’s.

G. G. Foster, Esq., has acquired much reputation, especially in the South and West, by his poetical contributions to the literature of the day. All his articles breathe the true spirit. At one period he edited a weekly paper in Alabama; more lately the “Bulletin” at St. Louis; and, at present, he conducts the “Pennant,” in that city, with distinguished ability. Not long ago he issued the prospectus of a monthly magazine. Should he succeed in getting the journal under way, there can be no doubt of his success.

His MS. is remarkably clear and graceful; evincing a keen sense of the beautiful. It seems, however, to be somewhat deficient in force; and his letters are never so well written in their conclusion as in their commencement. We have before remarked that this peculiarity in MSS. is a sure indication of fatigability of temper. Few men who write thus are free from a certain vacillation of purpose. The signature above is rather heavier than that from which it was copied.

Lewis Cass, the Ex-Secretary of War, has distinguished himself as one of the finest belles lettres scholars of America. At one period he was a very regular contributor to the “Southern Literary Messenger,” and, even lately, he has furnished that journal with one or two very excellent papers.

His MS. is clear, deliberate and statesmanlike; resembling that of Edward Everett very closely. It is not often that we see a letter written altogether by himself. He generally employs an amanuensis, whose chirography does not differ materially from his own, but is somewhat more regular.

James Brooks, Esq., enjoys rather a private than a public literary reputation; but his talents are unquestionably great, and his productions have been numerous and excellent. As the author of many of the celebrated Jack Downing letters, and as the reputed author of the whole of them, he would at all events be entitled to a place among our literati.

His chirography is simple, clear and legible, with little grace and less boldness. These traits are precisely those of his literary style.

As the authorship of the Jack Downing letters is even still considered by many a moot point, (although in fact there should be no question about it,) and as we have already given the signature of Mr. Seba Smith, and (just above) of Mr. Brooks, we now present our readers with a fac-simile signature of the “veritable Jack” himself, written by him individually in our own bodily presence. Here, then, is an opportunity of comparison.

The chirography of “the veritable Jack” is a very good, honest, sensible hand, and not very dissimilar to that of Ex-President Adams.

Mr. J. R. Lowell, of Massachusetts, is entitled, in our opinion, to at least the second or third place among the poets of America. We say this on account of the vigor of his imagination—a faculty to be first considered in all criticism upon poetry. In this respect he surpasses, we think, any of our writers (at least any of those who have put themselves prominently forth as poets) with the exception of Longfellow, and perhaps one other. His ear for rhythm, nevertheless, is imperfect, and he is very far from possessing the artistic ability of either Longfellow, Bryant, Halleck, Sprague or Pierpont. The reader desirous of properly estimating the powers of Mr. Lowell will find a very beautiful little poem from his pen in the October number of this Magazine. There is one also (not quite so fine) in the number for last month. He will contribute regularly.

His MS. is strongly indicative of the vigor and precision of his poetical thought. The man who writes thus, for example, will never be guilty of metaphorical extravagance, and there will be found terseness as well as strength in all that he does.

Mr. L. J. Cist, of Cincinnati, has not written much prose, and is known especially by his poetical compositions, many of which have been very popular, although they are at times disfigured by false metaphor, and by a meretricious straining after effect. This latter foible makes itself clearly apparent in his chirography, which abounds in ornamental flourishes, not illy executed, to be sure, but in very bad taste.

Mr. Arthur is not without a rich talent for description of scenes in low life, but is uneducated, and too fond of mere vulgarities to please a refined taste. He has published “The Subordinate”, and “Insubordination”, two tales distinguished by the peculiarities above mentioned. He has also written much for our weekly papers, and the “Lady’s Book.”

His hand is a common-place clerk’s hand, such as we might expect him to write. The signature is much better than the general MS.

Mr. Heath is almost the only person of any literary distinction residing in the chief city of the Old Dominion. He edited the “Southern Literary Messenger” in the five or six first months of its existence; and, since the secession of the writer of this article, has frequently aided in its editorial conduct. He is the author of “Edge-Hill”, a well-written novel, which, owing to the circumstances of its publication, did not meet with the reception it deserved. His writings are rather polished and graceful, than forcible or original; and these peculiarities can be traced in his chirography.

Dr. Thomas Holley Chivers, of New York, is at the same time one of the best and one of the worst poets in America. His productions affect one as a wild dream—strange, incongruous, full of images of more than arabesque monstrosity, and snatches of sweet unsustained song. Even his worst nonsense (and some of it is horrible) has an indefinite charm of sentiment and melody. We can never be sure that there is any meaning in his words—neither is there any meaning in many of our finest musical airs—but the effect is very similar in both. His figures of speech are metaphor run mad, and his grammar is often none at all. Yet there are as fine individual passages to be found in the poems of Dr. Chivers, as in those of any poet whatsoever.

His MS. resembles that of P. P. Cooke very nearly, and in poetical character the two gentlemen are closely akin. Mr. Cooke is, by much, the more correct; while Dr. Chivers is sometimes the more poetic. Mr. C. always sustains himself; Dr. C. never.

Judge Story, and his various literary and political labors, are too well know to require comment.

His chirography is a noble one—bold, clear, massive, and deliberate, betokening in the most unequivocal manner all the characteristics of his intellect. The plain unornamented style of his compositions is impressed with accuracy upon his hand-writing, the whole air of which is well conveyed in the signature.

John Frost, Esq., Professor of Belles Lettres in the High School of Philadelphia, and at present editor of “The Young People’s Book,” has distinguished himself by numerous literary compositions for the periodicals of the day, and by a great number of published works which come under the head of the utile rather than of the dulce—at least in the estimation of the young. He is a gentleman of fine taste, sound scholarship, and great general ability.

His chirography denotes his mental idiosyncrasy with great precision. Its careful neatness, legibility and finish, are but a part of that turn of mind which leads him so frequently into compilation. The signature here given is more diminutive than usual.

Mr. J. F. Otis is well known as a writer for the Magazines; and has, at various times, been connected with many of the leading newspapers of the day—especially with those in New York and Washington. His prose and poetry are equally good; but he writes too much and too hurriedly to write invariably well. His taste is fine, and his judgment in literary matters is to be depended upon at all times when not interfered with by his personal antipathies or predilections.

His chirography is exceedingly illegible and, like his style, has every possible fault except that of the common-place.

Mr. Reynolds occupied at one time a distinguished position in the eye of the public, on account of his great and laudable exertions to get up the American South Polar expedition, from a personal participation in which he was most shamefully excluded. He has written much and well. Among other works, the public are indebted to him for a graphic account of the noted voyage of the frigate Potomac to Madagascar.

His MS. is an ordinary clerk’s hand, giving no indication of character.

Mr. William Cutter, a young merchant of Portland, Maine, although not very generally known as a poet beyond his immediate neighborhood, (or at least out of the Eastern States) has given to the world numerous compositions which prove him to be possessed of the true fire. He is, moreover, a fine scholar, and a prose writer of distinguished merit.

His chirography is very similar to that of Count Tasistro, and the two gentlemen resemble each other very peculiarly in their literary character.

David Paul Brown, Esq., is scarcely more distinguished in his legal capacity than by his literary compositions. As a dramatic writer he has met with much success. His “Sertorius” has been particularly well received both upon the stage and in the closet. His fugitive productions, both in prose and verse, have also been numerous, diversified, and excellent.

His chirography has no doubt been strongly modified by the circumstances of his position. No one can expect a lawyer in full practice to give in his MS. any true indication of his intellect or character.

Mrs. E. Clementine Stedman has lately attracted much attention by the delicacy and grace of her poetical compositions, as well as by the piquancy and spirit of her prose. For some months past we have been proud to rank her among the best of the contributors to “Graham’s Magazine.”

Her chirography differs as materially from that of her sex in general as does her literary manner from the usual namby-pamby of our blue-stockings. It is, indeed, a beautiful MS., very closely resembling that of Professor Longfellow, but somewhat more diminutive, and far more full of grace.

J. Greenleaf Whittier, is placed by his particular admirers in the very front rank of American poets. We are not disposed, however, to agree with their decision in every respect. Mr. Whittier is a fine versifier, so far as strength is regarded independently of modulation. His subjects, too, are usually chosen with the view of affording scope to a certain vivida vis of expression which seems to be his forte; but in taste, and especially in imagination, which Coleridge has justly styled the soul of all poetry, he is even remarkably deficient. His themes are never to our liking.

His chirography is an ordinary clerk’s hand, affording little indication of character.

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens was at one period the editor of the “Portland Magazine,” a periodical of which we have not heard for some time, and which, we presume, has been discontinued. More lately her name has been placed upon the title page of “The Lady’s Companion” of New York, as one of the conductors of that journal—to which she has contributed many articles of merit and popularity. She has also written much and well, for various other periodicals, and will, hereafter, enrich this magazine with her compositions, and act as one of its editors.

Her MS. is a very excellent one, and differs from that of her sex in general, by an air of more than usual force and freedom.

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THE SWEET SOUTH WIND.

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BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.

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Hark, ’tis the sweet south wind!

How soft its dewy fingers touch the keys

Which thrill such melting music through the mind,

Even the green leaves of the forest trees.

There is a witchery

In the soft music, like the voice of love;

Now gushing o’er the soul deliciously,

Then sighing a rich cadence through the grove.

It seemeth to mine ear

The rustling of some holy creature’s wing,

Sent from some passionless and sinless sphere,

Unction of peace unto the soul to bring.

My temples feel its pow’r,

Cooling and soothing every throbbing vein;

My spirit lifts its weary wings once more,

And bursts the strong clasps of care’s sordid chain,

And floats all calm and free,

Blent with the music of the bending wood,

Fill’d with the light of immortality,

Even the presence of the Living God.

Nature is full of Him,

And every willing spirit feels his pow’r;

Even as this south wind fills the forest dim,

And bends with its rich weight each lowly flow’r.

Oh, may death come to me

On the soft breath of such a night as this;

To lift the thin veil of mortality,

And let me bathe at once in perfect bliss.

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MISFORTUNES OF A TIMID GENTLEMAN.

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BY J. ROSS BROWNE.

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