Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 4, April 1842

by Various

PART THE FIRST.

Among the numerous strangers that stop at West Point, in ascending or in coming down the Hudson, there are comparatively few who allow themselves sufficient time to become acquainted with even the half that is worthy of note, in that extraordinary place—giving but one day, or perhaps only a few hours, to a visit which ought at least to comprise a whole week. A large proportion of these travellers, after they have hurried through the rooms of the academy, walked round the camp, witnessed the parade, heard the band, or perhaps accomplished a hasty survey of the ruins of Fort Putnam, seem to believe that they are consequently familiar with all that both nature and art have done for one of the most beautiful and interesting spots on the American continent.

And beautiful indeed it is, from its romantic situation in the midst of the highlands, looking directly down on one of the finest rivers in the world—and from its picturesque combinations of mountain, valley and plain; woodland, rock, and water—scenery to which no painter has ever yet done justice. And how intensely interesting are its associations with the history of our revolutionary contest—when West Point commanded the passes of the highlands—at once opposing a barrier to the descent of the enemy from the lake country and to their ascent from the ocean. Also amid these hills lay the army of Washington, at the time it was so providentially saved by the discovery of Arnold’s treason.

And now, “when the storm of war is gone,” and the Gibraltar of America finds no farther occasion for its mountain fortresses, it has become the nucleus from whence the military science of our country radiates to its utmost boundaries; the nursery of a body of officers whose cultivated minds, polished manners, and high tone of moral feeling, have rendered them deservedly popular with their compatriots—also eliciting a favourable testimony even from the British tourists.

It is a common and, in most instances, a true remark, that first impressions are lasting: at least with regard to external objects. My own first impressions of West Point were received on a lovely summer evening that succeeded a stormy day. I had left the city of New York with my brother, at nine o’clock in the morning, in the slow and unpopular Richmond; the only boat that went up the river on that day, and the worst of the three steam-vessels which at that time comprised the establishment of what is now termed the old North River Company.

I need not say that it was during the period of the charter they had obtained for the exclusive steam-navigation of the Hudson. In those days, a voyage from New York to Albany frequently consumed twenty-four hours, and the fare was ten dollars.

I had anticipated the most extatic delight from my first view of the grand and romantic scenery of this noble river. But very soon after we left the city a heavy rain came on, and seemed to have set in for the whole day. I had recently recovered from a long illness, and could not venture to remain on the wet deck, even under the screen of an umbrella. The canvass awning was so perforated with holes from the chimney-sparks, that it afforded about as much shelter as a large sieve. There was no upper cabin, and I reluctantly compelled myself to quit admiring the Palisade Rocks and descend to the apartment appropriated to the ladies. It was very crowded and perfectly close. The berths were all occupied by females lying down in their clothes, and trying to sleep away the tedious hours. The numerous children were uncomfortable, fretful, and troublesome, as most children are when they are “cabin’d, crib’d, confin’d.” Seats were so scarce (when were they otherwise in a summer steam-boat) that many of us were glad to place ourselves on the wooden edges of the lower berths. In this extreme I could not agree with the old adage that “it is as cheap sitting as standing:” for if cheapness means convenience or agreeableness, as is generally supposed, I found it quite as convenient, and rather more agreeable, to stand leaning against something, than to sit on the perpendicular edge of a board. We had not even the pleasure of regaling our eyes with the handsome fittings-up that now when there is no monopoly and great rivalry, are deemed indispensable to the reputation of an American steam-boat. The old Richmond was furnished very plainly, alias meanly. Her cabins had common ingrain carpets of the ugliest possible patterns, pine tables painted red, and curtains of coarse dark calico. By the by, reader, never go to a boarding-house that professes a plain table; you will be almost sure to find it a mean one. Also, never engage a plain cook—you will be almost sure to find her no cook at all.

We were nearly all day in the boat, and it rained incessantly. It was very tantalizing on this, my first voyage up the Hudson, to obtain only an occasional glimpse of its beautiful shores through the small cabin windows, which windows were always monopolized by nurse-maids, seated on the transom with their babies; the babies taking no interest in the scenery, and their nurses still less.

When we came into the highlands, the storm had increased, and my first view of them was caught by ever-interrupted glances through a few inches of window-pane, and by peeping over the head of a girl whose eyes were all the time wandering among the people in the interior of the cabin. These sublime mountains loomed green and dimly through the rain-mist that veiled their rocky sides, and their towering heads were lost in the volumes of fantastic clouds that rolled around them. But it proved what is called the clearing up shower; and just as we were rounding that low projection of bare rock that runs far out into the river, and forms the extreme point of West Point, the clouds began to part in the zenith, and the blue sky appeared between them, and the sun suddenly broke out lighting up the western sides of the hills and pouring his full effulgence on the river. We landed just as the evening parade was about to commence, and I saw it from the front windows of an apartment that commanded a full view. It was a beautiful scene; on this spacious and level plain, elevated about a hundred and sixty feet above the river, which bounds it on the north and east, while on the south and west it is hemmed in by the mountains that rise directly from it. The numerous windows of the barracks were sparkling and burnishing in the setting sun that was beaming out below the retiring clouds, throwing a rosy tint on the white tents of the camp, and glittering on the bayonets of the long line of cadets drawn up for the exercise that, at a military post always concludes the day. The band was playing delightfully, and the effect of the whole was very striking at the moment when the drums rolled, the evening gun went off, the flag came down, and the officers all drew their swords and advanced to the front.

Many circumstances contributed to render my first visit to West Point peculiarly pleasant. I had never in my life spent three weeks so agreeably. Subsequently, I resided there nearly two years in the family of my brother. I have enjoyed the grand and lovely scenery of West Point under all the various aspects of the seasons. I have been there when the late, but rapid spring, with its balmy breathings, and its soft sun-light, suddenly awakens the long-slumbering vegetation of these high and northerly regions, when you can almost see the forming of the buds and their bursting into leaf; while patches of the last snow yet linger here and there about the cavities of the rocks, and in the hollows that lie among the roots of the trees, “on their cold and winter-shaded side.” At the same time, in the warmer recesses of the forests, the early flowers of the hepatica and the violet are finding their way up amid the dead leaves which the wild blasts of November have strewed thickly over the ground.

These mountains are wooded from the base to the summit, (except where a block of granite looks out from amid the trees,) and in the month of May they are variegated with all those countless and exquisite shades of green, that can only emanate from the hand of that Great Painter that colored the Universe. While some of these inimitable tints are dark almost to blackness, and some are of the richest olive, others present in endless variety, the numerous gradations of deep-green, blue-green, grass-green, apple-green, pea-green, and yellow-green; the catalpa and the locust, with their clusters of pencilled blossoms, and the dogwood with its milk-white flowers, supplying the bright lights of the picture. Then, in looking up the river, the long perspective is closed at the utmost verge of the horizon by the far-off Taghcanoke mountains: the snows that still rest on their cold and lonely summits extending in streaks of whiteness half-way down their dim blue sides.

To a stranger at West Point the commencement of a summer’s day has many circumstances of novelty and excitement that are almost lost upon those to whom custom has rendered them familiar. With the earliest blush of dawn, and at the third tap of the drum, the morning gun goes off, and when the wind is in a certain direction, I have heard its loud booming sound five times repeated by the mountain echoes, “fainter and fainter still”—but always distinctly audible. At the same moment the flag is run up, and flings out to the early breeze its waving folds of stars and stripes denoting that the place is United States’ ground, a military post, and under martial law. These ceremonies are immediately succeeded by the drums and fifes commencing the delightful réveillée, clear, sweet and exhilarating—the first notes of which seem so distinctly to express the words,

“The lark is up, the morn is gay,

The drums now beat the réveillée.”

followed by a medley of popular airs, each one concluding like a rondo, with—“The lark is up,” &c.

It is beautiful on a soft summer morning to look out upon these forest-cinctured mountains, when there has been a rain during the night, and to see the misty clouds veiling their summits and rolling off from their sides; breaking, as the sun ascends, into thin white wreaths that creep slowly about the glens, and gradually losing all distinctness of form and blending with the blue of ether. More beautiful still is the broad expanse of the Hudson, glittering with the golden sun-light, and reflecting the clear cerulean of the sky; while the white-sailed sloops seem to slumber on the calm surface of the water, as each “floats double, sloop and shadow,” and near the shore the dark mountains and the rocky precipices cast their deep masses of shade upon the liquid mirror below.

I was once at West Point when the dawn of our national anniversary was ushered in by the roar of artillery from amid the ruins of Fort Putnam, the guns having been previously conveyed up the mountain for that purpose. There is a history belonging to these guns. They were originally French; and are engraved with the name of the foundry at which they were cast; bearing also the three fleur de lis of the ancien regime, the cypher of Louis the Fourteenth, (who at that time, filled the throne of France) and the celebrated motto which he ordered to be inscribed on all his cannon—“Ultimo ratio regum.” The guns in question were sent to Quebec, and were taken by the English on the heights of Abraham, in that eventful battle, when both commanders fell in the same hour that transferred the dominion of Canada from France to England. Belonging afterwards to the army of Burgoyne, they became the property of America on the surrender at Saratoga, and finally were presented by Congress to the Military Academy. At the cadets annual ball I have seen these guns decorated with wreaths of laurel, and arranged as ornaments along a covered promenade, lighted up with lamps in front of the ball-room.

To the dwellers on the plain below, the effect on the aforesaid fourth of July was indescribably fine; the guns thundering and echoing in a region so far above us, their gleams of fire flashing out amid the clouds of white smoke that rolled their eddying volumes round the old dismantled ramparts. The salute was followed by a full burst of martial harmony from the band, who had also gone up into the ruins; all playing so admirably and in such perfect unison, that the whole of their various instruments sounded like one alone—but like one whose grand and exquisite tones seemed scarcely to belong to earth. The band had their fourth of July dinner within the dilapidated recesses of the moss-grown fortress, and frequently during the day, we heard their music. Sometimes the soft sweet warblings of the octave flute rose alone upon the air; then the clear melodious tones of Willis’s bugle seemed to “lap the soul in Elysium;” then came the clarionets deepened by the trombone; and finally the loud and thrilling notes of the bass-drum struck grandly in, and swelled the full tide of sound till the rocks seemed to tremble with its reverberations. Music, like painting, has its lights and shadows.

Nothing can be more lovely than the scenery about West Point when lighted up by the beams of the summer moon. While there, I was once on a water party, in a delightful evening towards the close of the “leafy month of June.” The gentlemen attached to the military academy had made arrangements for taking the ladies on a moonlight voyage through the highlands, in the boats belonging to the post. Of these boats I think there were eight. The first and largest was appropriated to the band—in the others followed the professors connected with the institution, the officers, and the ladies—with soldiers as oarsmen. We were rowed to the upper extremity of the highlands, beyond Butter Hill which, notwithstanding its homely name, is a magnificent mountain with a gradual slope on the land-side, but presenting to the water a perpendicular precipice in height sixteen hundred feet. In the clefts of this lofty rock tradition has asserted that the pirate Blackbeard deposited portions of his treasure more than a century ago. It is not many years since a gentleman who believed the story, was killed by losing his hold, and falling down backwards upon the stones below, in a desperate attempt to scale the precipice in quest of the rover’s gold.

As we embarked on our aquatic excursion “the moon arose curtained in clouds which her beams gradually dispelled.” When she climbed above them, as they “turned forth their silver linings to the night,” and her rays touched the top of the eastern hills, while their dark sides reposed in shadow, I thought of a song in the Carnival of Venice.

“And while the moon shines on the stream,

And while soft music breathes around,

The feathering oar returns the gleam

And dips in concert to the sound.”

Having ascended beyond the inner highlands, our boats were put about. The men resting on their oars we floated down with the tide nearly as far as the Dunderberg, and never did this picturesque and romantic region look more lovely.

In the course of our little voyage several steam-boats passed us: and all of them slackened their steam awhile, for the purpose of remaining longer in our vicinity that the passengers might enjoy the music. One of these boats, in stopping to hear us, lay directly on the broad line of moonlight that was dancing and glittering on the water, the red glare of her lanterns strangely mingling with the golden radiance beneath. Our band was just then playing the Hunter’s Chorus, that ever-charming composition which justly merits its universal popularity in every part of the world where music is known, and which would alone have been sufficient to entitle Weber to his tomb in Westminster Abbey.

Nothing can be finer than the atmospheric phenomena of these elevated regions. I remember one afternoon, when the sun was breaking out on the close of a summer shower, we seemed to find ourselves in the midst of an immense rain-bow which appeared to have descended upon the plain. The camp, the south barracks, the trees, and the eastern hills beyond the river were all brightly colored with its varied and beautiful tints, and looked as if seen through an immense prism.

A thunder storm in these mountains is sublime beyond all that imagination can conceive. In looking up the river, while the sun is yet shining brightly, and the sky is blue above our heads, we see a dark cloud far off in the direction of Newburgh, whose white houses stand out in strong relief against the deep gloom that has gathered beyond; the coming vapor rises and spreads till it appears behind the Crow’s Nest, casting its deep shade upon the tops of the mountains, while on their sides still linger the last gleams of sunshine. As the clouds accumulate, and unite their forces, the darkness descends upon the river, whose blackening surface is seen ruffled with spots of white foam; the zig-zag lightning begins to quiver up from the gloom behind the hills; and then is heard the low murmur of the distant thunder; every flash becoming brighter, every peal sounding louder and nearer. At length, the wind rises, and the whole tempest rushes rapidly on. The trees writhe and bend to their roots, and are soon covered with the circling dust of the whirl-wind. The lightning glares out in one vast sheet, “flashing intolerable day” upon the night-like darkness that shrouds the river and its shores. At the same instant, the loud crash of the thunder rattles directly over head, and it continues throughout the storm its long and incessant roll, the echoes of one peal not subsiding before those of another have commenced. The lightning glances on the bayonets of the centinels that “walk their lonely rounds” on the skirts of the camp; and frequently the tents are blown over by the violence of the gust, and lie prostrate on the wet grass. These terrific thunder-claps seem to shake the everlasting hills; the firm-set granite buildings of the institution trembling to their foundations. Often the tremendous power delegated to “the volleying bolt of heaven” is attested by a riven and blasted tree, split in a moment from its topmost spray down to its roots in the earth; while, at the same instant, every leaf of its green and flourishing foliage becomes dead and yellow, the birds that built their nests among its branches lying lifeless at its foot.

I recommend to all visiters at the West Point hotel not to neglect ascending to the belvidere or skylight room on the top of that building. The view from thence is so vast and so magnificent that it rarely fails to call forth exclamations of delighted astonishment; particularly when autumn has colored the woods with its glowing and varied tints of scarlet, crimson, and purple, and with every shade of brown and yellow from the richest to the palest—such tints as, at this season, are to be found only in the foliage of America, and are most beautiful when seen through the gauzy haze of the Indian summer—that farewell smile of the departing year. Then the dilated disk of the sun looks round and red through its thin misty veil; the calm and slumbering river reflects a sky of the mildest blue; and near the shores its waters glow with the inverted beauties of the many-colored woods and hills. If viewed at evening, the splendor of the picture is increased by the glories of an autumnal sunset, when the clouds (such as are only seen in mountainous regions) assume the grandest forms and the most gorgeous hues.

Often after the last lingering beam has faded in the west, and all the stars have come out in the deep blue heaven, a dark mist appears behind the hills in the north, and from its dun recesses arise the ever-changing corruscations of the mysterious aurora borealis. Sometimes, its broad rays extend upwards nearly to the zenith, and diffuse a cold strange light upon the river and its western banks, rendering perfectly distinct the sloops on the water, and the trees and rocks on the shore. In the houses on the bank, the front-rooms are at times so well lighted by this incomprehensible phenomenon, that a newspaper may be read after the lamps or candles have been removed from the apartment. Then, perhaps in a few minutes, “the north’s dancing streamers relinquished their fire,” and faded dimly away into darkness. Suddenly they would again revive, darting upwards in renewed brightness their far-spreading rays, tinted with crimson and purple, and sometimes even with green and blue.

In a chamber that I once occupied at West Point there was a small knot-hole in the upper part of one of the shutters, by means of which, in cold weather, when the windows were closed fast, and the room consequently darkened, I frequently at early morning saw as in a camera obscura, a landscape depicted on the white wall above the mantel-piece. So that before I was up myself, I could observe the first gleams of the dawnlight, and the changing colors of the clouds as they brightened upon the blue sky, lending their glories to the hills beyond the river: and the first rays of the sun, when they “fired the proud tops of the eastern pines.” In this way, without opening the shutters to look out, I could always tell whether the morning was clear or cloudy.

The winter at West Point is long and cold; and (before the days of rail roads,) when the river was once closed, the ice fast, and the boats laid up for the season, the inhabitants of this insulated spot seemed nearly shut out from all communication with the rest of the world; and it may easily be guessed what interest was attached to the mails, after the difficulties of transportation caused them to arrive irregularly. We were very soon convinced of the fact that

“When cold and raw the wind doth blow

Bleak in the morning early,

When all the hills are cover’d with snow

Then it is winter fairly.”

I have known the snow so deep and so drifted, as to block up the parlor windows of the house we then inhabited, precluding all possibility of opening the shutters; and as to clear it away was no trifling task, we were more than once obliged to breakfast by candle-light at eight o’clock.

In the “blue serene” of the clear and intensely cold mornings, which usually succeeded a deep fall of snow, I have seen the whole atmosphere glittering with minute particles of ice: to breathe which must, in delicate lungs, have caused a sensation similar to laceration with a sharp knife. No one afflicted with pulmonary disease should live at West Point.

The scenery, in its winter aspect, looked somewhat like a panorama done in Indian ink, or rather like a great etching: except that the sky formed a blue background to the snowy mountains, on which the leafless branches of the denuded forest seemed pencilled in black and gray. We had our winter walks too: and I never felt a more pleasant glow from exercise than in climbing Mount Independence, through the snow, to visit Fort Putnam. In addition to the ordinary steepness of the road, it was now in many places rendered slippery by broad sheets of ice, beneath which we saw the living waters of a mountain brook gliding and murmuring along under their glassy coating. The snow had drifted high among the recesses of the old fortress, and lay white and thick along the broken and roofless edges of its dark gray walls, while here and there, amid the desolation, lingered the evergreen of a lonely cedar. Long bright icicles suspended their transparent and glittering fringes from the arches of the dismantled casements, whose entrances were now even less accessible than usual, being blocked up with mounds of snow that covered the heaps of fallen stones.

One of our favorite winter walks was to the cascade; and on entering the close woods that led thither, we always felt a sensible access of warmth in the atmosphere, which was very agreeable when compared to the unsheltered bleakness of the plain. In looking down from the heights, through the steeps of the forest, we saw glimpses of the river, as it lay far below us; its solid waters now of a bluish-white, shining beneath the wintry sun. Yet the cascade still poured its resistless torrent freely among the snow-covered rocks, roaring, frothing, and pitching from ledge to ledge. An old pine tree had thrown itself horizontally across the upper fall, its dark green foliage almost touching the water, and its rough trunk forming a bridge for the passage of the minks, foxes, ground squirrels, and other petty denizens of the wild. As the foaming torrent threw up its misty spray, this tree became incrusted with ice of the most brilliant transparency; looking like an immense chandelier, with multitudes of long crystal drops depending from its feathery branches.

The last winter I spent at West Point a funeral took place in the middle of December. It was that of a gentleman attached to the institution, and he died after a long and painful illness. The river had closed at a very early period, and the little world of West Point was locked up in ice and snow. Three o’clock was the time appointed for the melancholy procession to take up its line of march; the coffin, covered with a pall, having been previously carried into the chapel, and the funeral service performed over it by the chaplain.

It was a clear, cold afternoon, and the sun was already sinking behind the mountains, whose giant shadows, magnificently colored with crimson and purple, were projected far forward upon the frozen snow that covered the plain; as a range of painted windows cast down their glowing tints upon a white marble pavement.

When the funeral began to move from the chapel, the band (preceding the coffin) commenced one of the mournful airs that are usually appropriated to “the march of death.” The muffled drums were struck only at long intervals, and their heavy notes were deadened still more by the chillness of the atmosphere; while Willis’s bugle sounded almost like music from the world of spirits. Next came the soldiers, then the cadets, afterwards the officers, and lastly the commandant; all walking with their arms inverted. I saw the sad and lonely procession moving slowly through the snow, and directing its course to the cemetery, which is about a mile from the plain. Shaded with ancient trees, the grave yard occupies the summit of a promontory that impends above the river; and the Cadet’s Monument crowned by its military trophy in white marble, forms one of the land marks of the shore. I heard (and it always seems to me the most affecting part of the ceremonial) the volley which was fired over the grave, after that cold and narrow cell had been covered in with clods of frozen earth mingled with snow.

A very extraordinary circumstance connected with military funerals is the custom, that when all is over, and the procession is returning with recovered arms, and marching in quick time, the music always performs a lively air; frequently one that is designated in the army as, “So went the merry man home to his grave.” This revolting practice is said to have originated in the same principle that is set forth in the commencing lines of the well-known song, said to have been sung by General Wolfe at his supper table on the night before the battle in which he was killed:

“Why, soldiers why,

Should we be melancholy boys

Whose business ’tis to die.”

The horrors of every war are, and must be so terrible, that its practice admits of no palliation, except when the struggle is in defence of our native land. How ought we then to rejoice that in this our own favored country, no hecatombs of human victims can be immolated to swell the pride, to gratify the ambition, or to feed the rapacity of a few of their fellow men. Surely the people of another century will regard with amazement the tales of blood and carnage that defile the pages of history. They will wonder that rational beings could be found who were willing to engage in these atrocious contests, undertaken “for the glory of heroes, the splendor of thrones.” Where are now the Buonapartes and the Bourbons, for whose sake forty thousand lives were destroyed in the dreadful day of Waterloo, “on that tremendous harvest field where death swung the scythe.”

May we not hope that the war-times will pass away with the king-times.

(To be concluded.)

---

FRAGMENT.

———

BY ALBERT PIKE.

———

We are all mariners on this sea of life;

And they who climb above us up the shrouds,

Have only, in their over-topping place,

Gained a more dangerous station, and foothold

More insecure. The wind that passeth over

And harmeth not the humble crowd below,

Whistles amid the shrouds, and shaketh down

These overweening climbers of the ocean,

Into the great gigantic vase of death.

---

DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA.

A NIGHT SCENE AT SEA.

———

BY DR. REYNELL COATES.

———

Oh night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wonderous strong,

Yet lovely in your strength—as is the light

Of a dark eye in woman!——

Byron.

But few among those who constitute the educated portion of society on shore, enjoy much opportunity of feeling the grandeur,—the awful variety of night. Women are necessarily debarred from the privilege of partaking freely of its mysterious but ennobling influence by the restraints unfortunately requisite for their protection; and, in order to reap the full advantage of such communion, we must be alone with the queen of the ebon wand and starry diadem. As for those of the bolder sex,—by them, the hours of shade are usually devoted to study, pleasure, or dissipation, and only the few possessing the poetic temperament become familiar with her changeful moods.

But, on the ocean, the closeness of the cabin drives the novice frequently on deck, even in stormy weather and at unseasonable hours; and when once this compulsory introduction has been effected, it is surprising how rapidly the traveller, of either sex, becomes enamored of solitude and night—of starlight and the storm.

The changes in the heavens,—and the waters too—are quite as numerous and far more impressive by night than by day.—There is no sameness in the sea for those who are blest with capacity to feel the beauties of Nature.

Let us lounge away an hour of this lovely evening here, by the companion-way. We are between the trades, and time would hang heavily on our hands but for the baffling winds and tempting cats-paws that keep us perpetually on the alert to gain or save a mile of southing.[^[2]] At present, we are suffering all the tedium of a calm. How dark!—How absolutely black the sky appears, contrasted with the brightness of a tropical moon! And yon dazzling star, waving its long line of reflected rays athwart the glassy billows, rivalling the broad glare of the moonlight!—What diamond ever equalled it in lustre, or surpassed it in variety of hues, as its ray changes from red to yellow, and from yellow to the most delicate blue?

The sails are flapping against the mast and the ship rolls so gently that one might well suppose no gale had ever ruffled this smooth summer ocean. To see the sailors lolling on the watch, the observer would infer they lead the idlest lives that mortals could enjoy; but alas! such moments are like angel visits with the crew. Poor fellows! How rich to them is the delight of a single hour of freedom spent in spinning their “tough yarns” under the lea of the long-boat, in singing or in music! That clarionet is admirably played, for rough and tarry fingers:—and how softly the notes float on the damp night air! The mate, in his impatience, is whistling for a wind; and that “old salt,” in whom many years of service have implanted deeply all the superstitions of his class, is muttering to himself with discontented glances, “You’ll have a cap-full, and more than you want of it before long,—and in the wrong quarter too.—I never knew any good to come of this whistling for wind.”

And, in truth, to judge from appearances, the prophecy is likely, in this case, to be fulfilled. Already the moon begins to be encircled by a wide halo of vapor. It is almost imperceptible at present; but, even while we speak, it gathers, and thickens, and seems to become more palpable. Now it assumes the faint tints of the lunar rain-bow; and all around a silvery veil is falling over the face of the heavens.

Slight fleeces of denser mist are collecting in columns and squadrons across the sky, giving it a mottled aspect. They are still too thin materially to check the full-flooding of the moonlight; but, as they gradually enlarge themselves, a slow, gliding motion is perceived among them. They are wafted gently southward; but the breeze—if breeze there be to-night—will come from the opposite quarter; for the higher and lower currents of our atmosphere are almost invariably found thus at variance with each other. The signs of the weather augur nothing favorable to our success in speedily reaching the southern trades.

Mark! How the broad glare of the moon-beams on the water fades away as the vapors in the upper air increase in density! The starlight reflection has disappeared; and the bright little orb from which it was derived, still struggling hard to make itself conspicuous, shines on with fitful ray.—And now, it is extinct.—Even the waters have lost their azure hue, and all things above and below are rapidly becoming gray.

The swell is momentarily rising, though you discover no cause for the change. Though we feel not a puff of wind the sails flap less heavily against the mast, and occasionally they are buoyed up and bellied out for many seconds, as if lifted by the breath of some unseen spirit.

Listen to the voice of the waves!—For the sea has a voice as well as the winds—not only where it speaks in thunders, booming upon the level beach, or roars among the time-worn rocks of an iron-bound coast, but far off in its loneliness, also, where no barrier opposes its will. Who knows not the mild tone of the breeze of spring from the melancholy moan of the autumnal gale?—As different is the dull plash of the lazy billow in a settled calm from the threatening sound that precedes a storm.

But the steward is ringing his supper-bell. Let us go below, and if I mistake not, you will find all nature dressed in another garb when we return on deck.

---

An hour has passed,—and what a change!—The ship close hauled on a wind, no longer rolls listlessly over the swell; but, laboring slowly up each coming wave, she staggers and shivers from stem to stern, as the crest of the watery mountain dashes against the weather bow,—then, rushing down into the trough of the sea and plunging deep into the succeeding billow, she strains every shroud and back-stay with the sudden jerk of the masts, and sends a broad sheet of crackling foam to leeward from beneath the bows.

How different is this disagreeable motion from that which we enjoy when the wind is on the beam or the quarter!—Then, we glide gently over the sea-hills, and every wave seems playfully bent on urging us forward:—Now, we are opposed unceasingly by wind and swell, and must contest laboriously each foot of the battle-ground, till the strength of our enemies is exhausted—conscious the while, that every league we loose in this strange, fitful region, may cost us a week’s delay in the recovery.

This is “a young gale” that bids fair to prove precocious; for it is rapidly advancing towards maturity. But it cannot last. Nothing but a calm displays much tendency to permanence between the trades.

The heavens are dark as midnight:—no star or planet penetrates the gloom with a friendly ray:—yet the color of the overhanging vault is by no means uniform. Broad tracts or patches of intense obscurity cover the chief part of the field of view; but, at intervals, you may perceive long, moving, dusky lines dividing these heavy masses, made visible by a strange and unaccountable half illumination. As they sweep hurriedly by, on their northward course, seemingly almost within reach from the mast head, we are made painfully conscious that the wings of the tempest are hovering over us in dangerous proximity.

Except the lamps in the binnacle, there is no obvious source of light above or around us: yet the outlines of the vessel, with all the labyrinth of spars and rigging, are dimly traceable in the murky air. Whence do we derive this power of vision? you will naturally inquire.—A glance at the surface of the water will explain it.

Every wave, as it combs and breaks, bears on its summit a high crest of foam, visible at a great distance by its own moonlight, or soft silvery radiation. Each little ripple carries its tiny lantern. Wherever the sea is disturbed by the motion of the vessel, and especially at the bow, where the waters are rudely disparted, or in the wake, where they rush together violently as she shoots along, a gentle, milky light is broadly diffused; and here and there a brilliant spark is seen beneath the surface shining distinct and permanent, like a star submerged, or gleaming and disappearing alternately, like the fire-flies of June.

The phosphorescence of the sea is unusually feeble at present, but it is sufficient to prevent a total darkness, and by its aid we trace the dim forms of surrounding objects, while a slight reflection from the clouds betrays the threatening aspect of the weather.

Do you observe those singular luminous appearances resembling masses of pale fire, or torch lights, hurrying from place to place, turning and meandering in all directions, some feet beneath the waves, like comets liberated from their proper spheres, and wandering without rule in the abyss of waters? They are produced by fish that are playing about the vessel, and were we adepts in the sport we might chance to strike one with the grains by the glare of his own torch. But this requires the skill and long experience of many voyages. To strike a fish by day is difficult enough; for, even then, he is not to be found where he appears. When you look obliquely from the vessel’s side at any object in the water, refraction changes its apparent place to a much greater distance than the real one, and brings the image nearer to the surface. Success in reaching such an object requires your aim to be directed towards a point considerably below the spot at which your game is seen. At night the difficulty is much enhanced;—for it is not the fish itself that emits the light. The agitation produced by his rapid motions awakens the thousands of luminous animalcules swarming in every cubic foot of water, and, as they fire their little tapers in succession, they fall into the rear, while the fish darts onward under cover of the obscurity, leaving a brilliant wake which serves but to deceive, or sometimes to guide, his enemies, and to attract his prey.

But hark!—How the wind howls through the shrouds and whistles around the slender rigging!—The gale increases, and another change comes over the night scene. Do you observe how pitchy the gloom has grown to windward?—All traces of the clouds in that direction are lost.—Ha!—A flash of lightning!—Here it comes in earnest!—The pouring rain obscures even the phosphoric glimmering of the waves, and now we have “night and storm and darkness,” in all their terrible beauty! Who dares attempt to paint the scene in words!—On every hand,—above—around—within—all is confusion! The crew spring to their stations, while the loud command and the scarce audible response are mingled with the dash of waves, the roar of the blast, and the creaking of the wracked timbers in one discordant, unintelligible burst of sound.

You stand, or rather hang by the mizzen shrouds, the centre of an invisible world where the maddened elements and hardy men contend for life or conquest. You hear them, but you see them not,—save when the electric flash tinges sea and cloud with momentary brilliance. Your eye detects the foot of the nearest mast, but you endeavor in vain to trace the tall spar upwards towards the lofty perch of those brave fellows on the yard, whose shrill voices—heard as if from a mile in the distance, in answer to the trumpet of the captain,—just reach the ear amid the din of a thousand unearthly voices, and add to the wizard wildness of the scene.

The storm swells loud and more loudly; but the yielding ship has risen from the first awful impression of its force and now careers furiously before it. The brailed but unfurled topsails flap with a dull and hollow thunder, as they whirl and rebound under the restraint of the clue-lines and the iron hands of the desperate crew. See that ghastly ball of purple flame leaping from spar to spar, like the visible spirit of the tempest![^[3]]—Now it is on the foremast head,—now it glares on the bowsprit,—and again, it springs to the mainyard and flashes full in the face of you startled reefer, casting the hue of death over his boyish features, rendered clearly visible for a moment in the demon torchlight.

The first flurry of the squall is passed;—we are again on a wind!—but still wave follows wave, rolling on with an angry roar;—and each in turn, as it reaches the vessel, strikes the bow with a resounding crash. Every plank in the firmly-bolted hull trembles beneath the blow, while the billow sweeps off under the lea, hissing and frothing in baffled rage to find the gallant bark invulnerable to its power.—Ever and anon the vivid lightning gilds the wide circle of a boiling sea, covered with broad streaks of foam driven onward for miles in narrow belts before the wind, while the sharp, sudden thunder follows on the instant, with a single detonation, like the discharge of an enormous cannon. Here are no hills and valleys to awake the long reverberating echoes—no solid earth to fling back the war-note of the storm in proud defiance to the clouds!

The binnacle lamps are shining on a portion of the quarter-deck, and light up the form of the helmsman at the wheel. Firm and unmoved amid the elemental jar, he stands like a guardian spirit in the centre of an illuminated sphere, contrasted so strongly with the palpable darkness around, that the imponderable air itself is made to appear material and tangible. On him depends our fate. One error!—one instance of momentary neglect, and the mountain swell might overtop our oaken bulwarks, leaving us a shattered and unmanagable wreck upon the desert waste of waters!

But listen!—what mean those indescribable sounds making themselves audible at intervals above the roar of the gale? Look out into the gloom, and strive to penetrate the mingled rain and spray!

Do you not see from time to time, those undefined and monstrous shapes,—blacker than night itself,—rising from the deep and giving utterance to noises like the puff of a steam engine combined with the snorting of some mammoth beast? Even here, while winds and waves are raging—in this chaos of air and ocean, where the barriers of heaven and earth seem broken down, and spray and foam—the sea—the rain—the clouds—are whirled together in one wide mass of inextricable confusion—even here, there are beings whose joy is in the tempest, sporting their ungainly gambols—fearless of the scathing bolt and glorying in the pealing thunder!

We are surrounded by an army of the grampus whales. Their breathing adds a fiend-like wildness to the voices of the night,—and their dusky forms looming through the obscurity as they thrust their misshapen backs above the surface of the sea, give an almost infernal aspect to the scene, if scene that may be called which is but half perceived in dimness that appears,

“Not light, but rather darkness visible.”

But come below!—We are happily exempt from the necessity of dangerous exposure, and the force of the salt spray that has been driven in our faces with stinging effect for the last half hour begins to weaken the impression of this magnificent display of Omnipotence. Man would find room for selfishness and vanity amid “the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds.”—Your complexion is in danger! So if you would avoid the hard looks of a weather-beaten tar, it is time to seek the shelter of the cabin. There I can amuse you with pictures of other night scenes by sea and land, until this short-lived tropical squall is over, or you feel inclined to retire to your state room. In another hour we shall probably be bounding along merrily, with all sail set, and the moon beams sparkling and playing hide-and-go-seek among the little rippling waves with which a six-knot breeze roughens a subsiding swell!

---

[2]	The scene of this sketch is laid in the tropical Atlantic, between the northern and southern trade-winds;—a region of calms and baffling winds.

[3]	The corposant, an electric ball or brush of light, sometimes witnessed during storms at sea.

---

AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT.

IN THREE CHIMERAS.

———

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.

———

Chimera III.

Another moon! And over the blue night

She bendeth, like a holy spirit bright,

Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold;

As on she floateth with her image cold

Enamell’d on the deep, a sail of cloud

Is to her left, majestically proud!

Trailing its silver drapery away

In thin and fairy webs, that are at play

Like stormless waves upon a summer sea,

Dragging their length of waters lazily.

Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist,

A lonely one, that bendeth in the mist

Of moonlight, with a wide and raven pall

Flung round him.—Is he mortal man at all?

For, by the meagre firelight that is under

Those eyelids, and the vision shade of wonder

Falling upon his features, I would guess

Of one that wanders out of blessedness!

Julio! raise thee! By the holy mass!

I wot not of the fearless one would pass

Thy wizard shadow. Where the raven hair

Was shorn before, in many a matted layer

It lieth now; and on a rock beside

The sea, like merman at the ebb of tide,

Feasting his wondrous vision on decay,

So art thou gazing over Agathè!

Ah me! but this is never the fair girl,

With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl,

That was as beautiful as is the form

Of sea-bird at the breaking of a storm.

The eye is open, with convulsive strain⁠—

A most unfleshly orb! the stars that wane

Have nothing of its hue; for it is cast

With sickly blood, and terribly aghast!

And sunken in its socket like the light

Of a red taper in the lonely night!

And there is not a braid of her bright hair

But lieth floating in the moonlight air,

Like the long moss beside a silver spring,

In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring.

The worm hath ’gan to crawl upon her brow⁠—

The living worm! and with a ripple now,

Like that upon the sea, are heard below

The slimy swarms all ravening as they go,

Amid the stagnate vitals, with a crush;

And one might hear them echoing the hush

Of Julio, as he watches by the side

Of the dead ladye, his betrothéd bride!

And ever and anon a yellow group

Was creeping on her bosom, like a troop

Of stars, far up amid the galaxy,

Pale, pale, as snowy showers, and two or three

Were mocking the cold finger, round and round

With likeness of a ring; and, as they wound

About its bony girth, they had the hue

Of pearly jewels glistening in the dew.

That deathly stare! it is an awful thing

To gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will spring

Before it to the heart: it telleth how

There must be waste where there is beauty now.

The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snow

Of that once heaving bosom? even so,

The cold, pale dewy chalk, with yellow shade

Amid the leprous hues; and o’er it play’d

The straggling moonlight and the merry breeze,

Like two fair elves that by the murmuring seas

Woo’d smilingly together; but there fell

No life-gleam on the brow, all terrible

Becoming, through its beauty, like a cloud

That waneth paler even than a shroud,

All gorgeous and all glorious before;

For waste, like to the wanton night, was o’er

Her virgin features, stealing them away⁠—

Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè?

“Enough! enough! oh God! but I have pray’d

To thee, in early daylight and in shade,

And the mad-curse is on me still—and still!

I cannot alter the eternal will—

But—but—I hate thee Agathè! I hate

What lunacy hath made me consecrate:

I am not mad!—not now!—I do not feel

That slumberous and blessed opiate steal

Up to my brain—oh! that it only would,

To people this eternal solitude

With fancies, and fair dreams, and summer-mirth,

Which is not now—and yet my mother earth

I would not love to lie above thee so

As Agathè lies there—Oh! no! no! no!

To have these clay worms feast upon my heart!

And all the light of being to depart

Into a dismal shadow! I could die

As the red lightnings, quenching amid sky

Their wild and wizard breath; I could away

Like a blue billow bursting into spray:

But never—never have corruption here

To feed her worms and let the sunlight jeer

Above me so. ’Tis thou! I owe thee, moon,

To-night’s fair worship; so be lifting soon

Thy veil of clouds, that I may kneel as one

That seeketh for thy virgin benison!”

He gathers the cold limpets as they creep

On the gray rocks beside the lonely deep,

And with a flint breaks through into the shell,

And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well.

And he hath lifted water in a clam

And tasted sweetly from a stream that swam

Down to the sea; and now is turn’d away

Again, again, to gaze on Agathè!

There is a cave upon that isle—a cave

Where dwelt a hermit-man: the winter wave

Roll’d to its entrance, casting a bright mound

Of snowy shells and fairy pebbles round;

And over were the solemn ridges strewn

Of a dark rock, that, like the wizard throne

Of some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hung

Wild thorn and bramble in confusion flung

Amid the startling crevices—like sky

Through gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by.

A cataract fell over, in a streak

Of silver, playing many a wanton freak;

Midway, and musical, with elfin glee

It bounded in its beauty to the sea,

Like dazzling angel vanishing away.

In sooth, ’twas pleasant in the moonlight gray

To see that fairy fountain leaping so,

Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe!

The hermit had his cross and rosary:

I ween like other hermits so was he,

A holy man and frugal, and at night

He prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the light

Of the fair moon went wandering beside

The lonely sea, to hear the silver tide

Rolling in gleesome music to the shore;

The more he heard he loved to hear the more.

And there he is, his hoary beard adrift

To the night winds, that sportingly do lift

Its snow-white tresses; and he leaneth on

A rugged staff, all weakly and alone,

A childless, friendless man!

He is beside

The ghastly Julio and his ghastlier bride.

’Twas wond’rous strange to gaze upon the two!

And the old hermit felt a throbbing through

His pulses—“Holy Virgin! save me, save!”

He deem’d of spectre from the midnight wave,

And cross’d him thrice, and pray’d and pray’d again:

“Hence! hence!” and Julio started as the strain

Of exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:

“I knew thee, father, that thou beest here

To gaze upon this girl, as I have been.

By yonder moon! it was a frantic sin

To worship so an image of the clay;

It was like beauty—but is now away⁠—

What lived upon her features, like the light

On yonder cloud, all tender and all bright;

But it is faded as the other must,

And she that was all beauty is all dust.

“Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine

And tell me is it cold? But she will twine

No wreath upon these temples—never, never!

For there she lieth like a streamless river

That stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me here,

If I be madly throbbing in the fear

For that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and see

How dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly!

And where it is have been the living hues

Of beauty, purer than the very dews.

So, father! seest thou that yonder moon

Will be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon?

And I, that feel my being wear away,

Shall droop beside to darkness: so, but say

A prayer for the dead, when I am gone

And let the azure tide that floweth on

Cover us lightly with its murmuring surf,

Like a green sward of melancholy turf;

Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rear

A cenotaph on this lone island here,

Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree,

And carve an olden rhyme for her and me

Upon its brow.”

He bends, and gazes yet

Before his ghastly bride! the anchoret

Sate by him, and hath press’d a cross of wood

To his wan lips * * *

* * * * * *

* * * * * *

“My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale.

Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale.

Alas! I fear that thou hast strangely been

A child of curse, and misery, and sin.

And this,—is she thy sister?”—“nay! my bride.”

“Anon! and thou?”—“True, true! but then she died,

And was a virgin, and is virgin still,

Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fill

Of light from the great sun. But now, go by,

And leave me to my madness, or to die!

This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and fold

Me round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold,

That are so writhing your eternal gyres

Before the moon, which, with a myriad tiars

Is crowning you, as ye do fall and kiss

Her pearly feet, that glide in blessedness!

Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die!

Let me be mangled sore with agony!

And be so cursed; so stricken by the spell

Of my heart’s frenzy, that a living hell

Be burning there!—back! back if thou art mad—

Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad.

Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see!

In truth it is a piteous thing for thee

To become childless—well a-well, go by!

Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh,

And I will bury her below the moon:

It may be but a trance or midnight swoon.

And she may wake. Wake, Ladye! ha! methought

It was like her.—Like her! and is it not?

My angel girl? my brain, my stricken brain!⁠—

I know thee now!—I know myself again.”

He flings him on the ladye, and anon,

With loathly shudder, from that wither’d one

Hath torn him back. “Oh me! no more—no more!

Thou virgin mother! is the dream not o’er,

That I have dreamt, but I must dream again

For moons together, till this weary brain

Become distemper’d as the winter sea!

Good father! give me blessing; let it be

Upon me as the dew upon the moss.

Oh me! but I have made the holy cross

A curse; and not a blessing! let me kiss

The sacred symbol; for, by this—by this!

I sware, and sware again, as now I will⁠—

Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still,

If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bring

The light of comfort, on some angel wing

To one that lieth lone; do—do it now;

By all the stars that open on thy brow

Like silver flowers! and by the herald moon

That listeth to be forth at nightly noon,

Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true,

As I have perjured me, that I renew

Allegiance to thy God, and bind me o’er

To this same penance, I have done before!

That night and day I watch, as I have been

Long watching, o’er the partner of my sin!

That I taste never the delight of food,

But these wild shell-fish, that may make the mood

Of madness stronger, till it grapple death⁠—

Despair—eternity!”

He saith, he saith,

And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse,

Lieth all frenzied; one would see remorse,

And hopeless love, and hatred, struggling there,

And lunacy, that lightens up despair,

And makes a gladness out of agony.

Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee,

That hast the soul at will, and givest it play,

Amid the wildest fancies far away;

That thronest reason, on some wizard throne

Of fairy land, within the milky zone,⁠—

Some spectre star, that glittereth beyond

The glorious galaxies of diamond.

Beautiful lunacy! that shapest flight

For love to blessed bowers of delight,

And buildest holy monarchies within

The fancy, till the very heart is queen

Of all her golden wishes. Lunacy!

Thou empress of the passions! though they be,

A sister group of wild, unearthly forms,

Like lightnings playing in their home of storms!

I see thee, striking at the silver strings

Of the pure heart, and holy music springs

Before thy touch, in many a solemn strain,

Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main!

But say, is melancholy by thy side,

With tresses in a raven shower, that hide

Her pale and weeping features? Is she never

Flowing before thee, like a gloomy river,

The sister of thyself? But cold and chill,

And winter-born, and sorrowfully still,

And not like thee, that art in merry mood,

And frolicsome amid thy solitude?

Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crown

Of hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending down

To mirror thy young image in a spring:

And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thing

As soulless as thyself. ’Tis tender, too,

The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hue

Of health! the pearly radiance of the brow!

All, all as tender,—beautiful as thou!

And wilt thou say, my sister, there is none

Will answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone,

A pure, pure being! but the God on high

Is with thee ever, as thou goest by.

Thou Poetess! that harpest to the moon,

And, in soft concert to the silver tune,

Of waters play’d on by the magic wind,

As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined,

Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,⁠—

I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth,

How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love,

That came, like seraph, from the stars above.

And was so sadly wedded unto Sin,

That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin.

Sorrow with mirthful Lunacy! that be

Together link’d for time, I deem of ye

That ye are worshipped as none others are,⁠—

One as a lonely shadow,—one a star!

Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now,

To his wild purpose, to his holy vow?

He seeth only in his ladye-bride

The image of the laughing girl, that died

A moon before—the same, the very same—

The Agathè that lisp’d her lover’s name,

To him and to her heart: that azure eye,

That shone through sunny tresses, waving by:

The brow, the cheek, that blush’d of fire and snow,

Both blending into one ethereal glow:

And the same breathing radiancy, that swam

Around her, like a pure and blessed calm

Around some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss’d

Her wormy lips, he felt that he was blest!

He felt her holy being stealing through

His own, like fountains of the azure dew,

That summer mingles with his golden light;

And he would clasp her, till the weary night,

Was worn away.

* * * * * *

* * * * * *

And morning rose in form

Of heavy clouds, that knitted into storm

The brow of Heaven, and through her lips the wind

Came rolling westward, with a tract behind

Of gloomy billows, bursting on the sea,

All rampant, like great lions terribly,

And gnashing on each other: and anon,

Julio heard them, rushing one by one,

And laugh’d and turn’d. The hermit was away

For he was old and weary, and he lay

Within his cave, and thought it was a dream,

A summer’s dream! and so the quiet stream

Of sleep came o’er his eyelids, and in truth

He dreamt of that strange ladye and the youth

That held a death-wake on her wasting form;

And so he slept and woke not till the storm

Was over.

But they came—the wind, and sea,

And rain and thunder, that in giant glee,

Sang o’er the lightnings pale, as to and fro

They writhed, like stricken angels!—white as snow

Roll’d billow after billow, and the tide

Came forward as an army deep and wide,

To charge with all its waters. There was heard

A murmur far and far, of those that stirr’d

Within the great encampment of the sea,

And dark they were, and lifted terribly

Their water-spouts like banners. It was grand

To see the black battalions, hand in hand

Striding to conflict, and their helmets bent

Below their foamy plumes magnificent!

And Julio heard and laugh’d. “Shall I be king

To your great hosts, that ye are murmuring

For one to bear you to your holy war?

There is no sun, or moon, or any star,

To guide your iron footsteps as ye go,

But I, your king, will marshal you to flow

From shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell,

That I may ride before you terrible;

And bring my sceptre of the amber weed,

And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall lead

Your summer hosts, when these are ambling low,

In azure and in ermine, to and fro.”

He said, and madly, with his wasted hand

Swept o’er the tuneless harp, and fast he spanned

The silver chords, until a rush of sound

Came from them, solemn—terrible—profound;

And then he dash’d the instrument away

Into the waters, and the giant play

Of billows threw it back unto the shore,

A shiver’d, stringless frame—its day of music o’er!

The tide, the rolling tide! the multitude

Of the sea surges, terrible and rude,

Tossing their chalky foam along the bed

Of thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread.

And fast retreating to the gloomy gorge

Of waters, sounding like a Titan forge!

It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide!

But Julio is bending to his bride,

And making mirthful whispers to her ear,

A cataract! a cataract is near,

Of one stupendous billow, and it breaks

Terribly furious, with a myriad flakes

Of foam, that fly about the haggard twain;

And Julio started, with a sudden pain,

That shot into his heart; his reason flew

Back to her throne: he rose, and wildly threw

His matted tresses over on his brow.

Another billow came, and even now

Was dashing at his feet. There was no shade

Of terror, as the serpent waters play’d

Before him, but his eye was calm as death.

Another, yet another! and the breath

Of the weird wind was with it, like a rock

Unriveted it fell—a shroud of smoke

Pass’d over—there was heard, and died away,

The voice of one shrill-shrieking “Agathè!”

The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the side

Of the far waste of waters, flapping wide

His wet and weary wings; but he is gone,

The stricken Julio! a wave-swept stone

Stands there, on which he sat, and nakedly

It rises looking to the lonely sea;

But Julio is gone, and Agathè!

The waters swept them madly to their core⁠—

The dead and living with a frantic roar!

And so he died, his bosom fondly set

On hers; and round her clay-cold waist were met

His bare and wither’d arms, and to her brow

His lips were press’d. Both, both are perish’d now!

He died upon her bosom in a swoon:

And fancied of the pale and silver moon,

That went before him in her hall of blue;

He died like golden insect in the dew,

Calm, calm and pure; and not a chord was wrung

In his deep heart—but love. He perish’d young,

But perish’d wasted by some fatal flame

That fed upon his vitals: and there came

Lunacy, sweeping lightly, like a stream,

Along his brain—he perish’d in a dream!

In sooth I marvel not

If death be only a mysterious thought,

That cometh on the heart and turns the brow

Brightless and chill, as Julio’s is now;

For only had the wasting struggle been

Of one wild feeling, till it rose within

Into the form of death, and nature felt

The light of the immortal being melt

Into its happier home beyond the sea,

And moon, and stars, into eternity!

The sun broke through his dungeon, long enthrall’d

By dismal clouds, and on the emerald

Of the great living sea was blazing down

To gift the lordly billows with a crown

Of diamond and silver. From his cave

The hermit came, and by the dying wave

Lone wander’d, and he found upon the sand,

Below a truss of sea-weed, with his hand

Around the silent waist of Agathè

The corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it lay

Beside the wasted girl. The fireless eye

Was open, and a jewell’d rosary

Flung round the neck; but it was gone—the cross

That Agathè had given.

Amid the moss

The hermit scoop’d a solitary grave

Below the pine-trees, and he sang a stave,

Or two, or three, of some old requiem

As in their narrow home he buried them;

And many a day before that blessed spot

He sate, in lone and melancholy thought,

Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess’d

Of some dark secret shadowing his breast.

And yet, to see him, with his silver hair

Adrift and floating in the sea-borne air,

And features chasten’d in the tears of woe,

In sooth, ’twas merely sad to see him so!

A wreck of nature floating far and fast,

Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last!

And he is wandering by the shore again,

Hard leaning on his staff; the azure main

Lies sleeping far before him, with his seas

Fast folded in the bosom of the breeze,

That like the angel Peace, hath dropt his wings

Around the warring waters. Sadly sings

To his own heart that lonely hermit-man,

A tale of other days when passion ran

Along his pulses like a troubled stream,

And glory was a splendor and a dream!

He stoop’d to gather up a shining gem

That lay amid the shells, as bright as them,

It was a cross, the cross that Agathè

Had given to her Julio; the play

Of the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face,

And on the glistening jewels—but the trace

Of some old thought came burning to the brain

Of the pale hermit, and he shrunk in pain

Before the holy symbol. It was not

Because of the eternal ransom wrought

In ages far away, or he had bent

In pure devotion, sad and reverent;

But now, he startled as he look’d upon

That jewell’d thing, and wildly he is gone

Back to the mossy grave, away, away:

“My child, my child! my own, own Agathè!”

It is her father,—he,—an alter’d man!

His quiet had been wounded, and the ban

Of misery came over him, and froze

The bright and holy tides, that fell and rose

In joy amid his heart. To think of her,

That he had injured so, and all so fair,

So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,⁠—

It was a very dismal thought, in truth,

That he had left her hopelessly, for aye,

Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die!

And so he could not bear to have it be;

But sought for some lone island in the sea,

Where he might dwell in doleful solitude,

And do strange penance in his mirthful mood,

For this same crime, unnaturally wild,

That he had done unto his saintly child.

And ever he did think, when he had laid

These lovers in the grave, that, through the shade

Of ghostly features melting to decay,

He saw the image of his Agathè.

And now the truth had flash’d into his brain:

And he has fallen, with a shriek of pain,

Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss;

For long ago he gave that blessed cross

To his fair girl, and knew the relic still,

By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at will

Before it of the one that was not now,

But, like a dream, had floated from the brow

Of time, that seeth many a lovely thing

Fade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.

The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steel

To woman’s earnest tears, and bade her feel

The curse of virgin solitude,—a veil;

And saw the gladsome features growing pale

Unmoved: ’tis rent like some eternal tower

The sea hath shaken, and its stately power

Lies lonely, fallen, scatter’d on the shore;

’Tis rent like some great mountain, that before

The Deluge stood in glory and in might,

But now is lightning-riven, and the night

Is clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn,

Like coffins, here and there: ’tis rent! the throne

Where passions, in their awful anarchy,

Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh,

That took the being, on its troubled wings,

Far to the land of deep imaginings!

All three are dead! that desolate green isle

Is only peopled by the passing smile

Of sun and moon, that surely have a sense,

They look so radiant with intelligence,⁠—

So like the soul’s own element,—so fair!

The features of a God lie veiled there!

And mariners that have been toiling far

Upon the deep, and lost the polar star,

Have visited that island, and have seen

That lover’s grave: and many there have been

That sat upon the grey and crumbling stone,

And started as they saw a skeleton

Amid the long sad moss, that fondly grew

Through the white wasted ribs: but never knew

Of those who slept below, or of the tale

Of that brain-stricken man, that felt the pale

And wandering moonlight steal his soul away,⁠—

Poor Julio, and the Ladye Agathè!

---

We found them,—children of toil and tears,

Their birth of beauty shaded;

We left them in their early years

Fallen and faded.

We found them, flowers of summer hue,

Their golden cups were lighted,

With sparkles of the pearly dew⁠—

We left them blighted!

We found them,—like those fairy flowers

And the light of morn lay holy

Over their sad and sainted bowers⁠—

We left them lonely.

We found them,—like twin stars, alone,

In brightness and in feeling;

We left them,—and the curse was on

Their beauty stealing.

They rest in quiet, where they are:

Their life time is the story

Of some fair flower—some silver star,

Faded in glory!

---

TO A SPIRIT.

———

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

———

Not the effulgent light

Of that bright realm where live the blest departed,

Nor the grave’s gloom, Oh! loved one, and true hearted,

Can hide thee from thy sight.

Thy sweet angelic smile

Beams on my sleep. I see thee, hear thy voice,

Thou say’st unto my fettered soul, “Rejoice!

Wait but a little while.”

Sometimes ’mid cloudlets bright,

The sunset splendors of a summer’s day,

An instant thou’lt appear, then pass away

From my entranced sight.

Up in the blue heavens clear

A never-setting star hast thou become,

Pouring a silvery ray, from thy far home,

Upon my pathway here.

Where tears ne’er dim the eyes,

Shall we not meet in some far blessed land?

Shall we not walk together, hand in hand,

In bowers of Paradise?

My soul, though chained and pent,

Sore of a future glorious career,

In all its God-appointed labor here,

Toils on in calm content.

---

ST. AGNES’ EVE.

A CHIT-CHAT ABOUT KEATS.

God bless you, Oliver, don’t think of such a thing! I join the temperance society!—why, you old curmudgeon, would you murder me outright? Not that temperance societies haven’t done good—many a poor wife and weeping mother have they made happy—but, then, ever since I read Anacreon at college and shot buffalos at the Black Hills, I’ve had a fellow feeling for the good things of this life, especially for beef-steaks and port wine. I’m an Epicurean, sir—you needn’t talk to me of glory—I despise the whole cant about posthumous renown. The great end of life is happiness, and happiness is best secured by gratifying our physical as well as our intellectual nature. I go in, sir, for enjoying existence, and when I was in my prime, I flatter myself that few could beat me at a dinner or had a more delicate way of making love to the girls. But alas! we have fallen on troublous times. The wine of these days—I say it with tears in my eyes—isn’t the wine of my youth; and the girls—here’s a health to the sweet angels—have sadly deteriorated from what their grandmothers were. Eheu! Eheu! The world is getting upside down, and I shouldn’t wonder if an earthquake or epidemic or some other calamity should overtake us yet to fill up the catalogue of our ills.

I have just been reading Keats—shame on the wretches who tortured him to death! He is a practical argument, sir, for my creed. Genius he had unquestionably, yet he never enjoyed a happy hour. Why was this? Born in humble life, he thirsted for distinction, and trusting to his genius to achieve renown, found himself assailed by hostile critics, who dragged his private life before the public eye, and sneered at his poetry with the bitter scorn of fiends. He was naturally of a delicate constitution—of a proud and aspiring character; but of a modesty as shrinking as the sensitive plant; and when he found himself slighted, abused, maligned—when he saw that he was thrust back at every attempt to elevate himself, his delicate nature gave way, and he died of a broken heart, requesting that his epitaph might be, “Here lies one whose name was writ on water.” The world, since then, has done tardy justice to his genius—but this did not soothe his sorrows, nor will it reach him in his silent grave. What to him is posthumous renown?—what the tears of this generation or the plaudits of the next? Had he been less sensitive, had he thirsted less after glory, he might still have been living, with matured powers, extorting even from his enemies deserved commendation. But he fell in his youthful prime, an eaglet pierced before it had learnt to soar. I have shed tears over his grave at Rome—let us drink to his memory in solemn silence.

Keats would have made a giant had he lived, sir. Everything he wrote evinced high genius. Each successive poem he published displayed increased merit. His sonnets remind me of Milton—his shorter pieces breathe of Lycidas or Venus and Adonis. He had little artistical skill, but then what an exuberant fancy! Few men had a finer perception of the beautiful, the το καλον of poetry. He is one of the most Grecian—if I may use the expression—of our poets. Shelley, perhaps, was more deeply imbued with the Attic spirit, but then, although his heart was always right, his intellect was always wrong, and thus it happens that his poetry is often mystic, obscure, and even confused. Keats was not so. He had this freshness without its mysticism. He delighted in themes drawn from classic fountains, in allusions breathing of Thessaly and the gods. There was in many of his poems a voluptuousness approaching to effeminacy, reminding one of the Aphrodite in her own fragrant bowers. In others of his poems there was an Arcadian sweetness. What is finer than his ode to the Grecian Urn? Do you remember the opening?

“Thou still unravished bride of quietness!

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,

Sylvan historian who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities, or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstacy?”

Delicious, is it not? You seem to be in classic Greece itself, amid the groves of Academus, by the fountain of Castaly, beneath the god-encircled Olympus. You can hear the Dorian flutes, you can see the daughters of Ionia. There are the priest and his assistants leading the flower-decked heifer to the altar—lo! a group of bacchantes singing and dancing through the vale. And high up yonder is the snowy temple of Jove—a picture for the gods!

You shake your head—you have no taste for classic allusions. Egad! I remember, you are a devotee of the German literature, and admire nothing which is not of the romantic school, Well, well—have you ever read “The Eve of St. Agnes?” It is—let me tell you—the poem for which Keats will be loved, and you ought to walk barefooted a thousand miles, like an ancient pilgrim to Loretto, for having neglected to peruse this poem. It is not so fine as Hyperion, but then the latter is a fragment. It is as superior to Endymion as a star to a satellite. It pleases me more than Lamia or Isabella. It has the glow of a landscape seen through a rosy glass—it is warm and blushing, yet pure as a maiden in her first exceeding beauty. As Burgundy is to other wines, as a bride blushing to her lover’s side is to other virgins, so is “The Eve of St. Agnes” to other poems. What luxuriance of fancy, what scope of language, what graphic power it displays! It is a love story, and right witchingly told. How exquisite the description of Madeline, her moonlit chamber, her awakening from her dream, and the delicious intoxicating emotions which break on her when she learns that she loves and is beloved. Ah! sir, we are old now, but I never read this poem without thinking of the time when I first pressed my own Mary to my side, and felt her little warm heart beating against my own. Egad, I will just skip over “The Eve of St. Agnes,” to pass the time away while we finish this bottle.

The poem opens with a graphic picture of a winter’s night. Draw closer to the grate, for—by my ancestry!—it is a freezing theme. I will read.

“St. Agnes’ eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told

His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.”

The poet then proceeds to describe a festive scene, amid which is one fair lady, whose heart had throbbed all day on love, she having heard old dames tell that maidens might, on St. Agnes’ eve, behold their lovers in dreams, if they observed certain mystic ceremonies. The lovely Madeline has resolved to follow the old legend, and she sighs, amid her suitors, for midnight to arrive. Then goes the story thus:

“Meantime, across the moors,

Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire

For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,

Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores

All saints to give him sight of Madeline,

But for one moment in the tedious hours,

That he might gaze and worship all unseen;

Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.”

In that vast mansion, amid all that gay party, young Porphyro has but one friend, an old beldame, for all the rest are athirst for his blood and that of his line. While watching thus, the beldame discovers him and beseeches him to fly. He refuses. In her garrulous entreaty she reveals to Porphyro that his mistress intends playing the conjurer to discover who shall be her lover. He eagerly makes a proposition, to which the old dame objects in horror, but after many protestations on his part and a rash declaration that otherwise he will reveal himself to his foes, she finally consents. And what was his proposition? Let the poet tell. It was

——“To lead him, in close secrecy,

Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide

Him in a closet, of such privacy

That he might see her beauty unespied,

And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,

While legion’d fairies paced the coverlet,

And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.”

The old dame accordingly leads the lover, through many a dusky gallery, to the maiden’s chamber, and then, hurriedly hiding him in a closet, is feeling in the dark on the landing for the stair,

“When Madeline, St. Agnes’ charmed maid,

Rose, like a missioned spirit unaware:

With silver taper’s light, and pious care,

She turn’d, and down the aged gossip led

To a safe level matting.”

Ah! we have few Madelines now-a-days. I love her for that act, as I would love an only daughter. Well may the poet exultingly say after this⁠—

“Now prepare,

Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;

She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed and fled.”

The whole picture that follows is purity itself. We wish the wind would whistle less loudly without—there! it dies away as if in homage to this maiden soft. Shut your eyes and dream, while I read in whispers.

“Out went the taper as she hurried in;

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:

She closed the door, she panted, all akin

To spirits of the air, and visions wide:

No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!

But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

A casement high and triple-arched there was,

All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot grass,

And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

As are the tiger moth’s deep damask’d wings.

And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries,

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

A shielded ’scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,

As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon:

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,

And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

And on her hair a glory like a saint:

She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,

Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;

Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:

Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,

Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d

Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;

Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain;

Clasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray,

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a rose again.”

And now, when the maiden is all asleep, her lover steals from his hiding place, and mixing a charm, kneels by her bedside, and while his warm unnerved arm sinks in her pillow, he whispers to her that he is her eremite, and beseeches her for sweet Agnes’ sake to open her eyes. But the maiden, lying there in her holy sleep, awakes not. At length he takes her lute, and kneeling by her ear, plays an ancient ditty. She utters a soft moan. He ceases—she pants quick—and suddenly her blue eyes open in affright, while her lover sinks again on his knees, pale as a sculptured statue. And Madeline awakening, and thinking that her blissful dream is over, begins to weep. At length she finds vent for her words, and are they not sweet as the complainings of a dove?

“Ah! Porphyro!” said she “but even now

Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,

Made tunable with every sweetest vow;

And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!

Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!

O leave me not in this eternal woe,

For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go.”

If you have ever been young, and heard, for the first time, the blushing confession of her you loved in doubt and danger, you can form some conception of the bewildering joy which seized Porphyro at this. Egad! sir, I would give ten years of my life—old as I am—to enjoy such rapture. But no tongue except that of the poet can even shadow forth his ecstacy. Ah! to be loved is bliss, but to be loved by a Madeline⁠—!

“Beyond a mortal man impassioned far

At these voluptuous accents, he arose,

Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star

Seen ’mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose;

Into her dream he melted, as the rose

Blendeth its odor with this violet,⁠—

Solution sweet:”

You can see the end of all this as well as I can, for though never has other mortal than Porphyro breathed the language of love into the ears of one like Madeline, yet we have all pleaded more than once in the ears of angels only one remove less beautiful. Shut your eyes, and fancy you see the lover kneeling by the bedside of that white-armed one, fragrant and pure as a lily in the overshadowed brook—lovelier than an Imogen, whose very breath perfumes the chamber. Hear her low complainings when she fancies that her lover is about to desert her. Are they not more musical than the zephyrs sighing through the moonlit pines? And then how soothing is Porphyro, and how delicately he allays her fears. Ah! the moon is down, and the chamber is in darkness—and there, as I live, the rain-drops are pattering against the casement. Now is thy time, bold Porphyro—St. Agnes will befriend thee—urge, urge that sweet lady, with all thy eloquence, to seize the chance and fly amid the confusion. We know how it will end! Love ever wins the day—and is not Madeline yet all blushing with her dream? And so—and so—hear the rest!

“She hurried at the words, beset with fears,

For there were sleeping dragons all around,

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears⁠—

Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found,⁠—

In all the house was heard no human sound.

A chain-dropp’d lamp was flickering by each door;

The arras, rich with horsemen, hawk, and hound,

Fluttered in the besieging wind’s uproar;

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;

Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,

Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,

With a huge empty flagon by his side:

The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:

By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:⁠—

The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones;

The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago

These lovers fled away into the storm.

That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,

And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form

Of witch, and demon, and large coffin worm,

Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old

Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform;

The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,

For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.”

Who, after that, will say that Keats was not a genius? But “Hyperion,” though less complete than this poem, evinces—let me tell you—even more of the “mens divinior.” “The Eve of St. Agnes” is warm, voluptuous, luxuriant, yet pure as a quiet pool with silver sand below—but “Hyperion” is bold, impassioned and colossal, Miltonic even in its grandeur, overpowering at times as a thunder-storm among the mountains. Would God that Keats had lived to finish it! With many faults, it evinces more genius than any poem since written in our language. Hear the speeches of the Titans!—read the description of Apollo!—drink in the intoxication of its less sublime but more beautiful passages! It often exhibits a redundant fancy—the style is at times affected, and the choice of words bad—the execution is careless, though less so than that of Endymion—and, above all, the plan of the poem, so far as it has been developed, bears an unhappy resemblance to Milton’s Paradise Lost. Yet it displays such extraordinary genius, that we will never forgive the Quarterly for having disheartened Keats from the completion of this poem. Ah! sir, what has the world lost?

I repeat it, I am an Epicurean. Fame!—immortality!—what are they? We wear out our lives for a bauble, and coin our souls away to purchase dross. We dig our own graves and call it GLORY. Away with such sophistry! Go over the melancholy list of unfortunate genius—White, Collins, Keats, Chatterton and the rest—and tell me what they reaped except thorns! Ah! sir, it melts my heart with pity—I must take a glass on it. But, I declare, the bottle’s out, and—by my halidome!—here is Oliver asleep.

J. S.

---

THE AFFAIR AT TATTLETOWN.

———

BY EPES SARGEANT.

———

It is very questionable whether the reader has ever heard a true and impartial account of the affair at Tattletown. So many exaggerated versions have been put forth—so many garbled and malicious reports in regard to it, have been propagated—that the world is likely to be either unduly prejudiced against one of the parties, or wholly in doubt as to the merits of both. It is with an emotion of pride, that I take up my pen with the consciousness of being able to throw light upon this interesting, but mysterious subject.

There have been many changes in Tattletown during the last twenty years. Of this fact I became assured the last summer, when, by the way of a parenthesis in a tour to the White Hills, I branched off from my prescribed route to visit the little village where I had spent so many pleasant days in boyhood. What a change! It used to be one of the quietest, greenest, most sequestered nooks in the world, with its single wide street, bordered by venerable elms, and its shady by-roads radiating in every direction, and dotted with white cottages embosomed in clouds of verdure.

And then its inn! its single, unpretending inn, with its simple flag-staff, its modest piazza, and its cool, clean parlor, with the vase of asparagus upon the freshly reddened hearth-stone! Its sleeping-rooms with their snow-white curtains and coverlets, and the rustling foliage against their windows—what a temptation it was to enter them of a warm summer afternoon! Now, forsooth, the respectable old tenement is replaced by a hotel. I beg pardon—a house, built after the style of the Parthenon, its sides painted very white, and its blinds very green. The bar-room is floored with tesselated squares of marble, and there is a white marble counter, behind which presides a spruce young man with long dark hair plastered over his right ear, and an emerald breast-pin on his shirt bosom. Nay, it is rumored that the landlord has serious designs of introducing a gong in the place of the good old-fashioned bell of our forefathers. What is the country coming to?

Within my remembrance, the people of Tattletown were the best natured, most industrious and contented people alive. Every evening in summer their patriarchs might be seen sitting in front of their woodbine-covered porches, smoking their pipes and talking over old times, while groups of ruddy, riotous children, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, danced to the strains of some village Paganini. Poor, deluded, miserable Tattletonians! What a sight was it for the philanthropist to grieve at! Little knew they, of the errors and vices of the social system! They had not read Miss Martineau’s tracts; knew nothing of Owenism, nothing of Grahamism, nothing of transcendentalism, nothing of Fourierism, nothing of Mormonism. The “Society for the promotion of every thing,” had not established a branch among them. They were benighted, uninitiated; contented to live as their fathers had lived before them; to pluck the rose and leave the thorn behind; to keep their linen and their consciences clean, and to remain at peace with all mankind.

Then the belles of the village—how beautiful they were! how artless! how adorned with every sylvan grace! Now they all seem to have lost the heritage of loveliness. They look didactic, sedentary and precocious. There is not the same bloom on the cheek—the same sparkle in the eye—the same ruby mischief on the lip. Instead of cultivating their music and their flower-gardens, working flags for the Tattletown “Guardians of Liberty,” and teaching the children their catechisms on Sundays, they are meddling with matters that they have not the means of comprehending, establishing anti-everything societies, and fussing over phrenology and other newfangled heresies. Instead of a vase of freshly gathered flowers upon their shelves, you are now greeted by a vile plaster bust, with the skull phrenologically mapped out, and figured. I never encounter one of the odious things, without putting my fist in its face.

A religious revolution has, of course, been introduced among the other mutations. Instead of one well-filled church, where all the villagers may meet as members of one family, Tattletown can now boast of half a dozen sectarian societies, which are eternally at war with one another. Poor old Dr. Balmwell, who is still the meekest of God’s creatures, and whose annual salary would not equal the one night’s wages of a second-rate theatrical star, is denounced as a “haughty, over-fed prelate,” “the advocate of an established church,” and a “vile minion of the aristocracy.” Many a fair maiden is content to go with holes in her stockings, in order that she may contribute to the “society for the support of indigent young men intended for the ministry!”

“Dear smiling village! loveliest of the lawn!

Thy joys are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn.”

As for politics—but here I approach the subject which was uppermost in my mind at starting. All the world knows that there are, or rather used to be, two rival newspapers published at Tattletown, the editors of which manage to keep the poor people in a perpetual ferment. There is the Tattletown Independent American, edited by Mr. Snobb! and the Tattletown Free and Independent American, edited by Mr. Fobb. The former is the longer established of the two, and, as the public are well aware, is conservative in its tone. Fobb’s hebdomadal, on the contrary, is characterised by the spirit of innovation. If a doctrine be new, startling, incredible, abrupt, violating all preconceived notions and prejudices, it commends itself at once to Fobb’s acceptance. He will urge it with a boldness and pertinacity that confound the unthinking. To incur his opposition, it is only necessary that a principle should be old and well established. His morality would seem to resemble that of the tribe, with whom it is a custom to kill all their old men and women. Age is with him the worst of crimes, and the most penal. Novelty is the first of charms.

Strange as it may seem, Fobb has his devoted admirers and active supporters. As for Snobb, I am credibly informed, that, disgusted with the supineness of the Tattletonians, he had at one time resolved to relinquish the publication of the “Independent American,” when, unexpectedly, the field was invaded by Fobb with his “Free and Independent.” Then it was that the patriotism and disinterestedness of Snobb’s character shone conspicuous. He was, to use his own vigorous expression, determined to stand to his guns, and however great might be the pecuniary sacrifice, to remain in the village to combat the pernicious influence, which, “like the Bohon Upas,” I quote Snobb’s own words—“would spread poison and desolation among families and communities.” Snobb wound off his appeal, by calling upon all, who valued their liberty and their lives; who would save their country from intestine confusion and slaughter; who would keep unstained the altar of domestic felicity, and transmit unimpaired that glorious fabric of constitutional right, cemented by the blood of martyred ancestors—to rally round him and the Independent American. “Any person obtaining five subscribers,” said he in conclusion, “shall receive a sixth copy gratis.”

It is difficult to conceive of the degree of excitement produced in Tattletown by this fulmination, on the part of Snobb, and the subsequent establishment of the “Free and Independent American,” on the part of Fobb. Such a thing as neutrality could no longer exist. Great and vital principles were at stake; and from the squire to the tinman’s apprentice, it was necessary that every man should take one side or the other—should be either a Snobbite or a Fobbite. Both journals were benefited by this agitation. New subscribers poured in daily, and a fund was raised by the partisans of each establishment for the more effectual prosecution of the war. And what was the war about? To this day nobody can tell.

Personalities now began to be interchanged. Snobb gave Fobb the lie direct, and defied him to prove a statement which had appeared in the “Free and Independent,” accusing Snobb of highway robbery, arson and other little peccadilloes. Fobb treated Snobb’s defiance with an easy irony, which bewildered the good people of Tattletown, who began to think that Fobb must know a good deal more of Snobb than other people. The following answer appeared in the “Independent American:”

“We must apologise to our readers for again polluting our columns with an allusion to the reckless traducer, whose journal of yesterday came forth reeking with slanders against ourselves. It would be charitable, perhaps, to attribute to a diseased intellect, rather than a malicious temper, these ebullitions of mendacity, but the motive is too obviously bad. We can assure this poor creature, this beggarly reprobate and unwashed scribbler, that mere declamation is not proof, and that assertion carries no weight when unsustained by evidence. If he can keep sober long enough, let him reply to the question which we once more reiterate, ‘where are your proofs?’ ”

It was with intense anxiety that the citizens of Tattletown looked for the next number of the “Free and Independent.” Never before had Snobb been so severe, so savage. Fobb’s rejoinder excited public interest in the quarrel, to a painful degree. It was as follows:

“The guilty fugitive from justice, whom it is with shame we acknowledge as our contemporary, attempts to invalidate our charges by clamoring for proofs. We beg him to reflect a moment before he repeats his call. If he has sincerely striven to make reparation for past misdemeanors, by a life comparatively guiltless—if there be any hope or prospect of reformation in his case—most reluctantly would we be instrumental in re-consigning him to the States-prison or the gallows. Before, therefore, we come out with any statements, that shall be universally admitted as final and conclusive as to the character of this man, we will put a few questions which he will understand, however enigmatical they may be to others. Did Snobb ever make the acquaintance of Miss Amanda W——? Did he ever see a white crape scarf that used to belong to that ill-fated young lady? Does he remember the circumstance of an old pruning-knife being found beneath a cherry-tree? Has he still got that red silk hankerchief?”

I must leave it for some more graphic pen—to the author of “Jack Sheppard” or “Barnaby Rudge,” to depict the consternation and horror produced among the Tattletonians by this publication. Could it be that Tattletown harbored a murderer? What other interpretation could be put upon the diabolical insinuations in Fobb’s paper? For a week and more nothing was talked of but this article. At the post office—the tinman’s shop—the grocer’s—on the steps of the meeting-houses, no other topic was broached. With unprecedented eagerness the next number of Snobb’s paper was looked for and purchased. The only allusion it contained to Fobb’s ferocious attack was in these simple lines: “As we shall make the insinuations contained in the last number of the Tattletown Free and Independent the subject of a judicial investigation, it is quite unnecessary for us to bestow any farther notice upon the miserable calumniator, who is striving to get into notice by means of the attention he may provoke from ourselves.”

Tattletown was disappointed in this rejoinder, and began to entertain its suspicions as to the truth of Fobb’s intimations. The old women of the place began to shake their heads and look wise, when the subject was broached. “They must say they always thought there was something wrong—something not altogether easy about Mr. Snobb. They hoped for the best, but there were things—however murder will out.” The fate of the injured “Amanda” was a topic of endless speculation among the more youthful of the feminine inhabitants; and there was a delightful mystery about the “white crape scarf,” which afforded an exhaustless pabulum for curiosity. Snobb must certainly clear up his character. He must explain the circumstances in regard to that “ill-fated young lady.” He must tell the public what became of “that red silk handkerchief.” Above all, he must satisfactorily account for the horrible fact of the old pruning-knife being found under the cherry-tree.

In the meantime Fobb declared that he was daily and hourly environed with the perils of assassination. He was obliged to go armed, to protect himself from the minions of the culprit Snobb. His fearless devotion to the cause of truth and justice had “sharpened daggers that were thirsting for his blood—but what was life compared with the proud satisfaction of having maintained the cause of the people,

‘Unmoved by flattery and unbribed by gain?’ ”

In the midst of the excitement produced by this war of words, Tattletown was electrified one fine morning in December, by the report, that Snobb and Fobb had gone over to the neighboring village of Bungville to settle their differences by mortal combat. Two spruce young men from New York had arrived in the stage-coach the night before, and put up at the Tattletown house. They had brought guns with them; and early that morning the two editors, similarly armed and equipped, had started off with the strangers in a wagon belonging to the latter, in the direction of the village already named. As these facts became currently known among the Tattletonians the sensation was prodigious. A meeting of the “select men” was instantly called, and a committee of five, consisting of Mr. Fuzz, the retired “squire of the village,” Mr. Rattle, the tinman, Mr. Ponder, the celebrated lecturer on matters and things in general, Mr. Rumble the auctioneer, and Mr. Blister the apothecary, were appointed to proceed on horseback to Bungville, and prevent if possible the duel—or, if that had transpired, to arrest the survivor and the seconds.

Headed by Mr. Fuzz, the cavalcade started off in gallant style, followed by the prayers and anxious entreaties of the gentler sex to prevent if possible the “effusion of blood.” Miss Celestina Scragg, the poetess of the village, and the author of the celebrated ode to that beautiful stream, the Squamkeog, came very near being thrown under the hoofs of the squire’s horse, as she appealed to Mr. Fuzz, and besought him to rescue Albert, as she tenderly designated Mr. Fobb, or “perish in the attempt.”

After riding hard for about an hour, the committee approached the Bungville house, where they determined to make their first inquiries as to the fate of the editors and their seconds. Mr. Buzz, the landlord, was a brisk, officious little man, who always knew before you spoke what you were going to say, and rarely listened to more than the two first words of any question you might put to him. He was, moreover, a little deaf, so that the habit of anticipation was, perhaps, as much a matter of necessity as of choice.

“Have we arrived too late?” asked Fuzz.

“Oh, by more than an hour. It is all over,” replied Buzz, who supposed that the inquiry had reference to the dinner hour.

“It is all over, gentlemen,” said Fuzz, in a magisterial tone, turning to his awe-stricken companions. “Has any one been killed or wounded?” continued he, addressing the landlord.

“Killed, indeed? I guess you would think so,” exclaimed Buzz. “They have shot one fine, plump fellow.”

“It is probably Snobb. He is the plump one,” said Fuzz, contracting his lips, and looking sternly round at the members of the committee. “Did he fall dead on the spot?” he rejoined.

“Dead as Julius Cæsar—I may say very dead,” replied Buzz.

“Serious business this, gentlemen,” said Fuzz, dilating with importance.

Here Mr. Rattle, the tinman, was seen to mount his horse and gallop off in the direction of Tattletown. He was determined to be the first to communicate the news of the catastrophe.

“There will be no need of your services, Mr. Blister,” said Fuzz, bestowing a patronizing glance upon the apothecary. “Have the seconds escaped, Mr. Buzz?”

“Yes, the second one escaped, but with a bullet in his neck. They tracked him a mile or two by his blood.”

“Dreadful!” muttered Mr. Blister. “So Fobb is wounded! I will just ride back and inform Miss Scragg of the fact. She will go into hysterics, and I shall get a job.” And so saying, the apothecary mounted his horse, and followed in Rattle’s track.

“What have you done with the killed, Mr. Buzz?”

“Oh, we have skinned him, and hung him up to dry, to be sure. One of the gents would have a slice of him for dinner, but he found it rather tough eating I suspect; not quite equal to the ducks.”

“What!” exclaimed Fuzz, turning pale and starting back with horror. “Are they cannibals?”

“Yes, to be sure,” responded Buzz, who did not fully comprehend the question.

“Gentlemen, we must pursue the guilty fugitives,” said the squire. “What direction did they take, landlord? No equivocation, sir. The law will bear us out in adopting the most rigorous measures. Where are they?”

“Bless me, they are cosily seated at dinner in my little back parlor. I wouldn’t interrupt them now. It may make them mad.”

“Landlord! Lead us to them at once—at once, I say,” exclaimed Fuzz, turning very red about the gills.

“Well, squire, don’t talk so loud. I will show you the way, but mind that I say I shouldn’t wonder if they resented it.”

Buzz led the way through a long entry to a door, which he pointed out to the squire as communicating with the apartment where the “young gentlemen” were assembled. It needed not his words to convince Fuzz and his two remaining companions of this fact. A noise of uproarious mirth, mingled with the jingling of glasses, the clash of plates and the stamping of feet, plainly foretold the state of things within. Fuzz buttoned his coat, and tried to look undismayed.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “stand by me. Don’t flinch.”

He made a bold step forward, but as his palm approached the door-handle, an explosion of laughter, loud and long, made him recoil like a man who has barely saved himself from falling over a precipice. He looked at his associates, puffed out his cheeks, and seemed to be gathering energy for a renewed essay. Again he stopped suddenly, and assuming a look of unwonted sagacity, remarked that it was best to proceed gently and craftily about the business. Then motioning the bystanders to keep silence, he cautiously turned the handle of the door, and, opening it an inch or two, stealthily looked in upon the convivial party. It consisted of four nice young men. They were seated at a round table, which was plentifully covered with bottles, decanters, glasses, and the remains of a dessert. Two of the party were strangers to Fuzz, but the other two were, marvellous to behold, no other than Fobb and Snobb, not seamed with ghastly wounds, but quaffing champagne and clapping each other on the back with the affectionate familiarity of old friends.

At this spectacle, Fuzz was no less amazed than he would have been, had he seen one of the editors trussed, spitted and “done to a turn,” served up in a big dish on the table, while the other was flourishing his knife with the savory anticipation of making a meal of him. Cautiously shutting the door, Fuzz communicated the astounding fact to his brethren of the committee, and then reopening the door so that they might hear without seeing or being seen, they listened “with all their ears.”

“Yes, gentlemen,” said the voice of Fobb in tones of mock solemnity, “you behold in that abandoned individual, my unworthy brother Zeke Peabody, otherwise known as Simon Snobb—you behold in him, I repeat, the ruthless, unhung murderer of the unfortunate Amanda W——.”

Here a roar of obstreperous laughter, in which Snobb’s lungs seemed to crow like chanticleer, interrupted the speaker for a moment. He continued:

“If you ask me for proofs, consider for a moment the fact of the red silk handkerchief—the white crape scarf—the old pruning-knife that was found under the cherry-tree. If these circumstances be not enough to convict that cowering culprit—then pass along the champagne, and fill to my toast.”

“Fill to Fobb’s toast!” exclaimed three voices amid shouts of laughter.

“My toast,” said Fobb, “is one that cannot fail to be appreciated by this intelligent company. You, my dear Timms, will drink to it with a tear in your eye, for are you not the immortal inventor of the world-renowned Tricogrophpophphlogidion, that invaluable and never-to-be-sufficiently-commended preparation for the hair, by merely spreading which over a wig-block, you find there the next morning, a beautiful, curly wig, redundant and glossy? And you, O modest and retiring Jones, are not you the man that, by your grandfather’s celebrated pills, have rejuvenated suffering humanity? Have you not ‘floored consumption,’ and broken the back of dispepsia? Isn’t it a man’s own fault now if he is sick? Do not children cry for your incomparable lozenges? Are they not a blessing to mothers, and a curse to the doctors? Cannot a hand-cart-man, with your powerful ‘poor man’s plaster’ on his back, draw fifty times the weight that he could without it? Estimable, philanthropic Jones! Posterity will do you justice. And you, brother Zeke, in Tattletown known as Snobb, where shall we find an editor in the country who can fight windmills and make people think they are devouring despots with a better grace than yourself? My own accomplishments modesty forbids me to speak at length; but I flatter myself, that the story of Amanda W⁠—— and the pruning-knife—and my eloquent denunciations of the monster, Snobb—are not unworthy specimens of those talents which entitle me to rank myself in your fraternity, and to participate in the emotions, which the sentiment I am now about to offer is calculated to excite. I will give you, gentlemen: Vive la humbug!”

Hardly had the peals of laughter consequent upon this prolonged sally subsided, when Fuzz, who was holding on to the door by the handle, being pressed upon from behind by his own companions, and two or three bar-room loungers, whom the sound of speech-making had attracted to the spot, suddenly let the handle slip from his grasp, whereupon the whole body of eaves-droppers, preceded by the squire, were precipitated into the room, where the two editors and their friends were at their revels. Imagining it to be a hostile invasion, the four friends, whose tempers had been pretty well primed with champagne, immediately “squared off,” and showed their “science.”

Fuzz was greeted by Timms with what the latter was pleased to call “a settler in his bread-basket,” which had the effect of lifting him from his feet, and spinning him into a corner of the room with a most unmagisterial celerity. Mr. Ponder, the “celebrated lecturer on matters and things in general,” was attended to in the most prompt manner by Jones, who, as he technically expressed himself, “punished him by a dig in his dice-box,” meaning that his blow took effect somewhere in the region of his teeth. As for Rumble, the auctioneer, he was knocked down by a bottle in the hand of Snobb, like an old remnant of goods disposed of under his own hammer. The rest of the invaders met with due attention from Fobb, who broke two chairs over as many heads.

The battle was speedily fought and won. The committee sent by the select men of Tattletown returned home that night in melancholy disarray, and imprecating vengeance upon their assailants. There was an immediate demand in the village for brown paper and vinegar, court plaster and lint. It was long before Mr. Ponder could deliver another lecture at the new Lyceum, owing to the disfigurement of his countenance. As for Snobb and Fobb, who were in fact the originators of the whole mischief, they issued no more numbers of their sprightly papers. The “Independent,” and the “Free and Independent” were abruptly stopped. The two brother editors were never more seen in Tattletown. The last I heard of them, one was lecturing on Animal Magnetism, while the other accompanied him as a subject for his experiments. Their wonderful feats in clairvoyance have been so trumpeted by the country press, that it is unnecessary for me to allude to them more minutely.

---

THE OLD MAN RETURNED HOME.

———

BY G. G. FOSTER.

———

The dews fall softly from the dropping skies,

And winds are dallying with the wanton flowers,

That like young maidens in their coy retreats

Unveil their beauties for the spirit stars

Alone to gaze on.—Age, they say, dries up

The fountain of enthusiasm, and the hues

That morning sunlight pictures in the wave,

Shrink like scared spirits away beneath the disc

Of noontide sun, or evening’s cheerless beam.

Now, I have seen old Time’s retreating tide

Leave its white froth upon me—aye, gray hairs

Have sprung from out the furrows of my brain,

As weeds will grow upon the o’erwrought soil,

To tell me that I’m old—bid me put off

The misty mantle of life’s morning dreams,

And plod in dull indifference to the grave.

Why, ’tis a lie! I feel the air as fresh⁠—

I scent the fragrance of this beauteous eve

As gratefully—I watch the paling moon

Stealing to her magnificent repose

Behind the starry curtains of the west,

With as unchanged and vigorous delight

As when, a boy, beside my own dear lake

I lay, and saw the same moon kiss the wave

That in strange music murmured out its joy.

The whippoorwill amid the hazel boughs

Sings his old tunes unchanged—as are the leaves

And skies and waves that echo it. ’Tis man,

And not man’s real nature, which dims o’er

The gold of feeling with pernicious rust,

Drawn, like the poison of the asp, from flowers

Which spring forever, would he cherish them,

Within his heart of hearts.

What! I grow old?

I haven’t felt so young for forty years!

And, were it not my mother’s hair is white⁠—

My father dead, and all that’s human, changed⁠—

I’d deem the past but as a school-boy’s dream

Over an ill-conned lesson—and awake

To the reality of living joy.

---

STANZAS

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

———

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.

———

“I have a passion” for the budding Spring,

Who clasps the wanton Earth in her embrace,

For, like a glorious vision, she doth bring

Rich fruits and flowers, which the tropics grace;

And shining bands, that make our forests ring

With melodies so rich, that they efface

All thoughts of gloomy winter from my mind,

And leave my heart as free as is the summer wind!

“I have a passion” for the girdled mountain,

That rears its crowned head beneath the sky,

Which bends above it like a blue, sealed fountain,

Whose waters flow not in those realms on high!

Though many of these hours I cannot count on,

Yet when these glories meet mine eager eye,

I stand entranced upon the mount or lea,

For hours like these are years—are years of bliss to me!

But more than these, I love the restless sea,

The kingly element!—Its dark blue waves

Were ever like some gentle friends to me!

For oft, in dreams, I’ve wandered through its caves

Like some pale spirit of the dead, now free;

I’ve seen the bright, but tombless “place of graves,”

Where Ocean gathers all his dead to sleep,

The pale and shadowy sleep, which Death’s phantasms keep!

“I have a passion” for all lovely features

That deck fair nature’s ever glowing face;

Rocks, hills and waves to me seem glorious creatures,

Endowed with life, and majesty, and grace!

They are to us as everlasting teachers,

In whose revealings, truths divine we trace;

They bid us raise, when sad, our tearful eyes,

And seek perfection only ’mid the blissful skies.

---

THE BACHELOR’S EXPERIMENT.

———

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

———

There are some persons in the world who seem born to evil fortune; they grow up under the shadow of care, and misfortune dogs their footsteps like a sleuth-hound eager for his prey. Reversing the old fable of King Midas, every thing they touch becomes valueless. Their best efforts are rewarded with disappointment,—their life is a perpetual struggle,—troubles come not in a host which might be confronted at once, but in slow and sure succession, one evil being overcome only to make room for another, until at length the energies of the worn spirit are all exhausted, and patient endurance is the only trace which still remains of the high capabilities with which it was originally gifted. But there are others who are decidedly born to good luck. (Poor Power! how do we check the career of laughter with a sigh, when some passing word recalls the inimitable skill with which he ruled the chords of mirth!) There are people to whom success is a sort of natural inheritance,—who never put forth a finger to beckon fortune onwards, and yet find her following in their track, dropping her golden favours in their way, and smoothing with obsequious care the asperities in their path of life. Such an one was the hero of the following sketch.

Mr. Simon D. Waldie, or rather S. De Courcy Waldie, (for thus he always wrote it; having rather a leaning towards aristocracy even in the trifling matter of names,) was the son of a highly respectable merchant, who, conscious of the defects in his own early education, determined to bestow on his child all the advantages of scholarship. As young De Courcy exhibited evidences of talent, and indeed was looked upon as a remarkably precocious boy ere he attained his fifth year, he was early banished from his paternal roof to the residence of a private tutor in the country. This plan was adopted in order to rescue him from the temptations to idleness which exist in large schools, and, so far, it was very judicious. But to a constitution naturally delicate and a temper exceedingly reserved, a public school offered some advantages which were not to be found in the home of a secluded student, and the want of which had no small influence on the future life of young De Courcy. Shut out from other companionship than that of his pedantic tutor, he devoted himself to study with most indefatigable zeal, and his close application was rewarded by the attainment of the highest honours, when called to pass through the ordeal of a collegiate examination.

Of course all those who were interested in his future welfare anticipated great results from this early development of mind. But in the education of the young student one most material point had been forgotten. He had been taught to labor but no object had been offered to his future attainment:—he had learned to delve the classic mine but he knew not how to coin the fine gold he there discovered:—he had been trained to run a race without having any fixed goal to direct his steps. His life was a perfectly aimless one,—he had no definite end in view. His father’s competent fortune placed him above the necessity of seeking a livelihood, and nothing short of absolute want seemed likely to drive the solitary student into the haunts of men. When desired to choose a profession he was utterly confounded. The various claims of Law, Gospel and Physic were placed before him in every possible light; but they were exhibited after his habits of desultory thought and profitless study had become too deeply rooted. At first he was inclined to adopt the law; but a few days attendance on court, (where he heard the finest powers of reasoning and the noblest gifts of eloquence exerted in behalf of one of the vilest criminals that ever stood before the bar of Justice,) sickened him of this profession. “I cannot spend some of the best years of my life,” said he, “in learning to make the worse appear the better reason.” The delight with which he sometimes listened to the gifted preacher, who spoke as if his lips had been ‘touched with a live coal from the altar,’ tempted him to the study of divinity. But his delicate sense of duty checked the impulse ere it became a wish, for he dared not assume the ‘form’ without the ‘spirit of godliness’ or enter into the ‘holy of holies’ with the soil of earth upon his garments’ hem. The study of medicine attracted him by the facilities which it afforded for relieving the sufferings of mortality; but the illness of a young friend showed him the darker side of the picture also. He beheld the weeping relatives looking up to the medical attendant as if he were an angel endowed with the power of life and death. He learned how fearful is the responsibility of him who ministers at the bed of sickness, and how deeply it is felt by the honest and conscientious physician. He was disgusted with the heartlessness of those (and there are such) who calculate a patient’s means of payment ere they enter his sick room; and he was intimidated by the remembrance of the wear and tear of feeling which is necessarily suffered by the man of science who puts heart and soul into his duties at the couch of suffering. Commerce, De Courcy abhorred, for the details of its busy scenes were little suited to his reserved habits and refined tastes. Viewed in its fairest light he recognised it as a noble calling, but those who pursued it were but too apt to wander with idolatry and bow down before the golden calf.

So the youth hesitated, and deferred his decision, passing his days amid his books in the seclusion of his study until his habits of reverie were rather rudely broken by the sudden death of his father. This startled him from his torpor and had he been then called to enter upon the active duties of life, might have aroused him more effectually. But the elder Mr. Waldie had been one of those careful bodies who trust nothing to chance. Every thing was in such perfect order, his business was so admirably arranged, and his will was so precise in its directions that De Courcy had nothing to do and little to reflect upon. The head clerk assumed the business and purchased the stock in trade,—the income of the property was bequeathed to mother and son during life with a reversion of the whole estate to the survivor, and after the legal forms had been properly attended to, every thing went on in its usual manner. The only perceptible difference was that when rents, or interests on bonds and mortgages became due the bold and flourishing signature of S. De Courcy Waldie was appended to the receipts instead of the cramped and queer hieroglyphics which were formerly presumed to designate the name of his parent.

There was something in the mode of life peculiarly calculated to cherish the secluded habits of De Courcy Waldie. Their abode was situated in one of those narrow gloomy streets, where the sun is only visible at noonday,—a street which formed, in old times, a portion of the ‘court-end’ of the city, but which is now occupied principally by elderly proprietors or decayed gentlewomen, who, compelled to live on a small income, yet unwilling to appear shorn of their former honors, haunt the scenes of their youthful gaiety, and affect to despise the upstart ‘nobodies’ of B—— Street and —— Place. The tall, dusky houses stand wedged in close array, looking upon their opposite neighbors like a row of their old time-worn spinsters in an old fashioned contra-dance; in one of these sleepy-looking mansions, resided the Waldie family. Every thing in the house bore evidences of Dutch neatness in housekeeping. The faded but unworn carpets were the same which had been the wonder of the neighborhood when the parents of our hero were first married; the carved chairs belonged to that perpendicular race now rarely to be found except in rubbish rooms; the narrow necked china jars on the high chimney-piece were relics of a by-gone age; and the tall clock, standing in the very spot where it had been placed thirty years before, rolled its Ethiop eyes, and ticked its monotonous warnings in a most drowsy and slumber-inducing voice. Dark heavy curtains in winter, and yellow Venitian half-blinds in summer, added to the gloomy appearance of apartments in which the sun never shone. The sound of the clock, the low purr of the cat as she stretched her overgrown body on the soft hearth-rug, and the dull clicking of Mrs. Waldie’s knitting-needles, which she plied with unceasing assiduity, alone broke the deep silence of the apartment, and the most sincere votary of indolence could scarcely have imagined a more comfortable sort of domestic “sleepy-hollow.”

Here would Mr. De Courcy Waldie sit hour after hour, pondering over some learned treatise, digging out Greek roots, exhausting his ingenuity in patching up some mutilated fragment of antiquity, and occasionally, by way of light reading, arousing himself with the Latin Poets, but never condescending to look into any thing which could not boast the musty flavor of past ages, except the daily newspapers. It is not strange that a man of such habits should soon learn to mistake reverie for reflection, and feasible projects for good resolutions. There was always something which he meant to do at some future time. He would tilt himself back in his chair, plant his feet against the chimney-piece, and, with a cigar in his mouth, indulge those vague and pleasant but idle dreams, which such men are apt to dignify with the name of thoughts. The household went on with a kind of mechanical regularity. The important affairs of indoor life were managed by two old servants, who, before the abolition of slavery in New York, had been the property of Mr. Waldie, and had been carefully trained in all the duties of their station, (a class, by the way, who make the very best domestics, but who are now almost extinct; thanks to the spirit of philanthropy, which has thrown them upon their own resources and left them to die by want, vice and intemperance.) Mrs. Waldie walked into the kitchen every morning, and gave, or fancied she gave directions for the day; but Dinah needed no such watchfulness,—she knew her business and went about it as regularly as if she were wound up like the clock every Saturday night.

In the early part of his life it had been suggested that De Courcy ought to look out for a wife. But the idea of returning into a throng of giddy giggling girls, was quite too trying to the poor youth’s feelings. He was sometimes conscious of an emotion of pleasure when, as he sat at the head of his pew in church, his eye fell upon the rosy cheek and bright eye of some fair damsel. Yet he only admired at a respectful distance, for a single word from a lady, or even the necessity of touching his hat to her in the street, would crimson his face with the painful blush of most officious modesty. If perchance he did venture to play the agreeable to some female less volatile than her companions, his constrained manner and pedantic compliments evinced a much more intimate acquaintance with the Daphnes and Chloes of antiquity, than with the luring, breathing, captivating beauties of the nineteenth century. By degrees all hope of taming the shy young student was relinquished. His female contemporaries married less intractable individuals, and long before he had made up his mind as to the propriety of assuming the responsibilities of wedlock, a second race of giggling girls was springing up around him. However he seemed quite contented with his celibacy. Perhaps some of my readers may consider this as a very integral portion of the good fortune which had fallen to his lot, and this I will not venture to dispute, for to a man of his dreamy temper and indolent habits, a wife would have been a positive annoyance—unless indeed, he could have found a sister to the inimitable “fat boy” of Pickwick.

Matters went on very smoothly with De Courcy Waldie until he had attained that awkward corner in man’s life, which must be turned, and the pathway from which leads rather down hill. Mr. De Courcy Waldie reached his forty-fifth birth-day, ere he had decided upon a profession or concluded to take a wife, but his time had glided away so calmly, that he scarcely noted its loss, till a second domestic bereavement aroused him. Quiet old ladies, who do not trouble themselves about their neighbors and never talk scandal, generally spin out life to its most attenuated thread, and thus Mrs. Waldie dozed away until she had completed her eighty-fourth year, when she fell into a sound sleep from which she never woke. It was not until the bustle attendant upon the funeral, had subsided, that the son had time to think of his loss, and then, when left to the utter solitude of his home—for the first time in his life he was sensible of actual profound grief. He did not know how essential his mother’s presence had become to him. He was so accustomed to see her in the warmest corner in winter, and by the recess of the window in summer, that the apartment seemed to have lost, not only one of its inmates, but part of its furniture. Her tiny work-table and easy chair still held their wonted place, but she who was almost a part of them, was gone forever, and a feeling of loneliness took possession of his heart. He knew not, until the form of that revered parent was hidden from his sight, how often his eye had wandered from the page of his favourite book, to rest on her placid face. He remembered how carefully she had studied his tastes, how scrupulously she had obeyed his wishes, how well she had adapted herself to his peculiar habits; and when he reflected upon the different degree of his grief at the loss of his father, he began to think that there was something in the nature of woman particularly calculated to make man happy. This thought was followed by regret at not having secured a continuance of womanly tenderness for his future life. In the natural order of events, he must long outlive his mother, and who would have supplied her place, like a devoted wife. Mr. De Courcy Waldie began to wish he was married.

The longer he dreamed over this new idea, however, the more his difficulties seemed to increase. He thought of the pretty delicate girls whom he had admired in his college days, but he recollected them now as fat comfortable matrons, or thin, withered spinsters; and he looked in his mirror as if to discover whether age had made the same havoc with his appearance. But the daily use of the said useful appendage of the toilet had rendered him so gradually habituated to time’s changes, that he could discern little difference in himself. He had never possessed much of the bloom of youth, and his face had early worn the pale student-like ‘cast of thought,’ which years had only traced in deeper characters. His dapper little figure, still trim and upright, was not spoiled by the obesity so much dreaded by elderly gentlemen; his teeth were still perfect—his incipient baldness—but this was an exceedingly delicate point—we will draw the veil of silence over his reflections on this painful subject. Suffice it to say that Mr. De Courcy Waldie came to the conclusion that he was yet young enough to think of matrimony.

It was necessary for him to proceed with great caution however, for he knew that he was reputed rich, and he heard that society contained such anomalies as mercenary young ladies. While thinking over his new project, he was one day called upon for a subscription to some benevolent association, by one of those charitable persons who relieve the real or fancied distresses of their fellow mortals, by a free expenditure of their own time and their neighbor’s money. With his usual generosity, Mr. Waldie handed her a liberal contribution, not sorry perhaps, to buy off her garrulity at such a price. But the lady dropped some words ere she departed, which set him off upon a new track. She had suggested the propriety of his adopting some orphan boy and educating him as his own. This was quite a new idea to him, but he viewed it in rather a different light from that which his visitor had intended. “Adopt a son,” said he to himself, in a tone that seemed strangely like disgust, “no indeed. I should go crazy with a rollicking boy ransacking the house, and turning every thing upside down. Besides, boys have always got dirty faces, and they are forever cutting their fingers with their penknives, breaking their heads against horse posts or cracking their skulls on skating ponds; then they always tear their trousers, lose their gloves, and stump their toes through their shoes. Faugh! I can’t endure great rude bearish boys. If she had said a daughter now, I might have thought better of it; there is certainly something very pleasant in a nice little quiet girl.”

The more he reflected upon this fancy, the better he liked it, but the idea of adopting a daughter soon gave place to a more eccentric scheme. He determined to make an experiment. He would ‘train up’ a child in the way she should go; he would educate a wife.

Whether it was the loss of his mother which had awakened him from his apathy, or whether the long latent affections of his nature were now only developing themselves, cannot be determined, but, certain it is, that before he had dreamed over his project three months, Mr. De Courcy Waldie actually applied to the managers of the Orphan Asylum for permission to adopt three of the female inmates. He engaged to educate them according to their different capacities, to furnish them with the means of obtaining a future livelihood, and to settle the sum of two thousand dollars on each, when she should either marry or attain her majority. His character for probity and honor, was as well known as his eccentricity, and as no doubt existed of the fulfilment of his promises, his proposition was accepted. He was allowed to select his three protégées, and however ignorant he might be of female character, he showed himself no mean judge of female beauty, for his choice fell on three of the loveliest children in the institution. He wished them to be about twelve years of age, and there was but the difference of a few months between them. They were poor, friendless orphans, destined to a life of hardship if not of want, and he knew that if his experiment terminated unsuccessfully, the girls would be better provided for by his means, than if they were apprenticed to some hard task-master. He determined to bestow on all the same care, to educate them after his own peculiar notions, and when they should have attained a proper age, to decide upon their individual claims to his affections.

The old servants shook their heads in ominous silence, when they learned the sudden increase of family. Old Dinah went so far as to hint that his mother’s death had touched Mr. Waldie’s brain, and indeed wiser folks than she came to something like the same conclusion. But your quiet people, who are so amazingly slow in waking up to any purpose, pursue it with wonderful perseverance, when once fairly placed on the track. Mr. Waldie engaged an elderly governess to take charge of his young wards, and an apartment in the upper part of the house was appropriated to her use as a schoolroom. It was agreed that the privacy of Mr. Waldie’s sitting room should never be violated by the intrusion of the females, except when he invited them to enter its hallowed precincts. His old-fashioned politeness regulated the etiquette of the table at their daily meals, and very soon the household assumed its usual regularity, notwithstanding the presence of three little girls. Mr. Waldie did not consider them old enough to deserve his particular attention for the present, and he therefore left them to the care of their very competent governess: only stipulating that they were never to be allowed to read poetry or fiction—never to wear any other dress than a calico frock, white apron and cottage bonnet,—and by no means, to form an acquaintance with other children. Having made these rules he returned to his former abstract studies, until such a time as he should deem it proper to undertake the instruction of his young protégées.

He had chosen the little girls rather on account of their personal beauty than with any regard to their mental gifts, for of these he determined to judge for himself, and it was not surprising, therefore, that he should discover great diversity in their characters. Fanny Morris, the elder of the three, possessed that regular and classical beauty which ever charms the eye in the remnants of Grecian art. Her features were perfect, her complexion exquisite, her form symmetry itself, but unfortunately, she seemed born to verify the oft-repeated criticism on that paragon of ideal beauty, the Venus de Medici, of whom it has been said that “if a woman exactly resembling her could be found in this breathing world, she would in all probability, (judging by the rules of physiognomy and phrenology) be an idiot.” Fanny’s small and beautifully shaped head was utterly destitute of brains—her soft dark eyes were never lighted up with any loftier expression than that of pleasure at sight of a box of sugar plums—and her lovely mouth gave utterance to none but the silliest of speeches. She could learn nothing, and after a year spent in fruitless attempts to impart more than the mere rudiments of knowledge, she was given up as incorrigible. But mindful of his promise Mr. Waldie gave her the choice of an avocation, and finding her only capable of the most mechanical employment, he apprenticed her to a fringe and fancy-button maker; at the same time he purchased, in her name, bank stock to the amount of two thousand dollars, as her future dowry. Fanny seemed to have as little heart as mind, and parted from her benefactor with no regret. As we shall not have occasion to allude to her again, it may be as well to satisfy the reader’s curiosity by stating that her beauty afterwards attracted the attention of a young artist, who wanted just such a model. Finding that her quiet stupidity rendered her a most untiring sitter, while her two thousand dollars added weight to her other attractions, the painter married her, and much of his present celebrity is owing to the matchless loveliness of his silly wife.

Of the two children who now remained under Mr. Waldie’s roof, Emily Rivers was by far the most strikingly beautiful. Her blonde hair fell in rich curls upon her fat, white shoulders, while her delicate features, and large clear blue eyes gave an infantile grace to her lovely countenance. There was a frank joyousness in her expression, which was very attractive, and, at that time, few would have hesitated in giving her the preference over her young companion. Celina Morley was one of those children whose personal characteristics develop very slowly. She was short in stature, and slightly inclined to stoop, while her gray eyes, whose hue was deepened almost into blackness by the shadow of the fringed lid, and a small mouth filled up with pearly teeth, formed her only claims to admiration. Her face appeared out of proportion—her forehead was so immensely high, her brows so thick and dark her cheeks so colorless, that her countenance seemed like some modern engravings, all black and white, without tints of light and shadow.

Nor was this difference in their personal appearance the only one which existed between the two girls. The shy, quiet demeanor of Celina, contrasted strongly with the frank, bold manner of her companion. Emily would run to meet Mr. Waldie with a gay laugh, and throwing herself on a footstool beside him, would beguile him with her merry prattle, without seeming to care whether he were annoyed by her intrusion. But Celina would stand timidly awaiting an encouraging word from her benefactor, and thus it often happened, in the little household as in the great world, that modest merit was overlooked in favor of obtrusive importunity, and Celina was forgotten for the more clamorous Emily. Yet it was Celina who brought the dressing-gown the very moment it was wanted, and drew the easy-chair into the accustomed corner—it was Celina who laid the slippers just where his feet would be sure to find them without giving the head trouble to think about them; it was Celina who, when he was confined to his bed by sickness, watched in his room through the long day, and listened at his door in the silent hours of the night. But the caresses of Emily had opened a fountain of tenderness in Mr. Waldie’s bosom, and after they had been inmates of his family for rather more than two years, he felt that the time had come when his course of instruction must commence. What that course was it is needless to specify; let it suffice to know that he destined them to pursue a series of studies which would have appalled the most zealous aspirant for college honors.

The true character of the two girls began now to be exhibited. They were approaching their fifteenth year, and the fresh, glowing beauty of Emily Rivers had already excited the notice of strangers. She had observed the stolen glance of admiration, she had even heard the sudden exclamation of delight, as some ardent youth peeped under the close cottage bonnet, while she walked demurely beside her benefactor or her governess, in their daily promenades, and the latent vanity of her nature had been fully aroused. The calico dress and white apron annoyed her sadly. She was full of projects for making Mr. Waldie sensible of the folly of his restrictions, and while he was busied in teaching them to solve algebraic problems, she was as busy in devising schemes for eluding his vigilance. She had no taste for study, but she had tact and quickness of comprehension and thus it often happened that her adroitness stood her in the stead of application and industry. While Celina devoted herself to the performance of her required tasks, Emily exerted her ingenuity in evading them, or in skilfully applying to her own use, the industry and talent of her young companion. But Emily had a most decided love for dress. She was wonderfully tasteful in trimming bonnets and furbelowing dresses and debarred from any such pleasures for her own account, she amused her leisure hours by furbishing up old Dinah (who was particularly fond of a fine spreading knot of ribbons) and regarnishing the head gear of all the dingy dame’s dressy acquaintances.

At length her vanity would no longer be controlled. The girls received a regular allowance of pocket-money, which it was expected they would spend in charity, and this sum Emily hoarded up until she was enabled to purchase some of the long-coveted finery. Determined to try the strength of Mr. Waldie’s rules, she came down to the parlor one Sunday morning, prepared to accompany him to church, clad in her new attire. For a few minutes he looked at her in stern silence, while, with a beating heart but resolute spirit, she awaited his reproaches. The little cottage bonnet had given place to a tawdry pink silk hat, flaunting with streamers of lace and ribbons, and instead of her simple white cape her shoulders were now covered with a bright yellow gauze scarf. She had certainly not improved her appearance by her new display, but she wished to try the effect of a little rebellion, and she was fully satisfied. Mr. Waldie quietly desired her to change her dress,—she remonstrated,—he insisted,—she grew angry and exhibited a degree of fiery passion, which, though by no means strange to the other members of the family, had hitherto been carefully concealed from him; until at length, irritated by her vehement opposition, he led her to her apartment and locked her in. There were three faults which Mr. Waldie regarded with peculiar abhorrence in the female character, and these were a passionate temper, a love of dress, and a determined will. He was perfectly horror-stricken, therefore, at the sudden discovery of all these most dreaded attributes in the beautiful Emily. Nor was his disgust much diminished, when, on his return from church, he proceeded to her apartment to receive, as he hoped, an humble confession of her fault. He found her leaning from the window engaged in an interesting conversation with a beardless young gentleman who resided in the adjoining house, and who was now standing on the top of a ladder placed against the garden wall, in order to be within whispering or rather murmuring distance of the young lady, with whom he had for some months carried on a flirtation by means of billets tied to pebbles and flung into her window. This of course decided the matter. Emily was desired by her benefactor to make choice of some trade, and, as she fancied it must be perfectly delightful to live among finery, she decided upon adopting the profession of a milliner. Accordingly, Latin and Geometry were exchanged for frippery and folly. Emily soon became a most skilful artiste, and, by exhibiting their effect on her beautiful face, which nothing could spoil, was the means of selling so many ugly bonnets and turbans, that she was quite a prize to her employer. At the age of eighteen she married a fashionable draper and tailor, when she received her promised dowry from the hand of Mr. Waldie. As the business of both husband and wife was one which ministered to the master spirit of vanity, they made a large fortune in a few years, and I have heard—but I will not vouch for the truth of the story—that after their retirement, Colonel Fitwell and his beautiful wife made quite a figure in the saloons of Paris, where she could boast of the honor of having been noticed by royalty; his majesty having been heard to ask the name of that very large woman with blonde hair! What an honor for a simple republican!

Celina Morley was now left alone, and the punishment inflicted on her companion, for such to her sensitive nature it seemed, rather tended to increase her timid reserve. But she possessed high intellectual gifts and a great love for study, so that her progress in learning equalled her eccentric benefactor’s highest anticipations. I am afraid she would have been deemed a blue-stocking in the circles of fashion, for she was a fine Latin scholar, read Greek with great ease, had not even been delayed on the Pons Asinorum in her mathematical career, and in short, when she had attained her eighteenth year, knew considerably more than most collegians when they take their degree. Do not think this is an over-estimate of the attainments of our heroine, gentle reader. Let an intelligent woman be endowed with industry, perseverance and a love for study, then give her a powerful motive, such as love or gratitude, to stimulate her, and all the boasted intellect of man will hardly outstrip her in the race of learning.

The person of Celina had developed as fully as her mind. Her swarthy complexion had cleared into a fine brunette, her dark hair parted smoothly on her high forehead, added feminine grace to a rather masculine feature, while the intellectual expression which beamed in her fine eyes, lighted up her whole face with positive beauty. Her form had become tall and majestic, scarcely rounded enough for perfect symmetry, but just such a figure as expands with queenly grace in later life. In short, Celina had become a stately, beautiful, and gifted woman. But while all these things had been going on, Mr. Waldie had become some six or seven years older, and already passed his fiftieth year; yet some how or other, he did not seem to be very impatient to change his condition. It is true, Celina had attained the age which he had originally destined to be the period of marriage, but he felt so very comfortable and was so much the creature of habit, that he seemed rather to dread any innovation. He had taken the precaution to keep his wards in ignorance of his final intentions, and therefore, Celina loved him with truly filial affection, without dreaming that she might be called upon to cherish any warmer emotion. As she grew up to the stature of womanhood, Mr. Waldie had been induced, by the remonstrance of the governess, to withdraw some of his restrictions in female attire; and though he still insisted on a rigid proscription of bows, feathers, flowers and lace, he allowed Celina to assume a garb somewhat in accordance with the prevailing fashion. But he had forbidden her to acquire any feminine accomplishment except sewing and knitting. The first act he found very necessary to his own comfort, as strings would break, and buttons would come off, which evils no one could repair with such neat-handed rapidity as Celina; while the second mystery he looked upon as essential to every well-trained woman, because it had been the sole occupation of his mother for the last twenty years of her life. But sad to tell! the young victim of theory could neither dance, nor play on the piano, nor sketch in crayons, nor paint velvet, nor make filigree boxes, nor work worsted:—in short, she was utterly unskilled in the thousand lady-like arts of idle industry.

Yet nature had made her beautiful and good, education had made her a fine scholar, and her innate tact (without which talent and learning are often but useless gifts) had taught her womanly duties and womanly tastes. Indeed she had rather too much feminine delicacy to suit the peculiar notions of Mr. Waldie. He had an idea that the want of physical courage, which characterizes the sex, was simply an error in female education, and, not content with the passive endurance and moral strength which make woman a heroine in the chamber of pestilence, he determined that Celina should possess some share of masculine boldness. Accordingly, he practised various fantastic experiments to habituate her to pain and terror. He dropped hot sealing-wax on her bare arms, fired pistols within six inches of her head, and practised various feats of a similar nature, until, after having thrice set fire to her dress by accident, and once shocked her into a fit of sickness, he gave up his attempt in despair of ever bringing her to the required point of courage. Mr. Waldie was a little disappointed. Celina did not quite realize his ideal of the partner of his life. She bore little resemblance to the dull, drowsy, quiet creature, who, soon after his mother’s death, seemed to fulfil his notions of wifely excellence, and neither was she that most unfeminine of all females—a plodding and slovenly book-worm. She was simply a gentle, lovely, intellectual woman, whom profound learning had failed to make either a pedant or a metaphysician. Do not listen to your prejudices, friend reader, and fancy that I am portraying an immaterial character: such women are to be found—sometimes in the saloons of gaiety but more frequently in the shades of private life, and the fire on the domestic hearth may still burn brightly and cheerfully even when lighted by the torch of wisdom.

A year or two more passed on. Mr. Waldie seemed to linger long on the threshold of celibacy ere he could summon courage to cross it, and in the meantime he was spared all future anxiety about the matter. Among the few, who still kept up their acquaintance with the eccentric Mr. Waldie, was the head-clerk of his deceased father, who, grateful for the liberal treatment which he had received at the settlement of the estate, was always ready to do a kindness for the heir. Unpunctual tenants and troublesome debtors were peculiar objects of his watchfulness, and Mr. Waldie was saved from many a loss and many a vexation by his honest friend. The son of this gentleman, after receiving a liberal education, had devoted himself to the church, and, as Mr. Waldie’s extensive library furnished a great variety of polemical works, he had gladly accepted the bachelor’s kind invitation to visit it at all times, without restraint. At first young Willington Merwyn came rarely, and taking some dusty volume of controversial divinity would retire to his own quiet study. By degrees he learned to linger longer, and ponderous tomes which he formerly sought were often forgotten when he took his departure. He came frequently and staid late, while Mr. Waldie, absorbed in his own speculative philosophy, always greeted the presence of the clergyman as a tribute to the value of his intellectual stores, or a compliment to his own scholarship. He fancied, good man, that the long metaphysical discussions and ingenious theories, in which he took so much delight, were the young man’s chief attraction, and never dreamed that even the presence of philosophy herself,

“Attired in all

The star-gemmed robes of speculative truth”

would have awakened far less emotion in the bosom of Willington Merwyn than did the beauty and gentleness of Celina. But the lady herself had some little inkling of the truth, for women seem to have a sort of intuitive knowledge of the heart’s love. There were looks and tones and casual words which needed no interpreter, or if they did, she soon found one in her own feelings. She discovered that the visits of the clergyman were only recurring pleasures to her, and she reflected upon the matter till she came to the very natural conclusion, that, considering the warm regard manifested by her benefactor to his young friend, it probably was his wish that they should obey the command of the apostle to “love one another.” Not long after she had arrived at this conclusion, one of those lucky chances, which always favor lovers, revealed to her the fact that Mr. Merwyn had precisely the same opinion. In short, if the commandment already quoted had contained the sum of Christian duty, they would certainly have been regarded as eminently excellent young persons.

Of course the elder Mr. Merwyn was soon made acquainted with his son’s passion for Celina, and, following the honest old-fashioned mode of transacting such affairs, he thought it best to be sure of his friend’s approbation. Now it so happened that Mr. Waldie was at length coming to a decision on the momentous subject which had so long occupied his thoughts. He had made up his mind that, however reluctant he might feel to assume the responsible duties of matrimony, a further delay would be an act of cruel injustice to Celina. He thought over all her good qualities, and, though he did not quite like her cowardice, he determined that, rather than doom her to a life of celibacy, he would celebrate his fifty-fifth birth-day by a wedding. It cost him some effort to make this decision; for, in addition to his natural indolence which led him to dread any change in his mode of life, Mr. Waldie had one secret which he could not bear to betray. It was one of his weak points—nobody knew it, and he dreaded lest the familiar intercourse of married life should reveal it. Nothing but a sense of duty towards his ward could have induced him to overcome this last objection which seemed to have gained new force with the progress of time. It was just at this moment, when his heroic self-devotion had carried him to the verge of an explanation with Celina, that Mr. Merwyn, with sundry nods, and winks, and dry jokes, disclosed to him the wishes of the young people. Mr. Waldie was thunder-struck. It seemed to him too preposterous for belief, but it was sufficiently startling to determine him to judge for himself. He shook off his abstraction long enough to discover that his old friend was not very far wrong, and once assured of the fact, he fell into his usual reverie before coming to any definite decision. He had sufficient practical wisdom to keep his own counsel about his original plan, and he reflected upon Celina’s incorrigible timidity—the many little troubles which matrimony is apt to bring around one—his own bachelor comforts—and, above all, his inviolable SECRET, until he was quite disposed to believe that it was “all for the best.”

Mr. Waldie’s fifty-fifth birth-day was celebrated by a wedding; but Mr. Waldie still enjoyed his celibacy and his secret. Celina became the wife of Willington Merwyn. At the request of the eccentric but kind bachelor, the happy pair took up their abode with him. He probably did not gain much in the way of quiet by this arrangement, for in the course of a few years a certain little rosy-cheeked De Courcy and his chubby sister started the decorous echoes of the old house with the sounds of baby-grief and baby-joy. However, there is a wonderful power of adaptation in the human mind, and Mr. Waldie learned, after a while, to allow them free ingress to his student’s den, while he often neglected his speculative theories for practical illustrations of kindly affections. Celina made quite as good a wife as if she had been brought up in the usual lady-like ignorance of science. She shaped and sewed her children’s garments, concocted puddings and pies, directed the mechanism of her household, and was quite as useful in her sphere as the most vehement declaimer against learned women could have deemed necessary to vindicate her character. Mr. Waldie never regretted the result of his experiment. He lived in perfect harmony and peace with his now enlarged family, and it was not until Celina had become a comely matron and her children had grown up to love and reverence him, that the old man was gathered to his fathers. But his secret had been discovered long before his death, for he gradually lost his little personal vanity as soon as he finally concluded to remain a bachelor, and he did not find any decrease in Celina’s affection even when she learned that he wore A WIG.

---

SWEETHEARTS AND WIVES.

Though the ever-heaving ocean

Bear us from our forest-land,

Through the rising waves’ commotion,

To a far and foreign strand;

Still the heart, all space unheeding,

Firmly ’gainst our progress strives,

Leaves us, and with haste is speeding

To our sweethearts and our wives.

Ye may bind the eagle’s pinion,⁠—

Check the deer’s impetuous course,⁠—

Curb the steed to your dominion,⁠—

Quell the torrent’s headlong force,⁠—

But the spirit, fetters spurning

As our proud ship onward drives,

Leaves us, in its joy returning

To our sweethearts and our wives.

Noah’s freed and wand’ring raven

Toward the ark for safety flew;

Backward, to the spotless heaven,

Springs, at morn, the vesper dew.

Thus affection’s fond devotion,

Balm and solace of our lives;

Flies, like incense, o’er the ocean,

To our sweethearts and our wives.

P. E.

---

THE DUEL.

———

BY E. S. GOULD, ESQ. OF NEW YORK.

———

Harry Bradford sat musing by the window and was apparently lost in thought, when a sudden knock at his door aroused him; but before he could bid the applicant enter, Fred Stanley burst into the room.

“It’s all arranged, Harry,” said he with a glee in which, however, his companion did not seem at all to participate.

“So I supposed,” replied Harry, quietly; “such an affair is not likely to remain long unfinished in your hands.”

“And why should it, pray?” inquired Stanley, a little nettled at his friend’s want of enthusiasm.

“Oh, it should not, of course,” said Harry; “such matters, after all, are best done when soonest done. Where do we meet?”

“On the old battle-ground—Weehawken,” said Stanley; “no place like it.”

“No, none like it, indeed! What time have you appointed?” asked Harry.

“To-morrow, at sunrise,” replied Stanley.

“That’s rather prompt, too,” said Harry, “if one has to take leave of his friends and make his peace with God.”

“Bah!” said Stanley, slightingly, “we must not think too much of these things.”

“I must not, certainly,” replied Harry, “if I would just now retain my self-possession. We use pistols, I presume?”

“Yes, at ten paces;” said Stanley.

“A fearful proximity for men of approved courage and skill who are bent on taking each other’s life!” rejoined Harry; then after a pause, he added, “Wilson persists in his challenge, Fred?”

“Good G—!” exclaimed Stanley in dismay at what appeared to him a prospect of losing his expected sport, “you are not afraid to meet him Harry?”

“No, Stanley,” said Harry, “not in your sense of the word. So long as consequences are limited to myself, I have little thought of fear. But,” he continued—and he spoke in a low tone and with unwonted rapidity, lest some tremulousness of the voice might betray his emotion—“there are other interests, other fears, other considerations—”

“Forget them for heaven’s sake, until after to-morrow,” said Stanley, interrupting him, “or you will never acquit yourself with honor. If you have any little affairs to despatch, set about them at once, and don’t fail to be abed and asleep before ten, or you won’t be up in season. I would not have Wilson on the ground before us for the world. Good-bye; I must prepare my pistols, for I see you will never give them a thought;” and away went Fred Stanley as full of bravery, as solicitous for his friend’s honor, and as indifferent about his friend’s distress of mind—as seconds are wont to be.

Harry did not move for some minutes after Stanley left him; and when at length he raised his eyes from the floor, his countenance bore an expression of unutterable wo.

It was no wonder. He was the only child of a widowed mother, and the affianced lover of the sweetest maid in the land. If he should fall, as he well might, what would become of that mother and of Kate Birney?

He at length aroused himself saying—“I dare not see my mother: but Kate—dearest, loveliest Kate! I promised to call on her at five; and it’s five now; and, by heaven, there she stands at her parlor window beckoning me to hasten; yes! and she holds up that bouquet of flowers. It was but yesterday I gathered them for her—and what has not happened since yesterday!” Here he paused, as if too much overcome by fond recollections to proceed: he then added in a different tone—“these follies come upon us, with both cause and consequences, as suddenly, as fatally as the inevitable casualties of life! A day of promise is changed to a life of mourning by the event of a moment; the act of an instant destroys the happiness and poisons the memory of years! Those flowers were gathered in hope; and before they—frail, perishing mementos—can wither, he who bound them and she who wears them may be lost in despair!”

With a heavy heart Harry repaired to his love’s rendezvous, where, full of beauty and tenderness, Kate awaited him. They were to be married in a week; and these interviews of the lovers now possessed an additional witchery from the fact that their communings, as lovers, were so soon to terminate forever.

The romance of passion is a bright episode in our youth. The hymenæal sun, while he yet clambers toward the “misty mountain-tops” on the morning of a wedding-day, spreads his promise over the broad firmament in a thousand fantastical images of crimson and gold. We watch the accumulating splendors of the sky and say, exultingly, if the dawn be so gorgeous what will not the day bring forth? But as we gaze, the sun heaves his broad disk above the horizon—the ephemeral imagery of vapor disappears—and the calm, steady sunlight of every day-life succeeds to the beautiful vision.

To Kate, this glowing blazonry of heaven was now at its culminating point; but Harry felt, as he almost reluctantly approached her, that a cloud—the more terrible from his uncertainty as to its dimensions and progress—was gathering on that glorious sky.

As he approached, his lovely mistress hailed him with an arch reproof for his delay; but when she reached out her hand to welcome him, she saw that his face was flushed and his eye disturbed; and, changing her tone of censure to one of solicitude, she inquired anxiously:

“Are you ill, Harry?”

The pressure of the hand—the eager look of inquiry—the tremulous tone of affection which accompanied these few words startled Harry from his self-possession; and he replied—

“No—no—not at all ill; I—I—”

“Harry! dear Harry!” exclaimed Kate with passionate earnestness, “what has happened? Tell me, Harry! tell me all!”

It was instantly obvious to the young man that his engagement for the morning—which he held himself bound in honor to fulfil—would in some way certainly be interfered with by his mistress, if he allowed her to be informed of it; for, whatever might be his notions of chivalric obligations, and however imperiously he might demand her acquiescence in them, he still knew that a dread of personal danger to himself would overbear, in her mind, all other considerations. He, therefore, felt it necessary to equivocate and deceive her. This train of argument, which of course went through his mind in far less time than is required to note it down, resulted in his saying promptly—

“For heaven’s sake, Kate, don’t alarm yourself in this manner! Nothing has happened.”

It is not to be supposed that this reply was altogether satisfactory, but as Harry, in his attempt to mislead Kate had broken the spell of his own forebodings, he was now able to regain his self command; and he then soon succeeded in making a jest of her fears.

After an interview such as lovers know how to protract and no one knows how to describe, they parted; Kate inspired with bright visions of happiness, and Harry, in a state of wretchedness, the nature, but not the extent, of which may be readily conceived. He hurried to his room and without any preparation for the morrow cast himself on the bed where his agony found poor relief in a fit of uncontrollable weeping.

In this condition, he fell asleep.

It often happens, by some strange contrariety of nature, that our dreams have relation to the subjects not nearest our hearts: what has occupied our thoughts during the day usually gives place, in sleep, to something of more remote interest—as if the soul, when momentarily disencumbered of the cares of life, shook off its dependence on the body and pursued the bent of its own fancy, regardless of the wants and woes of this tabernacle of day to which it is ordinarily held in subjection. But Harry’s experience did not, at this time, conform to the rule.

After he had slept awhile, he dreamed that he was hurrying, stealthily and alone, to the scene of mortal strife. A little in advance of him was an old man whom he had several times tried to avoid by changing his route, but the stranger, without appearing to be conscious of Harry’s motions, happened so exactly to regulate his course by that which Harry took, that the impatient youth found it necessary to brush past him, at the risk of being interrupted, if he would reach his destination in due season.

He had just overtaken the old man, and was rapidly striding onward, when the latter, with a promptness and vigor not to be expected in one of his years, grasped Harry’s arm, saying—

“Hold a moment, young man; you are Harry Bradford, I believe?”

“That is my name, old gentleman,” replied Harry, with a stare of astonishment, “but as I have not the pleasure of knowing you, I must beg you to defer your civilities. I am in haste.”

“Stay a moment, nevertheless,” continued the stranger, “or,”—seeing Harry about to move on in spite of him—“if you will not, at least walk slower, that I may accompany you. I knew your father, Harry, and I can surely claim of his son the privilege of a parting word just as he is about to rush unbidden into eternity.”

“Who are you, then, and what would you say?” exclaimed Harry, not a little startled to find that his purpose as well as his name was known to the stranger.

“I am your friend,” replied the old man, “and my name is Common Sense. Why are you determined to throw away your life?”

“Sir,” said Harry, “I am engaged in an affair of honor—a matter with which, I fancy, you can have no concern.”

“I have little to do with honor as young men understand it; but I am desirous to serve you. Tell me, therefore, what is your predicament?”

“A quondam friend and rival lover, jealous of my success with a lady, insinuated something to her prejudice in the presence of gentlemen. I struck him. He challenged me; and I am bound to fight him.”

“Why?”

“The laws of honor accord full satisfaction to an injured person.”

“Is he injured?”

“No, not in fact: he merely received a just chastisement for a wanton insult.”

“Who says, then, that he is injured?”

“He says so.”

“And is it one of the articles of your code of honor that a party to a quarrel is entitled, also, to be a judge of his own case?”

“That is immaterial. If a man chooses to consider himself aggrieved, he can demand an apology, or, personal satisfaction. The apology being refused—as in my case it must be—the challenge ensues: and to question his right to issue it, provided he is recognised as a gentleman, is, equally with a refusal to fight, equivalent to an admission of cowardice.”

“An admission of one’s own cowardice is, truly, no alluring alternative. But let us understand each other: what sort of cowardice do you mean?”

“I know of but one.”

“Indeed! Cowardice, speaking generally, is fear: what fear does a man betray who declines to accept a challenge?”

“The fear—eh—that is—the fear of being shot.”

“Death, young gentleman, to one who believes in a future state of reward and punishment, is a solemn event; and I apprehend that a brave man, or a good man (to say nothing of a bad man) may fear to meet it without suffering the imputation of cowardice: so that, thus far, your position is none of the strongest. Does this cowardice comprehend nothing else than the fear of death?”

“Nothing else.”

“Then we have all the argument on that side of the question. Let us look a moment at the other. What induces a man to accept a challenge?”

“The fear of dishonor.”

“Ay? then fear operates on both horns of the dilemma: and, for my own part, if I were forced to act under the dictation of fear, I would choose that course which promised the least disastrous result. But here, again, we do not perhaps understand each other. What kind of dishonor is this?”

“Disgrace, in an intolerable form! A man thus degraded would be driven from society, branded with the stigma of cowardice, and blasted with the scorn of all honorable men.”

“That, truly, were a fate to be deprecated; though a man of sober judgment might urge that even such a fate is nothing compared to what awaits those who throw themselves, uncalled and unprepared, into the presence of their Maker. But is what you say true? Does such dishonor involve such consequences?”

“Unquestionably it does!”

“Stop a moment. Let us consider this. You say the man would be driven from society: tell me, by whom?”

“By public opinion.”

“And the same agent would brand him a coward and blast him with universal scorn?”

“Even so.”

“This public opinion, I take it, is the united opinion of that class whom you designate by the phrase all honorable men?”

“It is.”

“Very well. I wish now to ascertain the practical operation of public opinion. Supposing you were this dishonored individual: who, as the Scripture hath it, would cast the first stone at you? Who would take the initiative in banishing, branding and scorning you—would your father have done it?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Would your mother?”

“No.”

“Would the lady you love—or any lady on the face of the earth?”

“No.”

“Would any of the old respectable inhabitants—your father’s companions and equals?”

“No.”

“Would any of those who, by common consent, form the respectable and estimable portion of the community?”

“No.”

“Would not, rather, all these to whom I have referred, applaud you for refusing deliberately to give or receive a death-wound in a quarrel; and honor you for daring to practice what every sensible man has preached since the world began?”

“Perhaps they might.”

“Then will you tell me, identically, who would inflict on you the penalties of this imaginary dishonor? Who would pronounce you disgraced and point at you as a coward?”

“Why, Wilson, and Fred Stanly, and Jack Smith, and Jim Brown, and every body.”

“What are they?”

“Gentlemen.”

“What is a gentleman?”

“One who has, or had, or expects to have a plenty of cash—who has no particular vocation—who carries a rattan, wears long hair, and goes to all the fashionable parties.”

“I have but two questions more to ask: supposing you are killed in this duel: what would be the consequences to others?”

“My mother would die of a broken heart; and Kate—God knows what would become of her!”

“Supposing, on the contrary, you should kill your antagonist?”

“If I were not arrested and hanged according to law, I should be obliged to quit the country and bear, ever, in my bosom the remorse and on my brow the mark of a murderer.”

“One thing more: are you not heartily ashamed of your present purpose?”

Before Harry could reply, Stanley stood at his side and awakened him by saying:

“Come, Harry, you will be too late!”

The brotherly, disinterested zeal of a second is worthy of all admiration. How dispassionately he tries the flint! How coolly he squints along the barrel to ascertain if the sight is in order! How carefully he graduates the powder, and with what a touching connoisseurship he chooses a ball! Observe, too, with what a stately air he paces off the ground—from the pride of his step you might imagine he was a prince or a conqueror marching to receive the reward of his greatness!—God in heaven! is that man arranging the ground where his friend is to be shot—shot in cold blood—and he, a silent, premeditating witness of the deed?

At the hour designated, the parties were all in attendance: the ground was measured and the pistols were loaded.

Harry now interrupted the proceedings saying:

“Gentlemen this affair has gone far enough.”

“It is too late now, sir!” said Wilson’s second, haughtily: “my friend refuses to accept an apology.”

“He had better wait,” said Harry, “until I offer it. I accepted his challenge under a misapprehension of my obligations to my friends, to society, and to what are called the laws of honor. I now retract that acceptance. He insulted me and I struck him; the reckoning of revenge was thus closed as soon as it was opened. If he dares to repeat the offence, I shall repeat the punishment; without holding myself liable to be shot at like a wild beast of the forest. You are all welcome to put your own interpretation on my refusal to fight. My conduct will justify itself to all those whose opinions are truly worthy of regard; and as for the bullying denunciation of those few miscreants whose highest ambition is to be known as the lamp-lighters and candle-snuffers of mortal combats—combats which the laws of God and man pronounce to be murder—as for their denunciation, my now wishing you a good morning shows how thoroughly I despise it.”

---

Was Harry Bradford a sensible man or a fool? Did he, in after years, regret his refusal to fight a duel? And will anyone who reads this have the good sense and manliness to do likewise?

---

ELEGY ON THE FATE OF JANE M’CREA.

———

BY THOMAS G. SPEAR.

———

When Genius, Valor, Worth, too soon decays,

The world sings vocal with posthumous praise,

And o’er the love that fate has sorely tried,

Oft have the hearts of pitying mortals sigh’d.

What then to thee, oh, hapless maid! is due,

Whose form was lovely as thy soul was true?

Who fell ere life hope’s promise could impart,

Or love’s fruition cheer thy constant heart?

As some sweet bird that leaves its nest to fly,

With sportive wings along the alluring sky,

’Midst greener scenes and groves of happier song,

To wake its wild notes with its kindred throng,

Feels the quick shot its gushing bosom smite,

Just when it seeks to ease its tiring flight,

And ere its glance can tell the ball is sped,

Finds the cold sod its blood-encrimson’d bed.

Ah, sad for thee! when life’s frail thread was shorn,

Few near thee wept, though many liv’d to mourn.

No arm was there to stay the savage deed,

That left thy form with gory wounds to bleed.

No mystic rites from holy tongues were thine,

In death’s cold sleep thy beauty to resign⁠—

No hearse-drawn train, with mournful steps and slow,

Was nigh to yield the accustomed signs of woe,

But Peace was priestess o’er the virgin clay,

When Nature’s arms embrac’d thee in decay,

While duteous there a remnant of the brave,

Bent o’er thy dust, and form’d thy humble grave,

And ’neath the pine-tree’s unfrequented shade,

Lone and compos’d thy blood-stain’d relics laid,

Where from the boughs the wild-bird chim’d its song,

And gurgling leap’d the fountain’s stream along⁠—

In earth’s green breast by warrior hands enshrin’d,⁠—

Beauty in earth by Valor’s side reclined!

But unforgetful Grief her debt hath paid,

In sad remembrance of thy lovely shade;

And friendly hands have op’d this cell of sleep,

Thy dust to honor, and thy fall to weep,

And maiden trains from village hamlets nigh,

Have borne thy relics thence to where they lie,

There rear’d the slab that tells thy joyless doom,

Points to the skies, and shows thy hallow’d tomb.

Ne’er shall thy fate around thee fail to draw,

Hearts ever true to Nature’s kindliest law⁠—

To trace the spot whereon thy bosom bled,

Where Guilt to Death Life’s sinless semblance wed⁠—

Where startling shrieks in savage madness rose,

That rous’d the panther from his lair’s repose⁠—

Where stood dismay’d the feeble hand that bore

Thy form where savage hands thy ringlets tore⁠—

Where flows the fount, and still the pine-tree stands,

Notch’d by the bird’s beak, and the stranger’s hands,

Rocking its wide boughs to the shivering gale,

The time-worn witness of thy chilling tale.

Now shall the feet of pensive wanderers turn,

With heedless steps from thy more classic urn;

But sadly tread the village grave-yard round,

’Midst tombs defac’d, and many a mouldering mound,

And pause and ponder where, embower’d in green,

Thy marble crowns the fair surrounding scene⁠—

Where gentle gales their flowery fragrance strew,

And morn and eve thy lowly turf bedew⁠—

Where the fresh sward and trembling tree-leaves wave,

While night-winds sing their dirges round thy grave⁠—

And slow-wing’d warblers on their airy way,

Breathe their sad wails o’er Murder’s beauteous prey.

Fair maid belov’d! whose vows were kept in heav’n,

By angels welcom’d ere pronounc’d forgiven⁠—

’Tis not alone that thou didst early die,

That rain thee tears from every manly eye⁠—

Not that thy love’s unanswer’d wish was pure,

Does the touch’d heart remember and deplore;

But that thy form a savage hand should doom,

In bridal robes to share a nuptial tomb⁠—

Just as hope held life’s blissful prize in view,

That death should prove it mockery and untrue,

And make thee share, who sought the plighted brave,

A lover’s anguish and a martyr’s grave!

But vain for thee may roll the tuneful line,

Since praises breath’d from every tongue are thine⁠—

In vain may song its mournful strain bestow,

Since grief to feel is but thy fate to know⁠—

In vain may sorrow her sad dirge impart,

For Pity’s throb is thine from every heart⁠—

In vain thy tale these thoughtful numbers chime,

Since trac’d in blood upon the scroll of time.

Cease then the song, and drop the tear instead,

O’er the still slumbers of the lovely dead⁠—

Heave from the breast the unaffected sigh,

Where spreads her name, and where her ashes lie.

For when from art the world shall cease to know,

Afflicted Beauty’s all-surviving woe⁠—

When poet’s verse and sculptor’s shaft decay,

Time o’er the wreck the story shall display,

And simple truth, with tragic power relate

The love that perish’d from the wrongs of fate,

While Pity melts, and listening Fear turns pale,

With each stern horror of the harrowing tale.

---

HARRY CAVENDISH.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. ETC.

———