GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XX. January, 1842 No. 1.

Contents

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

GRAHAM’S

LADY’S AND GENTLEMAN’S

MAGAZINE.

EMBELLISHED WITH

THE FINEST MEZZOTINTO AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS,

ELEGANT EMBOSSED WORK,

FASHIONS AND MUSIC.

VOLUME XX.

PHILADELPHIA:

GEORGE R. GRAHAM.

1842.

INDEX

TO THE

TWENTIETH VOLUME.

FROM JANUARY TO JUNE, 1842, INCLUSIVE.

Painted by Alex.^r Johnston. Engraved by J. Sartain.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: JANUARY, 1842. No. 1.

THE SHEPHERD’S LOVE.

———

BY J. H. DANA.

———

CHAPTER I.

It was a golden morning in early summer, and a thousand birds were warbling on the landscape, while the balmy wind murmured low and musical among the leaves, when a young girl, attired in a rustic dress, might have been seen tripping over the lea. Her golden tresses, as she walked, floated on the wind, and the exercise had called even a richer carnation than usual to her cheek. Her form was one of rare beauty, and her gait was grace itself. As she glided on, more like a sylph than a mortal being, she carolled one of her country’s simple lays; and what with her liquid tones, her sweet countenance, and her bewitching motion, she formed a picture of loveliness such only as a poet could have imagined.

At length she approached a ruined wall, half hidden by one or two overshadowing trees. The enclosure partially concealed from view the figure of a young shepherd, who, leaning on his hand, gazed admiringly on her approaching figure. Unconscious, however, of the vicinity of an observer, the maiden tripped on, until she had almost reached the enclosure, when the shepherd’s dog suddenly sprung from his master’s side, and barking violently, would have leaped on the intruder, had not the youth checked him. The maiden started and turned pale; but when she perceived the shepherd her cheeks flushed with crimson, and she stood before the youth in a beautiful embarrassment.

“Down, down, Wallace, mon,” said the young shepherd, “ken ye not Jeanie yet—the flower o’ Ettrick? Ah! Jeanie, Jeanie,” he added—and his tone and manner at once betrayed the footing on which he stood with the maiden—“little did ye ken, when ye were tripping sae gaily o’er the lea, with a heart as light as a lavrock and a song as sweet as the waving of the broom at noonday, that one who lo’es ye sae dearly, was lookin’ at ye frae behind this tree.”

The maiden blushed again, and stealing a timid glance at her lover, her eyes sought the ground. The shepherd took her hand, which was not withdrawn from his grasp, and said,

“Ye ken weel, Jeanie dear, what ye were singing,” and his voice assumed a sudden seriousness as he spoke, which caused the maiden again to look up, although the allusion he made to the subject of her song, had dyed her cheeks with new blushes, “and I hae come hither this morning, for I ken ye passed here—to see ye if only for a moment. Ye ken, Jeanie, that we were to hae been one next Michaelmas, and that I was to get the Ellsey farm—a canny croft it is, dearie, and happy, happy would we hae been there”—the maiden looked inquiringly in his face at these words, and her lover continued mournfully—“ye guess the worst, I see, by that look. In one word, a richer man has outbid me, and so, for the third time, hae I been disappointed.” And as he said these words with a husky voice, betokening the depth of his emotion, the speaker paused, and drew the back of his hand across his eyes. His affianced bride showed the true delicacy of her mind in this juncture. Instead of saying aught to comfort him, she drew closer to his side, and laying her hand on his arm, gazed up into his face with a look so full of sympathy and love, that its mute, yet all-powerful eloquence, went to the shepherd’s heart. He drew her tenderly to his bosom, kissed her unresisting brow, and gazed for some moments in silent rapture on her face. At length he spoke.

“Jeanie,” he said, and his voice grew low and tremulous as he spoke, “can ye hear bad news? I canna bide here longer,” he added, after a pause, and with an obvious effort. The maiden started; but having introduced the subject, her lover proceeded firmly—“I canna bide here, year after year, as I hae done for the last twelvemonth, and be put off, month by month, wi’ promises that are never to be fulfilled. I will go away and seek my fortune in other lands. They say money is to be had amaist for the asking in the Indies, and ye ken we may never marry while I remain as now, with na roof to lay my ain head under, to say naething of yours, Jeanie, which I hold dearer than ten thousand thousand sic as mine. So I hae engaged to go out to the Indies, and the ship sails to-morrow. Do not greet, my flower o’ the brae,” said he, as the maiden burst into tears, “for ye ken it is only sufferin’ a lighter evil to put off a greater one. If I stay here we maun make up our minds never to be one, for not a farm is to be had for a puir man like me, from Ettrick to Inverness. In two years, at maist, I will return,” and his voice brightened with hope, as he proceeded, “and then, Jeanie dear, naething shall keep us asunder, and you shall be the richest, and I hope the happiest bride in all the border.”

The manly pathos of his words, his visible attempt to stifle his feelings, and the grief she felt at the contemplated absence of her lover, all conjoined to heighten the emotion of the maiden, and flinging herself on her lover’s bosom, she wept long and uncontrollably. Her companion gazed on in silence, with an almost bursting heart; but he knew that he could not recede from his promise, and that the hour of anguish must be endured sooner or later. Then why not now? At length the sobs of Jeanie grew less violent and frequent—the first burst of her emotion was passing away. Gently then did her lover soothe her feelings, pointing out to her the advantages to result from his determination, and cheering her with the assurance, that in two years, at farthest, he would return.

“I hae no fears, Jeanie, that ye will not prove true to me, and for the rest we are in God’s gude hands. Our lives are as safe in his protection awa on the seas as by our ain ingle-side. And now farewell, for the present, dearie—I maun do many things before we sail to-morrow. God bless you!” and with these words, dashing a tear from his eye, he tore himself from the maiden, and walked rapidly across the lea, as if to dissipate his emotion by the swiftness of his pace. When he reached the brow of the hill, however, he turned to take a last look at the spot where he had parted with Jeanie. She was still standing where he left her, looking after his receding form. He waved his hand, gazed a moment on her, and then whistled to his dog, and dashed over the brow of the hill.

Poor Jeanie had watched him with tearful eyes until he paused at the top of the hill, and her heart beat quick when she saw him turn for a last look. She made an effort to wave her hand in reply; and when she saw him disappear beyond the hill, sank against the wall. Directly a flood of tears came to her relief. It was hours before she was sufficiently composed to return home.

All through that day, and until late at night, Jeanie comforted herself with the hope of again beholding her lover; but he came not. Long after nightfall, a ragged urchin from the village put into her hands a letter. She broke it open tremblingly, for she knew the hand-writing at a glance. It was from her lover. It was kindly written, and the hand had been tremulous that penned it; but it told her that he had felt himself unequal to another parting scene. Before she received this—it continued—he would be far on his way to the place of embarkation. It contained many a sweet message that filled the heart of Jeanie with sunshine, even while the tears fell thick and fast on the paper. It bid her remember him to her only surviving parent, and then it contained a few more words of hope, and ended with “God bless you!—think often in your prayers of Willie.”

That night Jeanie’s pillow was wet with tears, but, even amid her sobs, her prayers might have been heard ascending for her absent lover.

——

CHAPTER II.

The family of Jeanie was poor but virtuous, like thousands of others scattered all over the hills and vales of Scotland. Her father had once seen better days, having been indeed a farmer in a small way; but his crops failing, and his stock dying by disease, he had been reduced at length to extreme poverty. Yet he bore his misfortunes without repining. He had still his daughter to comfort him, and though he lived in a mud-built cottage, he was happy—happy at least, so far as one in his dependent condition could be; for his principal support was derived from the labor of his daughter, added to what little he managed to earn by doing small jobs occasionally for his neighbors. Yet he was universally respected. If you could have seen him on a sunny Sabbath morning, leaning on his daughter’s arm, walking to the humble village kirk: if you could have beheld the respect with which his juniors lifted their bonnets to him, while his own gray locks waved on the wind as he returned their salutations, you would have felt that even utter poverty, if respectable, and cheered by a daughter’s love, was not without its joy.

The love betwixt Jeanie and the young shepherd was not one of a day. It had already been of years standing, and dated far back, almost into the childhood of each. By sunny braes, in green meadows, alongside of whimplin brooks, they had been used to meet, seemingly by chance, until such meetings grew necessary to their very existence, and their love—pure and holy as that between the angelic choristers—became intermixed with all their thoughts and feelings, and colored all their views of life. And all this time Jeanie was growing more beautiful daily, until she became the flower of the valley. Her voice was like that of the cushat in its sweetest cadence—her eye was as blue and sunny as the summer ether—and the smiles that wreathed her mouth came and went like the northern lights on a clear December eve. Thus beautiful, she had not been without many suitors; but to all she turned a deaf ear. Many of them were far above her station in life, but this altered not her determination. Nor did her father, though perhaps, like many of his neighbors, he attached more importance to such offers than Jeanie, attempt to influence her. He only stipulated that her lover should obtain a farm before his marriage. We have seen how his repeated failures in this, and his hopelessness of attaining his object, unless at a very distant period, had at length driven him to seek his fortune elsewhere.

We are telling no romantic tale, but one of real life; and in real life years often seem as hours, and hours as years. We shall make no excuse, therefore, for passing over an interval of more than two years.

It was the gloamin hour when Jeanie and her father sat at their humble threshold. The face of the maiden was sad almost to tears; while that of the father wore a sad and anxious expression. They had been convening, and now the old man resumed their discourse.

“Indeed, Jeanie,” he said, “God knows I would na urge ye do that which is wrong; but we hae suffered and suffered much sin’ Willie left us. Twa years and a half, amaist a third, hae past sin’ that day. Do not greet, my dochter, an’ your auld father may na speak that which is heavy on his mind,” and he ceased, and folded the now weeping girl tenderly to his bosom.

“No, no, father, go on,” sobbed Jeanie, endeavoring to compose herself, an effort in which she finally succeeded. Her father resumed.

“I am growing auld, Jeanie, aulder and aulder every day; my shadow already fills up half my grave—and the time canna be far awa, when I shall be called to leave you alone in the warld.”

“Oh! say not so,” sobbed Jeanie, “you will yet live many a year.”

“Na, na,” he answered, shaking his head, “though it pains my heart to say so, yet it is best you should know the truth. It will na be long before the snows shall lie aboon me. But I see it makes you greet. I will pass on, Jeanie, to what lies heavy on my heart, and that is, when I am awa, there will be no one to protect you. Could I hae seen ye comfortably settled, wi’ some one to shield ye from the cauld world, I could hae gone to my grave in peace. But it maun na be, it maun na be.”

Poor Jeanie had listened to her father’s words with emotions we will not attempt to pourtray. Long after every one else had given over her lover for lost—and besides a rumor, now of two years standing, that he had been drowned at sea, there was the fact of his not returning at the appointed time, to silence all skepticism—she had clung to the hope of his being alive, even when her reason forbid the expression of that hope. She had long read her father’s thoughts, nor could she indeed blame them. Their poverty was daily growing more extreme, so that while her parent’s health was declining, he was compelled to deny himself even the few comforts which he had hitherto possessed. These things cut Jeanie to the heart, and yet she saw no remedy for them, except in what seemed to her more terrible than death. Her affection for her lover was only strengthened and purified by his loss. Try as she would, she could not tear his image from her heart. Loving him thus, living or dead, how could she wed another?—how could she take on herself vows her heart refused to fulfil? Day after day, week after week, and month after month, had this struggle been going on in her bosom, betwixt duty to her father and love for him to whom she had plighted her virgin vows. This evening her parent had spoken to her, mildly but seriously on the death of her lover, and Jeanie’s heart was more than ever melted by the self-devotedness with which her gray-haired father had alluded to her want of protection in case of his death, not even saying a word of the want of the common comforts of life which his growing infirmities rendered more necessary than ever, but of which her conduct—oh! how selfish in that moment it seemed to her—deprived him. It was some moments before Jeanie could speak, during which time she lay weeping on her parent’s bosom. At length she murmured,

“Do wi’ me as ye wish, father, I maun resist no longer, sin’ it were wicked. But oh! gie me a little while to prepare, for the heart is rebellious and hard to overcome. I know you do it all for the best—but I maun hae some delay to tear the last thoughts o’ Willie, thoughts which soon wi’ be sinfu’, from my heart”—and overcome by the intensity of her emotions she burst into a new flood of tears. Her father pressed her to his bosom, and murmured,

“Oh! Jeanie, Jeanie, could ye know how this pains my auld heart! But the thought that when I die ye will be left unprotected in the world, is sair within me. Time ye shall hae, darlint—perhaps,” he added after a moment’s pause, “it were better to gie up the scheme altogether. Aye! Jeanie, I will na cross your wishes even in this; but trust in a gude God to protect you when I am gone. Say no more, say no more about it, dear one; but do just as ye will.”

“No, father,” said Jeanie, looking firmly up, while the tears shone through her long eye-lashes like dew on the morning grass, “no, I will be selfish no longer. Your wish shall be fulfilled. Do not oppose me, for indeed, indeed, I act now as I feel right. Gie me only the little delay for which I ask, and then I will do as you say, and—and”—and her voice trembled as she spoke—“then you will no longer be without those little comforts, dear father, which not even all my love has been able to procure for you. Now kiss me, for I maun go in to be by myself for awhile.”

“God bless you, my dochter, and may he ever hae you in his keeping,” murmured that gray-haired sire, laying his hands on his child’s head—his dim eyes suffusing with tears as he spoke, “God bless ye forever and ever!”

When that father and daughter rejoined each other, an hour later in the evening, a holy calm pervaded the countenance of each; and the looks which they gave each other were full of confidence, gratitude and overflowing affection. And when the daughter drew forth the old worn Bible, and read a chapter in her silvery voice, while the father followed in a prayer that was at times choked by his emotion, there was not, in all broad Scotland, a sweeter or more soul-subduing sight than that lowly cot presented.

——

CHAPTER III.

Although Jeanie was a girl of strong mind, the sacrifice which she contemplated was not to be effected without many inward struggles. But having made up her mind to what she considered her duty, she allowed no personal feelings to swerve her from the strict line she had laid down for herself wherein to walk. Daily did she seek in prayer for aid; and never did she allow her parent to hear a murmur from her lips. Yet, let her strive as she would, the memory of her lover would constantly recur to her mind. At the gloamin hour, in the still watches of the night—by the ingle-side, abroad in the fields, or in the kirk of God—on Sabbath or week day—when listening to her aged sire’s voice, or sitting all alone in her little chamber, the image of him she had loved would rise up before her, diffusing a gentle melancholy over her heart, and seeming, for the moment, to raise an impassable barrier betwixt her and the fulfilment of her new vows—for those vows had already been taken, and the evening which was to make her another’s, was only postponed until the intended bridegroom—a staid farmer of the border—could make the necessary preparations in his homestead, necessary to fit it for a new mistress, and she the sweetest flower of the district.

We are telling no romantic tale, drawn from the extravagant fancy of a novelist, but a sober reality. There are hundreds, all over this broad realm, who are even now sacrificing themselves like Jeanie. Aye! in many a lowly cottage, unrecked of and uncared for by the world, wither away in secret sorrow, beings who, had their lot been cast in happier places, would have been the brightest and most joyous of creatures. How many has want driven, unwilling brides, to the nuptial altar! Who can tell the sacrifice woman will not make to affection, although that sacrifice may tear her heart’s fibres asunder? And thus Jeanie acted. Although she received the attentions of her future husband with a smile, there was a strange unnatural meaning in its cold moonlight expression. Even while he talked to her, her thoughts would wander away, and she would only be awakened from her reverie by some sudden ejaculation of his at perceiving her want of attention. He knew her history, but he had been one of her earliest lovers, and he flattered himself that she had long since forgotten the absent; and, although at times her demeanor would, for a moment, make him suspect the truth, yet a conviction so little in unison with his wishes, led him instantly to discard it. And Jeanie, meanwhile, continued struggling with her old attachment, until her health began to give way beneath the conflict. She scarcely seemed to decline—at least to eyes that saw her daily—but yet her neighbors marked the change. In the beautiful words of the ballad,

“her cheek it grew pale,

And she drooped like a lily broke down by the hail.”

The morning of her wedding-day saw her as beautiful as ever, but with how touching, how sweet an expression of countenance! As she proceeded to the kirk, her exquisite loveliness attracted every eye, and her air of chastened sadness drew tears from more than one spectator acquainted with her history. The bridegroom stood smiling to receive his lovely prize, the minister had already begun the service, and Jeanie’s heart beat faster and faster as the moment approached which was forever after to make all thoughts of Willie sinful, when suddenly the rattling of rapid wheels was heard without, and instantaneously a chaise stopped at the kirk door, and a tall form leaping from the vehicle strode rapidly up the aisle at the very moment that the minister asked the solemn question, if any one knew aught why the ceremony should not be finished.

“Ay,” answered the voice of the intruder, and, as he spoke, he threw off the military cloak he wore and disclosed to the astonished eyes of the spectators the features—scarred and sun burnt, but still the features—of the absent shepherd, “Ay! I stand here, by God’s good aid, to claim the maiden by right of a prior betrothal. I am William Sandford.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen from heaven, or a spirit risen from the dead, the audience would not have been more astonished than by this dénouement. All eagerly crowded around the intruder, gazing on his face, as the Jews of old looked on the risen Lazarus. Doubt, wonder, conviction, enthusiasm followed each other in quick succession through the minds of the spectators. But the long absent lover, pushing aside the friends who thronged around him, strode up to Jeanie’s side, and, clasping her in his arms, asked, in a voice no longer firm, but husky with emotion,

“Oh! Jeanie, Jeanie, hae ye too forgotten me?”

The bride had fainted on his bosom; but a score of eager tongues answered for her, and in hurried words told him the truth.

What have we more to say? Nothing—except that the returned lover took the place of the bridegroom, who was fain to resign his claim, and that the minister united the now re-animated Jeanie and her long-remembered lover, while the congregation looked on with tears of joy.

The returned Shepherd—for we shall still call him so—at length found time to tell his tale. He had been shipwrecked as rumoured, but, instead of being drowned, had escaped and reached India. There he entered the service and was sent into the interior, where he rose rapidly in rank, but was unavoidably detained beyond the appointed two years, while the communications with Calcutta being difficult and uncertain, the letters written home apprizing Jeanie of these facts had miscarried. At length, he had succeeded in resigning his commission, full of honors and wealth. He hastened to Scotland. He reached Jeanie’s home, learned that she was even then becoming the bride of another, hurried wildly to the church, and—our readers know the rest.

SONNET.[^[1]]

———

BY THOMAS NOON TALFOURD.

———

How often have I fixed a stranger’s gaze

On yonder turrets clad in light as fair

As this soft sunset lends—pleas’d to drink air

Of learning that from calm of ancient days

Breathes ’round them ever:—now to me they wear

The tinge of dearer thought; the radiant haze

That crowns them thickens as, with fonder care,

And by its flickering sparkles, sense conveys

Of youth’s first triumphs:—for amid their seats

One little student’s heart impatient beats

With blood of mine. O God, vouchsafe him power

When I am dust to stand on this sweet place

And, through the vista of long years, embrace

Without a blush this first Etonian hour!

THE GOBLET OF LIFE.

———

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

———

Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim;—

And though my eyes with tears are dim,

I see its sparkling bubbles swim,

And chaunt this melancholy hymn,

With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers—no garlands green

Conceal the goblet’s shade or sheen,

Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,

Like gleams of sunshine, flash between

The leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art,

Is filled with waters that upstart,

When the deep fountains of the heart,

By strong convulsion rent apart,

Are running all to waste;

And, as it mantling passes round,

With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,

Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned,

Are in its waters steeped and drowned,

And give a bitter taste.

Above the humbler plants it towers,

The fennel, with its yellow flowers;

And in an earlier age than ours

Was gifted with the wondrous powers

Lost vision to restore:

It gave new strength and fearless mood,

And gladiators fierce and rude

Mingled it in their daily food;

And he who battled and subdued

A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life’s goblet freely press

The leaves that give it bitterness,

Nor prize the colored waters less,

For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give.

For he who has not learned to know

How false its sparkling bubbles show,

How bitter are the drops of woe

With which its brim may overflow,

He has not learned to live!

The prayer of Ajax was for light!

Through all the dark and desperate fight,

The blackness of that noon-day night,

He asked but the return of sight

To know his foeman’s face.

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer

Be, too, for light:—and strength to bear

Our portion of the weight of care,

That crushes into dumb despair

One half the human race.

O suffering, sad humanity!

O ye afflicted ones, who lie

Steeped to the lips in misery,

Longing, and yet afraid to die,

Ye have been sorely tried!

I pledge you in your cup of grief

Where floats the fennel’s bitter leaf!

The battle of our life is brief,—

The alarm,—the struggle,—the relief,—

Then sleep we side by side.

E. T. Parris. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie.

HIGHLAND BEAUTY.

A STORY IN CAMP.

———

BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW.

———

“The fact is, Jeremy, I never liked the idea of writing love stories in the presence of a pretty girl, as there is always something contagious in love,—and do what I might—I have been a hard student that way—some how or other I was always apt to leave off writing, and go to the business of love-making in downright earnest,—studying from nature, you see. It somehow puts a fellow’s hand out for writing, and inclines him more to the use of his tongue, except when, by way of variation, he cooly slips his arm around the dear, blushing, unwilling creature, and drawing her gently to his bosom, as a mother would her child, smothers the ‘bliss of talking,’ as Miss Landon called it, by a cousinly introduction of lips. But,—by the prettiest houri that ever made Mussulman’s heaven!—how do you think the thing is to be managed with two of the prettiest Scotch lassies that ever inspired the song of a Burns, or the valor of a Wallace, looking you right in the eye, and one of them with the most inviting lips, too, that ever set lover’s heart on fire, and each with a pair of eyes that would send the blood tingling through the veins of the veriest woman hater that ever breathed.”

“None of your nonsense, Oliver, but for once give over the lore of talking of yourself, and let us have the story within three pages, if you expect to be out before Christmas with the Magazine! There are a host of better looking fellows than yourself have had their eyes upon the girls, and—to tell you the honest truth,—the game is above your reach.”

“By my faith in woman! Jeremy, you are as sharp this morning as a nor’-wester—I expect you have had your comb cut with one of them. Talking of cutting combs, reminds me of a story. When I was in the army!—”

“Ha! ha! ha! When you were in the army! By George! I like that part of the story amazingly—if the rest is only as good I may feel inclined to allow you half a page more!”

“Come, Jerry, none of that; I’ve known fellows talk about the army who never even heard a gun, and chaps spin out most eternal sea-yarns, that never smelt salt water, as any old tar would tell you before he had listened five minutes to the story; but I am none of your green-horns—I know what I am about when I mention war or beauty,—having seen some service in my day. I therefore commence properly—as every story should have a beginning, even if it has no end.”

“When I was in the army, you see, I became acquainted with a very sentimental fellow, about your size,—though he had rather a better looking whisker for a soldier,—who was always full of romance, and all that sort of thing,—and I do believe the chap had an idea or two of the right kind in his head, but they were so mixed up with the wrong kind, that, like the funds of a good many bankers now-a-days, they were not always ‘available.’ He had got it into his cranium, and there it would stick, that he had a little better blood in him than any body else, so that he was confoundedly careful not to have any of it spilt, and nothing but the daughter of a lord came any way near the mark to which he aspired. He used to tell a good many stories about himself, and he would tell them pretty well too, but they somehow or other had a smack of the marvellous. His stories about the doings among the gentry—the fellow, you see, had been educated by a lord, or something of that sort, and had seen a little of high life above stairs as well as below—took amazingly in the camp, especially his sentimental ones, for he had the knack of making a fool of himself—”

“But, for goodness sake, Oliver! the story!—the story!”

“The fact is, Jerry, I am pretty much in the predicament of the knife-grinder!—Story of my own—I have none to tell. But here is one of——confound the fellow’s name,—no matter.”

“Emily Melville—the only daughter of the proud Lord Melville, who was well known in the time of the wars—as the representative of the long line of illustrious Scottish nobles of that name, was the pride of the Lowland nobility, and the belle of every assembly. She was as fair as a white fawn, and scarcely less wild. Her mother being dead, few restraints were placed upon the young beauty by the old house-keeper, who, in the main, filled the place. Emily, therefore, held in proud disdain the restraints which would have been imposed by the prudes of her sex, and thought that the great art of living was to be happy. Laughter was always on her lips, and sunlight forever on her brow. She was beautiful, and you knew it, yet you could not tell the secret of it, nor, for their restlessness and brilliancy, whether her eyes were blue or gray, yet you knew that they were pretty, and felt that they were bright. Her voice was like the warble of a bird in spring, its notes were so full of joyousness; and her motion was like that of a fairy, so light and graceful, that, had you seen her tripping over the smoothly shaved lawn in front of the mansion—her auburn hair drooping in long ringlets over her snowy and finely rounded shoulders—and heard her gay glad voice, swelling out in song and happiness, you would have fancied her an angel from the upper sphere.”

“I doubt that last part, my good fellow”—interrupted a bluff old soldier—“until I had tried an arm around her, to see if she wasn’t flesh and blood, I wouldn’t a’ trusted fancy.”

“An interruption, gentlemen. You see if the story is told right, a man must feel what he says, and you’ll find out before it’s done, that I”—

“What, young man! You didn’t begin to make love to her did you?”

“Gentlemen, I must persist”—

“Well, was she in love—tell us that.”

“Love!—She laughed at it—and said, ‘she loved nothing but her pet fawn—her canary—the flowers, both wild and tame—the blue sky—the sunshine—the heather—the forest—the mountains—and it might be—she did not know—she might love her cousin Harry Hardwick, if he was as pleasant as he was when her playmate a few years ago—but he was now at his father’s castle on the mountain, and perhaps had grown coarse, boorish, or ill-mannered. She did not know therefore whether she should love him or not—rather thought she should not—but then she had her father, and enough around her to love and cherish, and why should she trouble herself about the matter.’

“You will not wonder, gentlemen, that such a creature should inspire me with love—a deep, devoted, heart-absorbing, deathless passion. I loved her as man never loved woman before. Every pulsation, every energy of my being seemed for her”—

“Of course, you’d love her!—never heard you tell of a pretty girl that you didn’t love—but give us the pith and marrow of the matter; did she return the compliment?”

“All in good time!—You see the thing might have been very handsomely managed, if it had not been for one or two impediments”—

“What in the plague does the fellow mean by impediment?”

“Hush, can’t you! He means he didn’t get her, of course.”

“Well, you see, gentlemen, there was a shocking looking young fellow of a lord, who lived upon the next estate, who got it into his head that he must take a hand in the game. To give him his due, he was accomplished, witty, had a title, and a splendid whisker, and from beginning to call every few days to inquire after Lord Melville’s health—the old chap had the best health in the world—about three times a-week, he soon managed to call the other four days on his own account, so that I found the prize in a fair way to be snatched from my grasp, and I resolved to bring matters to a close pretty soon. So one morning, when Lord Melville was out looking into parliamentary matters, inquiring into the affairs of the nations, or his own, I thought I would open the question genteely. Emily had sung for me most sweetly, without any apology or affectation, and we were now sitting chatting very pleasantly together. How easy, then, to turn the conversation in the proper channel. To discourse of green fields—of murmuring brooks—of the delights of solitude with one of congenial tastes—of the birds, the fawn, and the attachment they showed their mistress. Then, of course, she would wonder whether they really loved her, whether they knew what love was, or only felt joy at her presence, because they knew her as their feeder. Then I would say, of course they loved her, how could they do otherwise,—were not all things that approached her fated to love her. Then she blushes, gets up, and goes to the window opening on the garden—to look at the flowers maybe—I must see them too, of course, for they are her flowers. I always loved flowers, and particularly love these. Things, gentlemen, were thus progressing pretty smoothly, you will see, considering that the lady was the daughter of a lord, and of course heiress to his whole estate, when lo!—my unlucky genius as usual—the housekeeper must poke in her head, and ask if ‘anybody called.’ No! certainly not! What young lady ever called a housekeeper at such a time! Pshaw! The thing was shocking to think of! How stupid in her! The old thing had an eye in her head like a hawk, however, and saw pretty clearly how matters stood, and whether she thought that there was no chance for me in that quarter, or had some private preference of her own, she maintained her ground until I deemed it prudent to withdraw.

“Days passed away, and no opportunity was afforded me of renewing my suit. Whether the old housekeeper took the matter in hand or not, of course I cannot say; but when days began to grow into weeks, I began to feel the wretchedness of first love. Who has not felt its fears, its doubts, the torture, whether you are beloved by the object of your affection, and the uncertainty, even in your own mind, whether you are worthy of that love?—who has not felt the dread of rivalry, the fears of the effects of a moment’s absence, and the thousand untold pangs, which none but a lover’s imagination can inflict—and he a lover for the first time? It is strange, gentlemen, that I should, after this sweet interview, which seemed destined to be the last that I should have with the most angelic of beings, place myself upon the rack, and delight in the torture, with the devotion to wretchedness of a heart inspired with ‘the gentle madness,’ for the first time, of passionate, deathless love—”

“Hold up, comrade! and do give us the pith of the matter, without all this flummery. I’ve known chaps talk all day in that strain, who never had any story to tell, but would go on yarning it until roll-call, just to hear themselves talk. Now, if you got the gal, say so—if you didn’t, tell us why—and none of your rigmarole.”

“Of course, gentlemen, I did not get her, and that is the reason I am here to tell the story. Misfortunes, you know, travel close upon each other’s heels, and sure enough, in the midst of my misery, the carriage of Lord Hardwick was announced, and who should it contain but Emily’s cousin ‘Harry,’—her old playmate, and his sister. I heard the announcement, but I heard no more, until an hour or two afterwards, when, out of sheer melancholy, I had taken to the garden for contemplation and meditation, I accidentally overheard Harry Hardwick’s declaration and his acceptance, and, after half an hour of silence, a laugh by both parties at my expense.

“I had enough of the soldier’s blood in me, gentlemen, even then, to take no notice of this downright incivility and want of breeding, though I do not of course suppose that the parties dreamed that they had a listener, so I cast her off as unworthy of my love; and thus ended my first love.”

“Very sensibly done, too, my boy! I applaud your spirit. It was worthy of a soldier.”

“But, gentlemen, this was but the opening of difficulties, for I was no sooner out of this scrape than my sensitive heart must betray me into another. How all the dreams of even Emily’s beauty melted away as the mist from the hills—perhaps assisted by the knowledge she was the prize of another—when next morning my eyes beheld Arabella Hardwick. She was leaning over the back of the sofa, at the very window from which the day before I had praised the flowers with Emily. Passing beautiful was she as she stood in her virgin loveliness before me, with her highland-cap and its white plume over curls of jet, that seemed in mere wantonness to fall from beneath, over her fine neck and swelling bosom, whose treasures were scarcely concealed by the highland-mantle which so well became her. Her brow was slightly shaded with curls, while from beneath, her eyes, darker than heaven’s own blue, seemed to be melting before your gaze. Her smile was sweetness itself, and came from lips of which heaven and earth seemed to dispute ownership. Emily was seated at her side, in the act of fixing a hawk’s feather in a highland-cap for her own fair brow, yet in her eye mischief and cunning strove for mastery, and her whole face was so full of meaning that I knew that I must have been the subject of previous conversation, and I felt my face crimson before the highland beauties. I verily believe that I made an impression, gentlemen, which, had it been properly followed up, might have been the making of me; I have always fancied somehow or other that the highland beauty was rather smitten with me, for there was such a coaxing expression in her whole face, and particularly in her lips—which seemed to be begging a kiss—that I do believe that if it had not been for the presence of my old flame, ‘my first love,’ gentlemen, I should have carried the fortress by storm! but you see, as it was, I stood blushing and looking simple until, for very amusement sake, both commenced laughing, and Emily broke the ice by asking me if I had lost my tongue.

“ ‘On this hint I spoke.’—It is not necessary, gentlemen, to repeat all the fine things I said—for fine things in a sentimental way, are not relished in camp—but suffice it to say that the ground was so well marked out in my first interview, that I deemed it expedient to pop the question, ‘striking while the iron’s hot,’ you know—somewhat musty, but very expressive—yet you will scarcely believe me, gentlemen—she rejected me flat—‘because I had no whiskers.’ ”

“You don’t say that was the main objection?”

“I say that was the only objection, and to prove its validity, she married five months after, Lord Gordon, Emily’s former suitor—whose only advantage was a fine pair of whiskers—with the addition of an estate and a title.”

“But perhaps the latter had some weight.”

“None, I assure you, as I pressed the matter, and she averred, that love in a cottage with a whisker, was in every way more congenial to her taste, than the finest mansion in the land without that appendage. So you see I took to cultivating whiskers with great assiduity; but for a long time, the rascals defied all attempts to train them; the shoots were tolerably advanced in less than six months; but they were too late—for the lady was married.”

“Well, you are a cool sort of a fellow to talk of transferring your love from one high-born lady to another, with the same ease as a soldier does a feather from his cap. I suppose you finally courted the old housekeeper out of sheer revenge.”

“None of that, I assure you, for she revenged my want of attention that way, by giving Lord Melville a history of the whole matter—with trimmings.—So the old codger said I was as crazy as a bed-bug, and clapped me in the army, as a kind of lunatic asylum to recover my wits. So that’s the end of the story.”

“There, Jerry, put that in your pipe, or your Magazine, just as you like, for no story do I write for a fellow who comes to me with a piece of tape to measure the length, as if a man spun like a spider, and if it don’t fill your three pages—add a paragraph about the children.—What do ye say?”

“It’s rather so-soish at best, Oliver!—But what regiment did you say you were in?”

“Regiment—did I say anything about regiment? You must be mistaken, Jerry! these confounded soldier terms are all mouldering in my brain, these peaceable times.”

“Well, where was the army encamped?”

“At a—a place with a confounded French name—I never had any command of the cursed language, and was glad enough when we got out of the place, never to bother my brain with its name.”

“Well, the war!—In what war was it?—Let us have something to go upon.”

“As for dates and names, Jerry, I never for the soul of me, could make any headway with them. A phrenologist once told me, that for names and dates I had no development, and whenever I begin to try to think of my exploits in battle, I think the fellow was right—as I am always out for the want of names and dates. So I think it best first to tell the facts, and let people fix dates to suit themselves. So, Jerry, hand over the port—this is confounded dry business.”

“To tell you the truth, Oliver, the whole story has rather a squint, and I have half a notion that for the most of it, we are indebted to the good looks of the two bonnie Scotch lassies, and rather a marvellous imagination.”

LINES.

WRITTEN ON A PORTRAIT OF WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON.

———

BY MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.

———

Hail pictured image! thine immortal art

Hath snatch’d a hero from the arms of death,

In whose broad bosom beat the noblest heart

That ever drew on earth a balmy breath;

For while amid the sons of men he trod,

That true nobility to him was given

Whose seal is stamp’d by an approving God,

Whose ever-blooming title comes from heaven.

The fire of genius glistened in his glance,

’Twas written on his calm majestic brow,

That men might look upon its clear expanse

And read that God and Nature made him so;

Yet that pale temple could not always keep

The soul imprisoned in its earthly bars,

Born for the skies, his god-like soul doth sweep

The boundless circle of the radiant stars.

How soft the placid smiles that seemed to bask

Round those pale features once the spirit’s shrine

And hover round those lips that only ask

A second impress from the hand divine!

And look upon that brow! a living light

Plays like a sun-beam o’er his silver hair,

As if the happy spirit in its flight

Had left a saint-like glory trembling there.

Yet tho’ some skilful hand may softly paint

The noble form and features we adore,

Such deeds as thine are left, Oh happy Saint!

Are left alone for Memory to restore.

And still thy virtues like a soft perfume

That rises from a bed of fading flowers,

Immortal as thyself, shall bud and bloom

Deep in these hearts, these grateful hearts of ours.

Sons of Columbia! ye whose spirits soar

Elate with joyous hopes and youthful fires,

Go, imitate the hero you deplore,

For this is all that God or man requires.

Oh! while you bend the pensive brow of grief,

Muse on the bright examples he has given,

And strive to follow your ascended chief

Whose radiant foot-prints lead to fame and heaven.

Oh guard his grave! it is a solemn trust,

Nor let a single foeman press the sod

Beneath whose verdure sleeps the sacred dust

Once hallowed by the quick’ning breath of God.

Thus in his lonely grandeur let him lie

Wrapt in his grave on fair Ohio’s shore,

His deeds, his virtues, all that could not die,

Remain with us, and shall for evermore.

TO A LAND BIRD AT SEA.

———

BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

———

Bird of the land! what dost thou here?

Lone wanderer o’er a trackless bound,—

With nought but frowning skies above,

And cold, unfathom’d seas around;

Among the shrouds, with heaving breast

And drooping head, I see thee stand,

And pleased the coarsest sailor climbs,

To grasp thee in his roughen’d hand.

And didst thou follow, league on league,

Our pointed mast, thine only guide,

When but a floating speck it seemed

On the broad bosom of the tide?

On far Newfoundland’s misty bank,

Hadst thou a nest, and nurslings fair?

Or ’mid New England’s forests hoar?

Speak! speak! what tidings dost thou bear?

What news from native shore and home,

Swift courier o’er the threatening tide?—