GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXI. July, 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

MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC.

WILLIAM C. BRYANT, J. FENIMORE COOPER, RICHARD H. DANA, HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, THEODORE S. FAY, J. H. MANCUR,

MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, MRS. SEBA SMITH, MRS. “MARY CLAVERS,” MRS. E. F. ELLET, MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD, ETC.,

PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS.

GEORGE R. GRAHAM AND RUFUS W. GRISWOLD, EDITORS.

VOLUME XXI.

PHILADELPHIA:

GEORGE R. GRAHAM, NO. 98 CHESNUT STREET.

...........

1842.

INDEX

TO THE

TWENTY-FIRST VOLUME.

FROM JUNE TO DECEMBER, 1842, INCLUSIVE.

E. T. Parris. E. G. Dunnel.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXI. PHILADELPHIA: JULY, 1842. No. 1.

THE POLISH MOTHER.

It was a gorgeous bridal. The old hall of the palace was lit up with a thousand lights, and crowded with all the wealth, beauty and rank of Poland. The apartment blazed with the jewels of its occupants. Princes with their proud dames, high officers of state, nobles whose domains vied in extent with kingdoms, and lordly beauties beneath whose gaze all bent in adoration, had gathered at that magnificent festival to do honor to the bridal of the fair daughter of their host. And loveliest among the lovely was the bride. Tall and majestic in every movement, with a queenly brow, and a face such as might have been that of the mother of the gods, she moved through the splendid apartment the theme of every admiring tongue. Nor less remarkable was her husband. Warsaw beheld no noble tread her palaces more lordly in his bearing than the Count Restchifky. The fire of a hundred warrior ancestors burned in his eye. The fame of his high lineage, of his extended possessions, of his feats in arms, followed his footsteps wherever he went. In manly beauty the court of Poland had no rival to the count, in majestic loveliness the realm furnished no equal to his bride. And now, as they stood together in that proud old hall, surrounded by all that was noble and beautiful in the land, the peerless beauty of the countess and the princely bearing of her husband shone pre-eminent.

Never had Warsaw seen such a festival. All that the most boundless wealth and all that a taste the most fastidious could do to add to the splendor of the occasion had been done, and the guests, one and all, bore testimony to the success of the princely entertainer. The air was laden with incense, flowers bloomed around, unseen music filled the hall with harmony, and statues and carvings of rare device met the eye at every turn. If Aladdin had been there he would not have asked that his enchanted palace should excel in magnificence the one before him. No visionary, in his wildest dream, could imagine aught more beautiful. And through this unrivalled ball the count and his bride moved, conscious that all this splendor was evoked for their honor, feeling that not a heart in all the vast assembly but envied their exalted lot. At every step congratulations met them until they turned away sick with adulation. What wonder that the rose grew still deeper on the cheek of the bride, that her eyes flashed with brighter brilliancy, or that her step became more queenly? Could aught mortal wholly resist the intoxication of that hour?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Years had elapsed. That fair young bride had become a mother; but time had passed over her without destroying one lineament of her majestic beauty. But the scene had changed from that through which she moved on her bridal night. There were no longer around her wealth and splendor and beauty, the flattery of the proud, the envy of the fair. She sat alone—alone with her two children, one a lovely girl of sixteen, and the other a smiling boy whose birth three years before had thrilled her husband’s heart with ecstasy, filled a province with rejoicings. But now that husband was away from her side, that province lay smoking around her. Her own proud home, where since her marriage she had spent the happiest hours of her life, had been sacked and given to the flames, and she now sat leaning against a shattered parapet, with her face buried in her hands, and the bitter tear of a mother’s anguish rolling down her cheeks. At her feet, leaning on her for succor, and clasping her hand, sat her daughter; while her boy, too young as yet to be conscious of the misery around him, smiled as he played with the jewelled cross depending from his mother’s neck. A broken sword, a dismounted cannon, the shattered staff of a lance, at the feet of the group, betokened that the vassals of the count had not yielded up her house to rapine without a deadly struggle; and indeed, of the hundreds of hearts which beat there, but the day before, only those of the mother and her two children had escaped captivity or death. Part of the palace was yet in flames, while, on the plain beyond, a village threw its lurid conflagration across the sky. Desolation and despair sat enthroned around. Who that had seen that mother on her bridal night, could have foretold that her after life would reveal a scene like this?

The Polish war for independence had broken out. Among the foremost of the patriotic band which perilled all for their country, was the Count Restchifky. His sword had been unsheathed at the outbreak of the conflict, his fortune had been poured the first into the coffers of the state. From his own estates he had raised and equipped as gallant a band as ever followed lord to the tented field. And for a short space the war seemed to prosper. But then came the reverse. From every quarter the haughty Catharine poured her countless legions, headed by the fierce Suwarrow, into Poland, and smoking fields and slaughtered armies soon told that the day of hope for that ill-fated land was over. Yet a few noble spirits, among whom the count was foremost, still held out for their country, fighting every foot of ground, and though retreating before the overwhelming forces of the foe, compelling him to purchase every rood of land he gained by the lives of hundreds of his venal followers. It was at this period, and while the count was far from his home, that his palace had been attacked, and given to the flames. Afar from succor, unconscious whether or not her husband yet lived, and trembling for the lives of her offspring amid the desolation which surrounded them, what wonder that even the proud heart of the countess gave way, and that she wept in utter agony over her ruined country and her dismantled home!

“Oh! mother,” said the daughter, “if we only knew where father was, or if he yet lived, we might still be happy. Wealth is nothing to us, for will we not still love each other? Dry your tears, dear mother, for something tells me that father lives and will yet rejoin us.”

At these words of comfort, more soothing because coming from a quarter so unexpected, the mother looked up, and, drawing her daughter to her bosom, kissed her, saying,

“You are right, my child. We will hope for the best. And if your father has indeed fallen, and we are alone in the world, I will remember that I have you to comfort me, and strive—to—be happy,” and, in despite of her effort to be calm, the tears gushed into her eyes at the bare thought of the possible loss of her husband.

“But see, mother,” suddenly exclaimed the daughter, “see the cloud of dust across the plain—can it betoken the return of the foe?” and she drew close to her mother’s side.

The mother gazed with eager eyes across the plain, and her cheek paled as she thought she distinguished the banner of Russia borne in the advance.

“It is, it is as I feared,” said the daughter, “they come to carry us into captivity. Oh! let us hide from their sight—there are secret recesses in the ruins yet where we might defy scrutiny.”

“No,” said the mother, all the spirit of her race rising in her at this crisis, “no, my daughter, it would not become us, like base-born churls, thus to fly from a foe. The wife and children of Count Restchifky will meet his enemies on his own hearth-stone, all dismantled though it be.”

With these words she clasped her babe closer to her bosom, and sat down again behind the parapet to await, as the daughter of a hundred princes should await, the approach of her murderers; and although perhaps her cheek was a hue paler, the lofty glance of her eye quailed not. Her daughter sank to her feet and buried her face in her mother’s robe. But after a few minutes she regained courage, and looked timidly out across the plain. At the first glance she started and said eagerly,

“But see, mother, can they really be enemies? They wave their banners as if to us—they increase their speed—surely, surely that gallant horseman in the advance is my own dear father.”

A moment the mother gazed eagerly on the approaching horseman, but a moment only. The eye of the wife saw that her husband was indeed there, and, with a glad cry, she clasped her children in her arms and burst into a flood of joyful tears. She was still weeping when the count, dismounting from his charger, rushed forward and clasped her in his arms.

“Thank God!” he ejaculated, “you at least are left to me. I had feared to find you no more. May the lightning of heaven blast the cravens who could thus desolate the home of a woman.”

“My husband, oh! my husband!” was all that the wife could say.

“Father, dear father, you are safe—oh! we shall yet be happy,” said the daughter as she clung to her restored parent.

The father kissed and re-kissed them all, and for once his stern nature was moved to tears, but they were tears of joy.

His story was soon told. Finding that all hope of saving his country was over, and eager to learn the fate of those he had left at home, he had cut his way through the enemy with a few gallant followers. As he drew near the vicinity of his palace, he had heard strange rumors of the sacking of his home, and on every side his own eyes beheld the ravages of the foe. Torn with a thousand fears respecting the fate of those he loved better than life, he had pressed madly on, and when the blackened and smoking walls of his palace had risen before him in the distance he had almost given way to despair. But, at length, his eager eye caught sight of a group amid the ruins, and his heart told him that those he loved remained yet to cheer his ruined fortunes.

No pen can do justice to the feelings of gratitude which throbbed in the bosom of that father as he pressed his wife and children successively to his heart. His plans were soon laid. He had, by remittances to England on the outbreak of the war, provided his family against want, and thither they now bent their steps. Over his ruined country he shed many a tear, but, at such times, the smiles of his wife and children were ever ready to cheer his despondency; and as he gazed on his lovely family he felt that there was much yet in this world to bid him be happy.

“THOU HAST LOVED.”

———

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

———

Dearest, in thine eye’s deep light

Is a look to tears allied⁠—

Sorrow struggling with delight,

Each the other seeks to hide;

Thou, the freighted ark of life

Lonely floating on the sea,

With thy being’s treasure rife⁠—

Thou hast wearied thus to be.

Thou hast sent thy dove from thee⁠—

Forth hast launched thy dove of peace,

And the branch, though green it be,

Can it bid thy doubtings cease?

Though it speak of hope the while,

Verdant spots and sunny bowers,

Can it bring thee back the smile

That beguiled thy vacant hours?

Take thy dove and fold its wing⁠—

Fold its ruffled wing to rest;

Deluge airs around it ring:

Let it nestle on thy breast.

Dearest, all thy care is vain⁠—

Mark its trembling, weary wings;

But it comes to thee again,

And an olive branch it brings.

Take it, bind it unto thee,

Though the leaves are dim with tears;

Such thy woman lot must be⁠—

Love and sorrow, hopes and fears.

Bind the branch of promise ever

To thy heart, with fear oppressed,

Let the leaves of hope, oh! never,

Withered, leave their place of rest.

VIOLA.

———

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

———

This simple chain of sunny hair,

Thus braided by thy gentle hand,

Anear my heart I ever wear,

Since thou art gone to shadow-land.

Whene’er upon the little gift

Of thy sweet love my eye is cast,

Will welcome memory come and lift

The curtains of the silent Past!

Ah! my fond heart, as well it may,

Feels then, in all its depth anew,

That which, when thou wait called away,

Ennobled and immortal grew!

Lost one! to thee I’ll constant prove,

Long as I walk this mortal strand,

So may I claim thy perfect love

When we shall meet in shadow-land.

PAINTED BY LUCY ADAMS. ENGRAVED BY H. S. SADD.

MORNING PRAYER.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.

He is not here!

We meet around the altar yet once more,

Where we our prayers have blent so oft before,

And drop a tear

Upon the holy book from which he read

Who sleeps, at length, in peace, among the silent dead.

Yet from on high

He looketh on us—widow, daughter, son⁠—

Pointing the course by which he glory won.

He still is nigh,

On angel’s wings, to comfort us and guide,⁠—

Unseen, but not unfelt, forever by our side.

Father in heaven!

Who hast called home the leader of our band,

And the bright glories of the better land

Unto him given,

O, be with us, and keep us in the way

That leads, through this dark night, to an unending day!

Strengthen our hearts

To bear, with fortitude, the ills of time;

Preserve them ever from the winter’s rime,

So let our parts

Be acted, that again the prayer and song

We may together blend, and through all time prolong!

THE FANCY-FAIR.

———

BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.

———

“With her personage, her tall personage,

Her height, forsooth, she hath prevailed with him.”

Shakspeare.

“Good morning, Saybrooke,” said a gentleman named Creswell, meeting a friend; “I have just ascertained to whom Collins is married—a lady of your city—Laura Sands.”

“Amazing!” exclaimed Saybrooke, striking down his cane with such energy that the other started; “why, she is six feet high!”

“Not quite,” returned Creswell, laughing; “and, though somewhat large, she is one of the most queenly looking women—”

“Pshaw! Victoria has put that word out of fashion, or at least changed its signification.”

“I beg pardon—I had forgotten your horror of large women, or, rather, I did not regard it, supposing it was your affectation—everybody has at least one.”

“Affectation! take care, or I’ll raise my stick at you!”

“Well, it is unaccountable that a man of your inches should have such notions. Now, for a little fellow, like myself, it would be bad taste to be following women who might look as if they could flog him, but with your six feet two, and abundant proportions, the case is different. On the contrary, I can’t imagine anything more comical than a little wife hanging on your arm; she would look like a reticule—not straining a pun.”

“In saying I detest large women, I make no committal by preferring very small ones; but, seriously, I would no more expect to find a woman’s soul in all its sweetness, delicacy and purity hidden in a coarse, capacious body, than I could think of loving a woman for the recommendation—‘Sexu fæmina, ingenio vir.’ ”

“There it is with you men of fortune! You become so finical from having all sorts of attractions paraded before you, that you stand still waiting for perfection, till at last, in despair, you tie up your eyes, and, like a child at blind man’s buff, spring forward and secure the first against whom you stumble. Now, we poor, hard-working dogs—but I’ll get out of heart if I talk about my own grievances. I have a lady selected for you, beautiful, accomplished, with a thousand excellencies, and of station in society and all that, just to suit, but this last freak has chilled my good intentions. So good bye, till I get into a better humor!”

In the evening the two gentlemen met again, as Saybrooke was coming out of an exchange office, in the act of securing his pocket book.

“Have you been filling or emptying that article, which?” asked Creswell.

“The more agreeable alternative,” replied his friend.

“Then you are the very fellow I wished to see. I have an appointment for you to-night—to take you to a ladies’ fair.”

“The mischief! when you know that fancy-fairs are my aversion, and not from caprice but from real principle. I don’t know anything more disgusting than to see a room full of Misses, taking advantage of some either really or nominally worthy purpose, to exhibit themselves to the public, and to gratify a petty and an indelicate vanity, by flirting over their pincushions and doll-babies with any fellow who can afford an admittance shilling for the honor.”

“Come, come, that’s really too severe, but just now I have not time to take the other side of the question. This, however, is no ordinary occasion. It is an impromptu affair, undertaken by a number of charming, whole-hearted girls, to raise a fund in aid of the sufferers by a recent public disaster, and more taste, enthusiasm, and liberality, I have never seen exhibited. If you wish to see the élite of our beauty and fashion, under the most favorable circumstances, you had better avail yourself of my invitation.”

“If that is the case, I have no scruples. I intended to appropriate a part of this very supply to a charity so unquestionable, and it may as well pass through the medium you have selected as any other. So I’m at your service.”

At the appointed time they reached the —— Saloon, in which the fair was held, and Creswell, who from previous visits was posted as to all concerning it, led his friend, for a cursory inspection, around the room. Its arrangements were novel and tasteful, its decorations of the most rich and appropriate character, and the fair projectors were fulfilling their duties with a dignity, grace, and decorum that surprised as well as gratified the fastidious stranger.

“Now, if you are satisfied,” said Creswell, “I’ll give myself the trouble to advise you in the disposal of that spare cash of yours—come to this table,” and bowing to its fair attendant, he took up a large and magnificently bound quarto volume, and turned over its pages; “I have heard you express a fondness, Saybrooke,” he continued, “for what you call the only ladies’ science—Botany; did you ever see any thing to equal this?” It was a collection of dried flowers, of such as best preserve their color, pressed with great niceness and skill, and pasted on the smooth, white pages so carefully, some singly and some in groups, that it required close examination to distinguish them from delicate water-color drawings. Beneath them were written, in an exquisite hand, clear, full, and accurate technical descriptions, and on intermediate pages quotations appropriate to their symbolical characters, or fanciful and elegant passages, evidently original.

“This must have been the work of a lady, judging from its ingenuity and beauty,” said Saybrooke.

“It was done by Miss Martha Grainger, was it not?” asked Creswell, turning to the title page, which was a graceful vignette, executed, even to the lettering, in leaves and flowers, but it contained no name.

“Of course,” returned the pretty vender; “no other of us could have had the taste, patience, and knowledge for such a work, to say nothing of the talent the literary illustrations display. I really think it was a piece of heroism in her to give up a possession so beautiful, and one that must have cost her a world of labor and care.”

“If it is not already sold, I shall be happy to become its purchaser,” said Saybrooke; and paying for his acquisition with much satisfaction, they walked on. The next thing that struck their notice was a large vase encrusted with shells, and filled with fragrant and splendid flowers. It was white, and transparent as alabaster, and of an antique form, as rare as beautiful. Saybrooke examined it carefully. “How superior,” said he, “to the unshapely, crockery-looking ware commonly seen as shell-work—nothing could be more perfectly elegant and classical than it is.”

“Is it of your workmanship, Miss Ellen?” asked Creswell.

“I am sorry to say, very far from it. It is a donation from Martha Grainger; she had just finished it for herself, but, with her usual generous benevolence, gave it up in hope that it might be turned to the benefit of the unfortunate. The flowers, which you seem to admire so much, Mr. Creswell, are also of her culture. Her windows, you know, were the rivals of the green-houses, but she robbed them all to fill it. Suppose you take it for your office? There is no one who will value it more.”

“Ah, if I could afford to have all I value! but I would not desecrate anything so pure and sweet, by stowing it away among the rough book-cases, and dust, and cobwebs of a poor lawyer’s office. Now, my friend here could give it a place not unworthy. If it were placed within your curtains, Saybrooke, I’d engage that you would have more bright eyes peeping through your windows than you ever had before.”

“The temptation is too strong to be resisted,” answered Saybrooke, smiling, and he placed his card in a handle of the vase, as its purchaser. “I am glad to find that the botanical lady has a real love of flowers,” he continued, as he walked away with a China rose, which he had selected, in his hand; “it is not always the case; a proficiency in the science argues a clear and discriminating mind; the other seems to belong to a naturally refined taste.”

“Pray, Mr. Creswell, can’t you find us a purchaser for this?” asked a lady, pointing to a glass case, which contained a set of elaborately carved ivory chess-men.

“An exquisite set,” said Saybrooke, “they look like fairy work.”

“I think this is not the first time I have seen them, madam; can you remind me where they came from?” said Creswell.

“They were added to our stock by Miss Grainger, an effort of self-denial that I fear I never could have attained. They were sent to her as a present by an uncle in India, but she is so conscientious that she offered them for our undertaking, saying that she could not be satisfied to keep them for mere amusement, when a set for ten dollars would answer as well. Of course we cannot expect to get their real value, as, very properly, there are few persons who would offer a couple of hundred dollars for a thing of the kind, but we are in hopes that some one willing to aid the cause will take them at a price which, at least, will not be unworthy of the generosity of the donor.”

“As it is not very likely, from present appearances,” said Saybrooke, “that the artists of the Celestial Empire will have the courage and leisure to execute toys so singularly elaborate and ingenious for some time to come, I may as well avail myself of the opportunity, and take possession of these. Will this be sufficient for them, madam?”

“Thank you, sir, for your liberality,—it is more than we expected;” said the lady, looking after the stranger with much curiosity.

“That Miss Grainger must be a remarkable person to be possessed of so much talent and industry, and so much open-handed generosity. But what have you there?” Creswell was looking at a pair of small paintings which ornamented one of the stalls, and Saybrooke continued, after joining him, “these are really beautiful little things, and from their apparent reference to the late calamity, they must have been furnished expressly for this occasion. They are evidently by the same hand, yet it must have been difficult for one person to do them in so short a time. There is much feeling, as well as originality, in the designs, and not less spirit than grace in their execution. May I ask, Miss, from whom these were obtained?”

“They are from the pencil of a lady, sir,—the all-accomplished Miss Grainger.”

“Miss Grainger again!” said Saybrooke smiling; “they are marked for sale, I believe?”

“They are, sir, though we would prefer letting them remain here till the sale is over.”

“Certainly; but you will let me secure them in time?” and having completed the purchase, he followed Creswell; “there now,” said he, “I think I have done my part, so I shall tie up my purse-strings; but pray who is this Miss Grainger?”

“What do you imagine her to be?”

“An active, bustling, fussy old maid, such a person who is always to be found in the like enterprises; but in addition she must have an enlarged mind, which, having freed her from the selfishness peculiar to her relative position, still furnishes her with resources to devote to general benevolence.”

“You never were more mistaken in your life,—but what do you think of that oriental kiosk which the ladies have fitted up as the post-office?”

“I was just going to remark that it is particularly tasteful and beautiful.”

“The plan is another of the labors of Miss Grainger,—but we must ask for letters to finish our business.”

“Certainly, but where is your fair virtuoso? you must point her out to me.”

“Very well, come along, and I’ll introduce you, but of one thing I must apprise you beforehand,—with all her admirable qualities she is, unfortunately, quite—a large woman—the largest, I should think, in the room.”

“That is unfortunate,” said Saybrooke, looking disturbed; “but as I wish merely to have my curiosity gratified, and to pay a tribute of respect to an intellectual and a useful woman, I shall put up with that.”

Creswell paused to speak with an acquaintance, and Saybrooke walked forward. Suddenly a lady swept by, almost jostling him, and of a size that over-shadowed all around her. She was beflounced and befurred, had a tall feather waving above her hat, a decided shade on her upper lip, and a step like a grenadier.

“See here, Creswell, you needn’t mind taking me to see Miss Grainger,—I don’t want to be introduced to her,” said Saybrooke.

“You have changed your mind very suddenly,” returned Creswell.

“You told me she was the largest woman in the room, and by accident I have just met her. I recognized her, of course, and my curiosity is amply gratified.”

Creswell followed his eye, and burst into an irrepressible fit of laughter. “Oh, very well,” said he, “if you are satisfied, so am I. But here is the post-office. Anything here, ladies, for Stanley Saybrooke, Esq.?—just excuse me, while you are waiting for your letter.”

The postmistress was one of the youngest of the association, and whilst she was searching, with much archness and significancy, among the letters, the eyes of Saybrooke fell upon a lady farther back in the alcove, from whom a single look acted like magic on him. The features were of a form and symmetry the most faultlessly classical, and were radiant with an expression of sweetness and intelligence. Her eyes were large and of a soft blue, her complexion was of the purest white and red, and her hair, of a rich brown, fell in a single large curl, smooth and glossy, down either side of her face. She wore a small black velvet bonnet, which contrasted strikingly with the pearliness of her skin, and which, excepting in a little bordering of blond around the face, was entirely without ornament. Vexatiously, as our hero thought it, there was nothing of her figure to be seen; she sat wrapped in a large shawl, on an ottoman behind a table, and appeared quite unconscious of attracting attention, or, at least, indifferent to it.

“Here is a letter, sir;” said the officious little postmistress, with a mischievous smile, but Saybrooke stood unheeding; “there is nothing else, sir;” she added, and recollecting himself, he walked reluctantly away. The letter was a little poetical bagatelle, to which he paid no attention, and reconnoitering the kiosk, he placed himself where, by keeping among the folds of a curtain, he might retain a view of the face which had so much fascinated him. Though, at his distance, he could not overhear a word, he watched her quiet, yet neither cold nor languid manner, to the many who approached and addressed her. “What a lovely—lovely creature she is!” thought he, “if I had not so long dropped my school-boy notions of love at first-sight, I really would believe myself captivated!—how calm she is!—how unembarrassed and dignified, and yet how gracious!”

Creswell returned, but Saybrooke, ashamed to ask a single question lest it might betray him, pleaded fatigue, and declined walking farther, and his friend, who had been watching him, to his secret amusement, left him to the indulgence of his observations.

By this time the story of his liberality, exaggerated, of course, had made its way over the room, and many were the efforts of the fair promenaders to catch the attention of a stranger so fashionable in appearance, so handsome, and reportedly so rich; but if he noticed the attractions of any, it was only to remark how inferior they were to those he was so intently contemplating. At length, to his extreme delight, he observed that she had picked up the rose which he had dropped on the table in his first bewilderment. “What a dolt I have been,” said he to himself; “after coming here to lay out money in charity, to take and retain an equivalent for it!” and to ease his conscience, he decided to get rid of the vase. So calling a servant who was attending on the tables, he directed him where to find it, and to present it to the designated lady in the post-office, with the compliments of a gentleman. He watched as the commission was executed. There was no flutter in the manner of the fair incognito, no wonder nor exultation. She merely asked the man a question or two, and dismissed him without a message. Her bearing suited him to a charm. It was that of a sultana receiving tribute.

“What a hand—what an incomparable hand!” was his next thought. One of his very few coxcomberies was a passion for beautiful hands, and it had its full gratification in the one which lay beside his vase, with whose whiteness it did not suffer in comparison. It was not small, but was exquisitely shaped, full, smooth and tapering, with not an irregular protuberance to detract from its graceful outlines. It set his fancy at a new picture. He imagined himself at his little mosaic chess-table—which was so small that any two at it were in very sociable proximity—and that snowy hand at the other side. Then he looked at her forehead, which was large and nobly developed—he was something of a phrenologist—and he decided that she had a genius for chess, consequently, that his recent purchase of chess-men might thus be suitably transferred. Accordingly, he hurried off to send it, but after he had done so, he found, on returning, his place occupied by a crowd.

The room had filled, and disappointed and abstracted he wandered about for an hour before he found an opportunity to speak to Creswell. The latter at length approached him, saying,

“I have a message for you from a lady.”

“What lady?” asked Saybrooke, eagerly, hoping it was the lady—the only one he cared about at the moment.

“The one to whom you sent your vase and chess-men; she says that if you don’t take them back she will offer them for sale anew.”

“I hope she did not think me impertinent in sending them?” said Saybrooke, looking alarmed, “how did she discover that it was I?”

“It was easy to ascertain by whom they were purchased, and she judged accordingly.”

“Then you know her?”

“Certainly.”

“Pray introduce me, won’t you?—immediately, if you please, my dear Creswell.”

“I would rather not. You won’t like her—for a very material reason.”

“I will—positively—I do like her—I’m half in love already.”

“With her face, you mean—that’s a pretty scrape for a man of twenty-six to get into! however, I may have an opportunity after a while, so be patient. There’s a fine figure,” he continued, looking through a glass he had picked up from a table, and then handing it to Saybrooke—“there in that recess—the lady with her back towards us.”

“Very fine, but the glass contracts too much; at full size I dare say the proportions would scarcely appear so perfect. Who is she?”

“A particular favorite of mine, the owner of this shawl, which I am carrying to her. Come along, and you shall have a nearer view.”

The lady was at the farther end of the saloon, and with some difficulty they threaded their way towards her. She was talking, and still had her back towards them. “A fine figure, indeed,” said Saybrooke, as they advanced, “but, she seems—isn’t she rather large?—why, upon my word—Creswell—she must be full five feet nine, if not ten!” and, putting his arm through his friend’s, he was drawing him in another direction.

“Stop! don’t jerk me off my feet, my dear fellow!” said Creswell; “I must go on to deliver the shawl; allow me, Miss Grainger,” he continued, “to present my friend, Mr. Saybrooke—” and as the lady turned round to curtsey, Saybrooke recognized the brilliant face of the post-office.

Never was there a more instantaneous revolution. “I’ll call you out for this night’s work!” whispered Saybrooke, while the lady was replying to the parting compliments of her former companions. Creswell pretended to look very much surprised, and after a little while, when he made a move to proceed, Saybrooke gave him a deprecatory shake of the head, at which they parted for the night.

The next morning Creswell called at the lodgings of his friend. “I am glad,” said he, “that you were not disappointed in Miss Grainger.”

“Disappointed!—she is the most fascinating woman I ever met with—full of sweetness, feeling, and intellect! I do not remember to have enjoyed a conversation more in my life than the one we had as I escorted her home last night”

“Why, Saybrooke! you certainly did not do that? she is unquestionably large enough to take care of herself!”

“You are an impudent dog, Creswell,” returned Saybrooke, laughing.

“But, seriously, Saybrooke, it is a great pity that Miss Grainger is so large; to a man of your sentiments, who never could see a woman over the medium height without thinking of an ogress, it must very much neutralize the effect of her unrivalled face, her winning manners, and her delightfully spirituelle conversation.”

“If you’ll oblige me by remaining civilly quiet, for a few minutes, I’ll tell you how I argued that point. I stated to myself that the larger women I had seen were as small ones examined through a magnifying glass, every defect being thus rendered more apparent. Now, I continued, here is a woman of the magnified size, without a single defect, and she is of course entitled to a magnified portion of admiration.”

“Very good.”

“And then I recollected that I was not the first who had come to such a conclusion. That Juno would not have looked the queen of Olympus had she been other than a large woman—that had the rib of Menelaus been but a small bone of contention, Troy might have been standing to this day.”

“Pshaw!” said Creswell.

“And that a man must have a very contracted imagination to fancy a little Venus De Medicis, a little Cleopatra or a little Mary Stuart.”

About six months after this, a gentleman and lady passing, bowed to Creswell through his office window while an acquaintance was sitting with him.

“A magnificent looking couple—who are they?” said the latter.

“The new bride and groom, Stanley Saybrooke, and Martha Grainger, that was. By the by, I made that match.”

“Indeed! how did you accomplish it?”

“Just by persuading the lady to sit still for a few hours. He had a most absurd aversion to large women, and as I knew that Martha, who, in fact, is a sort of cousin of mine, would suit him exactly in other respects, I laid a plan to get him in love with her before he found out her size, so I took him to a fancy-fair, where he saw a great number of her productions, and heard a great deal of her character, and then I contrived to give him a sight of her beautiful face, having, as I said, apprised her that she would oblige me very much by keeping her seat until I gave her notice. That finished the business. He stared till he was conquered, and then the three or four extra inches became very small matters indeed.”

“But now, since they are married, won’t the defects shoot up again?”

“Not at all. I never saw a fellow so proud of a wife. He says that a small casket could not contain so lofty an intellect and so noble a heart!”

LE FAINEANT.

———

BY C. V. HOFFMAN, AUTHOR OF “GREYSLAER,” “THE VIGIL OF FAITH,” ETC.

———

“Now arouse thee, Sir Knight, from thine indolent ease,

Fling boldly thy banner abroad in the breeze,

Strike home for thy lady—strive hard for the prize,

And thy guerdon shall beam from her love-lighted eyes!”

“I shrink not the trial,” that bluff knight replied⁠—

“But I battle—not I—for an unwilling bride;

Where the boldest may venture to do and to dare,

My pennon shall flutter—my bugle peal there!

“I quail not at aught in the struggle of life,

I’m not all unproved even now in the strife,

But the wreath that I win, all unaided—alone,

Round a faltering brow it shall never be thrown!”

“Now fie on thy manhood, to deem it a sin

That she loveth the glory thy falchion might win,

Let them doubt of thy prowess and fortune no more,

Up! Sir Knight, for thy lady—and do thy devoir!”

“She hath shrunk from my side, she hath failed in her trust,

Not relied on my blade, but remembered its rust;

It shall brighten once more in the field of its fame,

But it is not for her I would now win a name.”

The knight rode away, and the lady she sigh’d,

When he featly as ever his steed would bestride,

While the mould from the banner he shook to the wind

Seemed to fall on the breast he left aching behind.

But the rust on his glaive and the rust in his heart

Had corroded too long and too deep to depart,

And the brand only brightened in honor once more,

When the heart ceased to beat on the fray-trampled shore.

THE DYING MINSTREL TO HIS MUSE.

———

BY WILLIAM FALCONER.

———

Farewell, gentle Muse! fare thee well, and for ever!

No more in the greenwood with thee must I stray:

Thy flowers which I cherished have bloomed but to wither,

Like youth’s vernal wreath, they all faded away:

Yet sweet was the morn, timid Muse, when I sought thee,

In the green ruined tower by the wild Scottish rill;

A heart framed for joy like the wine-cup I brought thee,

With Fancy’s rich draught thou the chalice didst fill.

O soft was thy dawning, thou mental Aurora,

It shed on my morning-dream heaven’s young ray,

With the seraph-wing’d bird through the cloudlets of glory

My soul soared exulting through life’s early day;

Then love’s vernal flush filled my bosom with gladness,

And she whom I loved shared its passion with thee;

She left me to pine in the chill shade of sadness,