*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68027 ***

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               Vol. XXI.      December, 1842      No. 6.


                                Contents

                        Fiction and Literature

          Richard Dale
          The Widow of Newbury
          Malina Gray
          Truth
          The Persecutor’s Daughter
          A Race for a Sweetheart
          Harry Cavendish
          The Ladies’ Library
          The Hasty Marriage
          Review Of New Books
          Editor’s Table

                                Poetry

          The Serenade
          Sonnets
          Sonnet
          Noon
          True Affection
          The Farewell
          The Holynights
          The Pastor’s Visit
          To the Night-Wind in Autumn

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




[Illustration: Painted by E. Prentice, Engraved by H.S. Sadd
_Awaiting the Husband’s Return_
_Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine._




                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

          Vol. XXI.    PHILADELPHIA: DECEMBER, 1842.    No. 6.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             RICHARD DALE.


    BY J. FENIMORE COOPER, AUTHOR OF “THE SPY,” “THE PIONEERS,” ETC.


Among the many brave men who early contributed to render the navy of the
republic popular and respectable, the gallant seaman whose name is
placed at the head of this article is entitled to a conspicuous place;
equally on account of his services, his professional skill, and his
personal merit. Although his connection with the marine, created under
the constitution of 1789, was of short continuance, it left a durable
impression on the service; and, if we look back to the dark period of
the Revolution, we find him contending in some of the fiercest combats
of the period, always with heroism, and not unfrequently with success.
Circumstances, too, have connected his renown with one of the most
remarkable naval battles on record; a distinction of itself which fully
entitles him to a high place among those who have fought and bled for
the independence of their country, in stations of subordinate authority.

Richard Dale was born in the colony of Virginia, on the 6th November,
1756. His birthplace was in the county of Norfolk, and not distant from
the well known port of the same name. His parents were native Americans,
of respectable standing, though of rather reduced circumstances. His
father, dying early, left a widow with five children, of whom the
subject of this memoir was the eldest. Some time after the death of his
father, his mother contracted a second marriage with a gentleman of the
name of Cooper, among the issue of which were two well known
ship-masters of Philadelphia.

Young Dale manifested an inclination for the sea at a very early period
of life. The distrust of a parental control that has no foundation in
nature, and which is apt to be regarded with jealousy, stimulated if it
did not quicken this desire, and we find him at the tender age of
twelve, or in 1768, making a voyage between Norfolk and Liverpool, in a
vessel commanded by one of his own uncles. On his return home, he
appears to have passed nearly a twelve-month on shore; but his desire to
become a sailor still continuing, in the spring of 1770 he was regularly
apprenticed to a respectable merchant and ship-owner, of the borough of
Norfolk, named Newton. From this moment his fortune in life was cast,
and he continued devotedly employed in the profession until his
enterprise, prudence and gallantry enabled him finally to retire with
credit, an unblemished name, and a competency.

During his apprenticeship, Dale appears to have been, most of the time,
employed in the West India trade. Every sailor has his chances and
hair-breadth escapes, and our young mariner met with two, at that period
of his life, which may be thought worthy of notice. On one occasion he
fell from the spars stowed on the belfry into the vessel’s hold, hitting
the kelson, a distance of near twenty feet; escaping, however, without
material injury. A much greater risk was incurred on another. While the
vessel to which he belonged was running off the wind, with a stiff
breeze, Dale was accidentally knocked overboard by the jib sheets, and
was not picked up without great difficulty. He was an hour in the water,
sustaining himself by swimming, and he ever spoke of the incident as one
of more peril than any other in a perilous career.

When nineteen, or in 1775, Dale had risen to the station of chief mate
on board a large brig belonging to his owner. In this situation he
appears to have remained industriously engaged during the few first
months of the struggle for independence; the active warfare not having
yet extended itself as far south as his part of the country. Early in
1776, however, the aspect of things began to change, and it is probable
that the interruption to commerce rendered him the master of his own
movements.

Virginia, in common with most of the larger and more maritime colonies,
had a sort of marine of its own; more especially anterior to the
Declaration of Independence. It consisted principally of bay craft, and
was employed in the extensive estuaries and rivers of that commonwealth.
On board of one of these light cruisers Dale was entered as a
lieutenant, in the early part of the memorable year 1776. While in this
service, he was sent a short distance for some guns, in a river craft;
but falling in with a tender of the Liverpool frigate, which ship was
then cruising on the Cape Henry station, he was captured and carried
into Norfolk. These tenders were usually smart little cruisers, another,
belonging to the same frigate, having been taken shortly before, by the
U. S. brig Lexington, after a sharp and bloody conflict. Resistance in
the case of Dale was consequently out of the question, his capture
having been altogether a matter of course.

On reaching Norfolk, our young officer was thrown on board a
prison-ship. Here he found himself in the midst of those whom it was the
fashion to call “loyal subjects.” Many of them were his old school-mates
and friends. Among the latter was a young man of the name of Bridges
Gutteridge, a sailor like himself, and one who possessed his entire
confidence. Mr. Gutteridge, who it is believed subsequently took part
with his countrymen himself, was then employed by the British, in the
waters of the Chesapeake, actually commanding a tender in their service.
The quarrel was still recent; and honorable, as well as honest men,
under the opinions which prevailed in that day, might well be divided as
to its merits. Mr. Gutteridge had persuaded himself he was pursuing the
proper course. Entertaining such opinions, he earnestly set about the
attempt of making a convert of his captured friend. The usual arguments,
touching the sacred rights of the king—himself merely a legalized
usurper, by the way, if any validity is to be given to the claims of
hereditary right to the crown—and the desperate nature of the “rebel
cause,” were freely and strenuously used, until Dale began to waver in
his faith. In the end, he yielded and consented to accompany his friend
in a cruise against the vessels of the state. This occurred in the month
of May, and, hostilities beginning now to be active, the tender soon
fell in with a party of Americans, in some pilot boats, that were
employed in the Rappahannock. A warm engagement ensued, in which the
tender was compelled to run, after meeting with a heavy loss. It was a
rude initiation into the mysteries of war, the fighting being of a
desperate, and almost of a personal character. This was one of those
combats that often occurred about this period, and in those waters, most
of them being close and sanguinary.

In this affair, Dale received a severe wound, having been hit in the
head by a musket ball; with this wound he was confined several weeks at
Norfolk, during which time he had abundance of leisure to reflect on the
false step into which he had been persuaded, and to form certain
healthful resolutions for the future. To use his own words, in speaking
of this error of his early life, he determined “never again to put
himself in the way of the bullets of his own country.” This resolution,
however, it was necessary to conceal, if he would escape the horrors of
a prison-ship, and he “bided his time,” fully determined to take service
again under the American flag, at the first fitting opportunity.

In the peculiar state of the two countries at the time, and with the
doubtful and contested morality of the misunderstanding, there was
nothing extraordinary in this incident. Similar circumstances occurred
to many men, who, with the best intentions and purest motives, saw, or
fancied they saw, reasons for changing sides in what, in their eyes, was
strictly a family quarrel. In the case of Dale, however, the feature
most worthy of comment was the singleness of mind and simple integrity
with which he used to confess his own error, together with the manner in
which he finally became a convert to the true political faith. No
narrative of the life of this respectable seaman would be complete,
without including this temporary wavering of purpose; nor would any
delineation of his character be just, that did not point out the candor
and sincerity with which he, in after life, admitted his fault.

Dale was only in his twentieth year when he received this instructive
lesson from the “bullets of his countrymen.” From that time, he took
good care not to place himself again in their way, going, in June or
July, to Bermuda, on a more peaceable expedition, in company with
William Gutteridge, a relative of his beguiling friend. On the return
passage, the vessel was captured by the Lexington, the brig just
mentioned, then a successful cruiser, under the orders of Capt. John
Barry; an officer who subsequently died at the head of the service. This
occurred just after the Declaration of Independence, and Dale
immediately offered himself as a volunteer under the national flag. He
was received and rated as a midshipman within a few hours of his
capture. This was the commencement of Dale’s service in the regular navy
of his native country. It was also the commencement of his acquaintance
with the distinguished commander of the Lexington, whose friendship and
respect he enjoyed down to the day of the latter’s death. While the brig
was out, our midshipman had another narrow escape from death, having,
together with several others, been struck senseless by lightning during
a severe thunder storm.

Barry made the capture just mentioned near the end of his cruise, and he
soon after went into Philadelphia, which place Dale now saw for the
first time. Here Barry left the Lexington to take command of the
Effingham 28, a ship that never got to sea, leaving our new midshipman
in the brig. Capt. Hallock was Barry’s successor, and he soon rated
Dale, by this time an active and skilful seaman, a master’s mate. Early
in the autumn, the Lexington sailed for Cape François, on special duty.
On her return, in the month of December, she fell in with the Pearl
frigate,[1] and was captured without resistance, carrying an armament of
only a few fours.

As it was blowing very fresh at the moment this capture was made, the
Pearl took out of the prize four or five officers, threw a small crew on
board, and directed the brig to follow her. By some accounts Dale was
left in the Lexington, while by others he was not. A succinct history of
the events of his life, written by a connection under his own eye, and
which is now before us, gives the latter version of the affair, and is
probably the true one. At all events, the remaining officers and crew of
the Lexington rose upon the captors in the course of the night, retook
the brig, and carried her into Baltimore.[2]

The English landed several of their prisoners on Cape Henlopen, in
January, 1777, under some arrangement that cannot now be explained,
though probably it was connected with an exchange for the men taken and
carried away in the prize. Among these was Dale, who made the best of
his way to Philadelphia, when he received orders to proceed to
Baltimore; which he obeyed, and rejoined his brig, the command of which
had now been transferred to Capt. Henry Johnston.

The next service on which the Lexington was employed was in the European
seas. In March, she sailed from Baltimore for Bordeaux, with despatches.
On her arrival, this brig was attached to a small squadron under the
orders of Capt. Lambert Wickes, who was in the Reprisal 16, having under
his command also the Dolphin 10, Capt. Samuel Nicholson. This force of
little vessels accomplished a bold and destructive cruise, making the
entire circuit of Ireland, though it was eventually chased into a French
port by a line-of-battle ship. Its object was the interception of
certain linen-ships, which it missed; its success, however, in the main,
was such as to excite great alarm among the English merchants, and to
produce warm remonstrances to France, from their government.

At this time France was not at war with England, although she secretly
favored and aided the cause of the revolted colonies. The appearance of
American cruisers in the narrow seas, however, gave rise to so many
complaints, as to induce the French government, in preference to pushing
matters to extremities, temporarily to sequester the vessels. The
Lexington was included in this measure, having been detained in port
more than two months; or, until security was given that she would quit
the European seas. This was done, and the brig got to sea again on the
18th September, 1777.[3]

It is probable that the recent difficulties had some effect on the
amount of the military stores on board all three of the American
vessels. At all events, it is certain that the Lexington sailed with a
short supply of both powder and shot, particularly of the latter. The
very next day she made an English cutter lying-to, which was approached
with a confidence that could only have proceeded from a mistake as to
her character. This cutter proved to be a man-of-war, called the Alert,
commanded by Lieutenant, afterward Admiral Bazely, having a strong crew
on board, and an armament of ten sixes.

In the action that ensued, and which was particularly well fought on the
part of the enemy, the Americans were, in a measure, taken by surprise.
So little were the latter prepared for the conflict, that not a match
was ready when the engagement commenced, and several broadsides were
fired by discharging muskets at the vents of the guns. The firing killed
the wind, and there being considerable sea on, the engagement became
very protracted, during which the Lexington expended most of her
ammunition.

After a cannonading of two hours, believing his antagonist to be too
much crippled to follow, and aware of his own inability to continue the
action much longer, Capt. Johnston made sail, and left the cutter, under
favor of a breeze that just then sprung up. The Lexington left the Alert
rapidly at first, but the latter having bent new sails, and being the
faster vessel, in the course of three or four hours succeeded in getting
alongside again, and of renewing the engagement. This second struggle
lasted an hour, the fighting being principally on one side. After the
Lexington had thrown her last shot, had broken up and used all the iron
that could be made available as substitutes, and had three of her
officers and several of her men slain, besides many wounded, Capt.
Johnston struck his colors. The first lieutenant, marine officer, and
master of the Lexington were among the slain.

By this accident Dale became a prisoner for the third time. This
occurred when he wanted just fifty days of being twenty-one years old.
On this occasion, however, he escaped unhurt, though the combat had been
both fierce and sanguinary. The prize was taken into Plymouth, and her
officers, after undergoing a severe examination, in order to ascertain
their birthplaces, were all thrown into Mill Prison, on a charge of high
treason. Here they found the common men; the whole being doomed to a
rigorous and painful confinement.

Either from policy or cupidity, the treatment received by the Americans,
in this particular prison, was of a cruel and oppressive character.
There is no apology for excessive rigor, or, indeed, for any constraint
beyond that which is necessary to security, toward an uncondemned man.
Viewed as mere prisoners of war, the Americans might claim the usual
indulgence; viewed as subjects still to be tried, they were rightfully
included in that healthful maxim of the law, which assumes that all are
innocent until they are proved to be guilty. So severe were the
privations of the Americans on this occasion, however, that, in pure
hunger, they caught a stray dog one day, skinned, cooked and ate him, to
satisfy their cravings for food. Their situation at length attracted the
attention of the liberal; statements of their wants were laid before the
public, and an appeal was made to the humanity of the English nation.
This is always an efficient mode of obtaining assistance, and the large
sum of sixteen thousand pounds was soon raised; thereby relieving the
wants of the sufferers, and effectually effacing the stain from the
national escutcheon; by demonstrating that the sufferers found a
generous sympathy in the breasts of the public. But man requires more
than food and warmth. Although suffering no longer from actual want and
brutal maltreatment, Dale and his companions pined for liberty—to be
once more fighting the battles of their country. Seeing no hopes of an
exchange, a large party of the prisoners determined to make an attempt
at escape. A suitable place was selected, and a hole under a wall was
commenced. The work required secrecy and time. The earth was removed,
little by little, in the pockets of the captives, care being had to
conceal the place, until a hole of sufficient size was made to permit
the body of a man to pass through. It was a tedious process, for the
only opportunity which occurred to empty their pockets, was while the
Americans were exercising on the walls of their prison, for a short
period of each day. By patience and perseverance they accomplished their
purpose, however, every hour dreading exposure and defeat.

When all was ready, Capt. Johnston, most of his officers, and several of
his crew, or, as many as were in the secret, passed through the hole,
and escaped. This was in February, 1778. The party wandered about the
country in company, and by night, for more than a week; suffering all
sorts of privations, until it was resolved to take the wiser course of
separating. Dale, accompanied by one other, found his way to London,
hotly pursued. At one time the two lay concealed under some straw in an
out-house, while the premises were searched by those who were in quest
of them. On reaching London, Dale and his companion immediately got on
board a vessel about to sail for Dunkirk. A press-gang unluckily took
this craft in its rounds, and suspecting the true objects of the
fugitives, they were arrested, and, their characters being ascertained,
they were sent back to Mill Prison in disgrace.

This was the commencement of a captivity far more tedious than the
former. In the first place they were condemned to forty days’
confinement in the black hole, as the punishment for the late escape;
and, released from this durance, they were deprived of many of their
former indulgences. Dale himself took his revenge in singing “rebel
songs,” and paid a second visit to the black hole, as the penalty. This
state of things, with alternations of favor and punishment, continued
quite a year, when Dale, singly, succeeded in again effecting his great
object of getting free.

The mode in which this second escape was made is known, but the manner
by which he procured the means he refused to his dying day to disclose.
At all events, he obtained a full suit of British uniform, attired in
which, and seizing a favorable moment, he boldly walked past all the
sentinels, and got off. That some one was connected with his escape who
might suffer by his revelations is almost certain; and it is a trait in
his character worthy of notice, that he kept this secret, with
scrupulous fidelity, for forty-seven years. It is not known that he ever
divulged it even to any individual of his own family.

Rendered wary by experience, Dale now proceeded with great address and
caution. He probably had money, as well as clothes. At all events, he
went to London, found means to procure a passport, and left the country
for France, unsuspected and undetected. On reaching a friendly soil, he
hastened to l’Orient, and joined the force then equipping under Paul
Jones, in his old rank of a master’s mate. Here he was actively employed
for some months, affording the commodore an opportunity to ascertain his
true merits, when they met with something like their just reward. As
Dale was now near twenty-three, and an accomplished seaman, Jones, after
trying several less competent persons, procured a commission for him
from the commissioners, and made him the first lieutenant of his own
ship, the justly celebrated Bon Homme Richard.

It is not our intention, in this article, to enter any farther into the
incidents of this well known cruise, than is necessary to complete the
present subject. Dale does not appear in any prominent situation, though
always discharging the duties of his responsible station, with skill and
credit, until the squadron appeared off Leith, with the intention of
seizing that town—the port of Edinburgh—and of laying it under
contribution. On this occasion, our lieutenant was selected to command
the boats that were to land, a high compliment to so young a man, as
coming from one of the character of Paul Jones. Every thing was ready,
Dale had received his final orders, and was in the very act of
proceeding to the ship’s side to enter his boat, when a heavy squall
struck the vessels, and induced an order for the men to come on deck,
and assist in shortening sail. The vessels were compelled to bear up
before it, to save their spars; this carried them out of the firth; and,
a gale succeeding, the enterprise was necessarily abandoned. This gale
proved so heavy, that one of the prizes actually foundered.

This attempt of Jones, while it is admitted to have greatly alarmed the
coast, has often been pronounced rash and inconsiderate. Such was not
the opinion of Dale. A man of singular moderation in his modes of
thinking, and totally without bravado, it was his conviction that the
effort would have been crowned with success. He assured the writer,
years after the occurrence, that he was about to embark in the
expedition with feelings of high confidence, and that he believed
nothing but the inopportune intervention of the squall stood between
Jones and a triumphant _coup de main_.

A few days later, Jones made a secret proposal to his officers, which
some affirm was to burn the shipping at North Shields, but which the
commanders of two of his vessels strenuously opposed, in consequence of
which the project was abandoned. The commodore himself, in speaking of
the manner in which this and other similar propositions were received by
his subordinates, extolled the ardor invariably manifested by the young
men, among whom Dale was one of the foremost. Had it rested with them,
the attempts at least would all have been made.

On the 19th September occurred the celebrated battle between the Serapis
and the Bon Homme Richard. As the proper place to enter fully into the
details of that murderous combat will be in the biography of Jones, we
shall confine ourselves at present to incidents with which the subject
of this memoir was more immediately connected.

The Bon Homme Richard had finally sailed on this cruise with only two
proper sea-lieutenants on board her. There was a third officer of the
name of Lunt, who has been indifferently called a lieutenant and the
sailing-master, but who properly filled the latter station. This
gentleman had separated from the ship in a fog, on the coast of Ireland,
while in the pursuit of some deserters, and never rejoined the squadron.
Another person of the same name, and believed to be the brother of the
master, was the second lieutenant. He was sent in a pilot-boat,
accompanied by a midshipman and several men, to capture a vessel in
sight, before Jones made the Baltic fleet coming round Flamborough Head.
This party was not able to return to the Bon Homme Richard, until after
the battle had terminated. In consequence of these two circumstances,
each so novel in itself, the American frigate fought this bloody and
arduous combat with only one officer on board her, of the rank of a
sea-lieutenant, who was Dale. This is the reason why the latter is so
often mentioned as _the_ lieutenant of the Bon Homme Richard, during
that memorable fight. The fact rendered his duties more arduous and
diversified, and entitles him to the greater credit for their proper
performance.

Dale was stationed on the gun-deck, where of course he commanded in
chief, though it appears that his proper personal division was the
forward guns. Until the ships got foul of each other, this brought him
particularly into the hottest of the work; the Serapis keeping much on
the bows, or ahead of the Bon Homme Richard. It is known that Jones was
much pleased with his deportment, which, in truth, was every way worthy
of his own. When the alarm was given that the ship was sinking, Dale
went below himself to ascertain the real state of the water, and his
confident and fearless report cheered the men to renewed exertions.
Shortly after, the supply of powder was stopped, when our lieutenant
again quitted his quarters to inquire into the cause. On reaching the
magazine passage he was told by the sentinels that they had closed the
ingress, on account of a great number of strange and foreign faces that
they saw around them. On further inquiry, Dale discovered that the
master at arms, of his own head, had let loose all the prisoners—more
than a hundred in number—under the belief that the ship was sinking.
Dale soon saw the danger which might ensue, but finding the English much
alarmed at the supposed condition of the ship, he succeeded in mustering
them, and setting them at work at the pumps, where, by their exertions,
they probably prevented the apprehended calamity. For some time, at the
close of the action, all his guns being rendered useless, Dale was
employed principally in this important service. There is no question
that without some such succor, the Richard would have gone down much
earlier than she did. It is a singular feature of this every-way
extraordinary battle, that here were Englishmen, zealously employed in
aiding the efforts of their enemies, under the cool control of a
collected and observant officer.

At length the cheerful intelligence was received that the enemy had
struck. Dale went on deck, and immediately demanded Jones’ permission to
take possession of the prize. It was granted, and had he never
manifested any other act of personal intrepidity, his promptitude on
this occasion, and the manner in which he went to work, to attain his
purpose, would have shown him to be a man above personal considerations,
when duty or honor pointed out his course. The main-yard of the Serapis
was hanging a-cock-bill, over the side of the American ship. The brace
was shot away, and the pendant hung within reach. Seizing the latter,
Dale literally swung himself off, and alighted alone on the quarter-deck
of the Serapis. Here he found no one but the brave Pierson, who had
struck his own flag; but the men below were still ignorant of the act.
We may form an opinion of the risk that the young man ran, in thus
boarding his enemy at night, and in the confusion of such a combat, for
the English were still firing below, by the fact that Mr. Mayrant, a
young man of South Carolina, and a midshipman of the Bon Homme Richard,
who led a party after the lieutenant, was actually run through the thigh
by a boarding pike, and by the hands of a man in the waist below.

The first act of Dale, on getting on the quarter deck of the Serapis,
was to direct her captain to go on board the American ship. While thus
employed, the English first lieutenant came up from below, and finding
that the Americans had ceased their fire, he demanded if they had
struck. “No, sir,” answered Dale, “it is this ship that has struck, and
you are my prisoner.” An appeal to Capt. Pierson confirming this, the
English lieutenant offered to go below and silence the remaining guns of
the Serapis. To this Dale objected, and had both the officers passed on
board the Bon Homme Richard. In a short time, the English below were
sent from their guns, and full possession was obtained of the prize.

As more men were soon sent from the Bon Homme Richard, the two ships
were now separated, the Richard making sail, and Jones ordering Dale to
follow with the prize. A sense of fatigue had come over the latter, in
consequence of the reaction of so much excitement and so great
exertions, and he took a seat on the binnacle. Here he issued an order
to brace the head yards aback, and to put the helm down. Wondering that
the ship did not pay off, he directed that the wheel-ropes should be
examined. It was reported that they were not injured, and that the helm
was hard down. Astonished to find the ship immovable under such
circumstances, there being a light breeze, Dale sprang upon his feet,
and then discovered, for the first time, that he had been severely
wounded, by a splinter, in the foot and ankle. The hurt, now that he was
no longer sustained by the excitement of battle, deprived him of the use
of his leg, and he fell. Just at this moment, Mr. Lunt, the officer who
had been absent in the pilot-boat, reached the Richard, and Dale was
forced to give up to him the command of the prize. The cause of the
Serapis’ not minding her helm was the fact that Capt. Pierson had
dropped an anchor under foot when the two ships got foul; a circumstance
of which the Americans were ignorant until this moment.

Dale was some time laid up with his wound, but he remained with Jones in
his old station of first lieutenant, accompanying that officer, in the
Alliance, from the Texel to l’Orient. In the controversy which ensued
between the commodore and Landais, our lieutenant took sides warmly with
the first, and even offered to head a party to recover the Alliance, by
force. This measure not being resorted to, he remained with Jones, and
finally sailed with him for America, as his first lieutenant, in the
Ariel 20, a ship lent to the Americans, by the King of France.

The Ariel quitted port in October, 1780, but encountered a tremendous
gale of wind off the Penmarks. Losing her masts, she was compelled to
return to refit. On this occasion Dale, in his responsible situation of
first lieutenant, showed all the coolness of his character, and the
resources of a thorough seaman. The tempest was almost a hurricane, and
of extraordinary violence. The Ariel sailed a second time about the
commencement of the year 1781, and reached Philadelphia on the 18th
February. During the passage home, she had a short action, in the night,
with a heavy British letter-of-marque, that gave her name as the
Triumph; and which ship is said to have struck, but to have made her
escape by treachery. Jones, who was greedy of glory, even fancied that
his enemy was a vessel of war, and that he had captured a vessel of at
least equal force. This was not Dale’s impression. He spoke of the
affair to the writer of this article, as one of no great moment, even
questioning whether their antagonist struck at all; giving it as his
belief she was a quick-working and fast-sailing letter-of-marque. He
distinctly stated that she got off by out-manœuvring the Ariel, which
vessel was badly manned, and had an exceedingly mixed and disaffected
crew. It is worthy of remark that, while two articles, enumerating the
services of Dale, have been written by gentlemen connected with himself,
and possessing his confidence, neither mentions this affair; a proof, in
itself, that Dale considered it one of little moment.

The account which Dale always gave of the meeting between the Ariel and
Triumph—admitting such to have been the name of the English ship—so
different from that which has found its way into various publications,
on the representation of other actors in that affair, is illustrative of
the character of the man. Simple of mind, totally without exaggeration,
and a lover, as well as a practicer, of severe truth, he was a man whose
representations might be fully relied on. Even in his account of the
extraordinary combat between the Richard and Serapis, he stripped the
affair of all its romance, and of every thing that was wonderful;
rendering the whole clear, simple and intelligible as his own thoughts.
The only narratives of that battle, worthy of a seaman, have been
written rigidly after his explanations, which leave it a bloody and
murderous fight, but one wholly without the marvelous.

On his arrival at Philadelphia, after an absence of four years, more
than one of which had been spent in prison, Dale was just twenty-four
years and two months old. He was now regularly put on the list of
lieutenants, by the marine committee of Congress; his former authority
proceeding from the agents of the government in Europe. It is owing to
this circumstance that the register of government places him so low as a
lieutenant. Dale now parted from Paul Jones, with whom he had served
near two years; and that, too, in some of the most trying scenes of the
latter’s life. The commodore was anxious to take his favorite lieutenant
with him to the America 74; but the latter declined the service, under
the impression it would be a long time before the ship got to sea. He
judged right, the America being transferred to the French in the end,
and Jones himself never again sailing under the American flag.

The name of Dale will inseparably be connected with the battle of the
Richard and Serapis. His prominent position and excellent conduct
entitle him to this mark of distinction, and it says much for the
superior, when it confers fame to have been “Paul Jones’ first
lieutenant.” We smile, however, at the legends of the day, when we
recall the account of the “Lieutenants Grubb” and other heroes of
romance, who have been made to figure in the histories of that renowned
combat, and place them in contrast with the truth-loving, sincere, moral
and respectable subject of this memoir. The sword which Louis XVI.
bestowed on Jones, for this victory, passed into the hands of Dale, and
is now the property of a gallant son, a fitting mark of the services of
the father, on the glorious occasion it commemorates.[4]

Dale was employed on board a schooner that was manned from the Ariel,
after reaching Philadelphia, and sent down the Delaware to convoy
certain public stores. The following June, he joined the Trumbull 28,
Captain Nicholson, as her first lieutenant. The Trumbull left the capes
of the Delaware on the 8th August, 1781, being chased off the land by
three of the enemy’s cruisers. The weather was squally and night set in
dark. In endeavoring to avoid her pursuers, the Trumbull found herself
alongside of the largest, a frigate of thirty-two guns, and an action
was fought under the most unfavorable circumstances. The Trumbull’s
fore-topmast was hanging over, or rather through her forecastle, her
crew was disorganized, and the vessel herself in a state of no
preparation for a conflict with an equal force; much less with that
actually opposed to her. The officers made great exertions, and
maintained an action of more than an hour, when the colors of the
American ship were struck to the Iris 32, and Monk 18. The former of
these vessels had been the American frigate Hancock, and the latter was
subsequently captured in the Delaware, by Barney in the Hyder Ally.

This was the fourth serious affair in which Dale had been engaged that
war, and the fourth time he had been captured. As he was hurt also in
this battle, it made the third of his wounds. His confinement, however,
was short, and the treatment not a subject of complaint. He was taken
into New York, paroled on Long Island, and exchanged in November.

No new service offering in a marine which, by this time, had lost most
of its ships, Dale obtained a furlough, and joined a large
letter-of-marque called the Queen of France, that carried twelve guns,
as her first officer. Soon after he was appointed to the command of the
same vessel. In the spring of 1782, this ship, in company with several
other letters-of-marque, sailed for France, making many captures by the
way. The ship of Dale, however, parted from the fleet, and, falling in
with an English privateer of fourteen guns, a severe engagement
followed, in which both parties were much cut up; they parted by mutual
consent. Dale did not get back to Philadelphia until February of the
succeeding year, or until about the time that peace was made.

In common with most of the officers of the navy, Lieutenant Dale was
disbanded, as soon as the war ceased. He was now in the twenty-seventh
year of his age, with a perfect knowledge of his profession, in which he
had passed more than half his life, a high reputation for his rank, a
courage that had often been tried, a body well scarred, a character
beyond reproach, and not altogether without “money in his purse.” Under
the circumstances, he naturally determined to follow up his fortunes in
the line in which he had commenced his career. He became part owner of a
large ship, and sailed in her for London, December, 1783, in the station
of master. After this, he embarked successfully in the East India trade,
in the same character, commanding several of the finest ships out of the
country. In this manner he accumulated a respectable fortune, and began
to take his place among the worthies of the land in a new character.

In September, 1791, Mr. Dale was married to Dorothy Crathorne, the
daughter of another respectable ship-master of Philadelphia, and then a
ward of Barry’s. With this lady he passed the remainder of his days, she
surviving him as his widow, and dying some years later than himself. No
change in his pursuits occurred until 1794, when the new government
commenced the organization of another marine, which has resulted in that
which the country now possesses.

Dale was one of the six captains appointed under the law of 1794, that
directed the construction of as many frigates, with a view to resist the
aggressions of Algiers. Each of the new captains was ordered to
superintend the construction of one of the frigates, and Dale, who was
fifth in rank, was directed to assume the superintendence of the one
laid down at Norfolk, virtually the place of his nativity. This ship was
intended to be a frigate of the first class, but, by some mistake in her
moulds, she proved in the end to be the smallest of the six vessels then
built. It was the unfortunate Chesapeake, a vessel that never was in a
situation to reflect much credit on the service. Her construction,
however, was deferred, in consequence of an arrangement with Algiers,
and her captain was put on furlough.

Dale now returned to the China trade, in which he continued until the
spring of 1798. The last vessel he commanded was called the Ganges. She
was a fine, fast ship, and the state of our relations with France
requiring a hurried armament, the government bought this vessel, in
common with several others, put an armament of suitable guns in her,
with a full crew, gave her to Dale, and ordered her on the coast as a
regular cruiser.

In consequence of this arrangement, Capt. Dale was the first officer who
ever got to sea under the pennant of the present navy. He sailed in May,
1798, and was followed by the Constellation and Delaware in a few days.
The service of Dale in his new capacity was short, however, in
consequence of some questions relating to rank. The captains appointed
in 1794 claimed their old places, and, it being uncertain what might be
the final decision of the government, as there were many aspirants, Dale
declined serving until the matter was determined. In May, 1799, he
sailed for Canton again, in command of a strong letter-of-marque, under
a furlough. On his return from this voyage he found his place on the
list settled according to his own views of justice and honor, and
reported himself for service. Nothing offered, however, until the
difficulties with France were arranged; but, in May, 1801, he was
ordered to take command of a squadron of observation about to be sent to
the Mediterranean.

Dale now hoisted his broad pennant, for the first and only time, and
assumed the title by which he was known for the rest of his days. He was
in the prime of life, being in his forty-fifth year, of an active, manly
frame, and had every prospect before him of a long and honorable
service. The ships put under his orders were the President 44, Capt.
James Barron; Philadelphia 38, Capt. Samuel Barron; Essex 32, Capt.
William Bainbridge; and Enterprise 12, Lieut. Com. Sterrett. A better
appointed, or a better commanded force, probably never sailed from
America. But there was little to do, under the timid policy and
defective laws of the day. War was not supposed to exist, although
hostilities did; and vessels were sent into foreign seas with crews
shipped for a period that would scarcely allow of a vessel’s being got
into proper order.

The squadron sailed June 1st, 1801, and reached Gibraltar July 1st. The
Philadelphia blockaded the Tripolitan admiral, with two cruisers, in
Gibraltar, while the other vessels went aloft. A sharp action occurred
between the Enterprise and a Tripolitan of equal force, in which the
latter was compelled to submit, but was allowed to go into her own port
again, for want of legal authority to detain her. Dale appeared off
Tripoli, endeavored to negotiate a little about an exchange of
prisoners, and did blockade the port; but his orders fettered him in a
way to prevent any serious enterprises. In a word, no circumstances
occurred to allow the commodore to show his true character, except as it
was manifested in his humanity, prudence and dignity. As a superior, he
obtained the profound respect of all under his orders, and to this day
his name is mentioned with regard by those who then served under him. It
is thought that this squadron did much toward establishing the high
discipline of the marine. In one instance only had Dale an opportunity
of manifesting his high personal and professional qualities. The
President struck a rock in quitting Port Mahon, and for some hours she
was thought to be in imminent danger of foundering. Dale assumed the
command, and one of his lieutenants, himself subsequently a flag officer
of rare seamanship and merit, has often recounted to the writer his
admiration of the commodore’s coolness, judgment, and nerve, on so
trying an occasion. The ship was carried to Toulon, blowing a gale, and,
on examination, it was found that she was only saved from destruction by
the skilful manner in which the wood ends had been secured.

The vigilance of Dale was so great, however, and his dispositions so
skilful, that the Tripolitans made no captures while he commanded in
those seas. In March, 1802, he sailed for home, under his orders,
reaching Hampton Roads in April, after a cruise of about ten months. The
succeeding autumn, Com. Dale received an order to hold himself in
readiness to resume the command from which he had just returned. Ever
ready to serve his country, when it could be done with honor, he would
cheerfully have made his preparations accordingly, but, by the order
itself, he ascertained that he was to be sent out without a captain in
his own ship. This, agreeably to the notions he entertained, was a
descent in the scale of rank, and he declined serving on such terms.
There being no alternative between obedience and resignation, he chose
the latter, and quitted the navy. At this time, he was the third captain
on the list, and it is no more than justice to say, that he stood second
to no other in the public estimation.

Dale never went to sea again. Possessed of an ample fortune, and
possessing the esteem of all who knew him, he commanded the respect of
those with whom he differed in opinion touching the question which drove
him from the navy. With the latter he never quarreled, for, at the
proper period, he gave to it his two elder sons. To the last he retained
his interest in its success, and his care of mariners, in general,
extended far beyond the interests of this life.

Many years previously to his death, Com. Dale entered into full
communion with the Protestant Episcopal Church, of which he proved a
consistent and pious member. Under the newly awakened feelings which
induced this step, he was the originater of a Mariner’s Church, in
Philadelphia, attending it in person, every Sunday afternoon, for a long
succession of years. He was as free with his purse, too, as with his
time; and his charities, though properly concealed, were believed to be
large and discriminating. With some it may be deemed a matter of moment,
with all it should be a proof of the estimation in which Dale was held
by certainly a very respectable part of his fellow citizens, that he was
named to be the first president of the Washington Benevolent Society; an
association that soon degenerated to serve the ends of party politics,
whatever may have been the design that influenced the few with which it
originated.

The evening of the life of Dale was singularly peaceful and happy. It
was as calm as its morning had been tempestuous. It is true he had to
weep for the loss of his first-born son, a noble youth, who died of
wounds received in the action between his old ship, the President, and a
British squadron; but he had given the young man to his country, and
knew how to bear up under the privation. He died, himself, in the
seventieth year of his age, in his dwelling at Philadelphia, February
26th, 1826; departing in peace with God and man, as he fondly trusted
himself, and as those who survive have every reason to hope.

By his marriage with Miss Crathorne, Com. Dale had several children,
five of whom lived to become men and women, viz. three sons and two
daughters. Of the former, Richard, the eldest, fell, at an early age, a
midshipman on board the President. John Montgomery, the second, is now a
commander in the navy, having served with Warrington, in the last
English war. This gentleman is married to a lady of the well known
family of Willing. Edward Crathorne, the youngest son, is a merchant of
Philadelphia. He is married and has children. The eldest daughter,
Sarah, married T. M’Kean Pettit, Esq., a judge of the District Court, in
Philadelphia, and is dead, leaving issue. Elizabeth, the youngest, is
the wife of Com. George Campbell Reed, of the navy, and has no issue.

In considering the character of Dale, we are struck with its simple
modesty and frank sincerity, quite as much as with its more brilliant
qualities. His courage and constancy were of the highest order,
rendering him always equal to the most critical duties, and never
wearying in their performance. Such a man is perfectly free from all
exaggeration. As he was not afraid to act when his cooler judgment
approved, he had no distrusts to overcome ere he could forbear, as
prudence dictated. Jones found him a man ready and willing to second all
his boldest and most hazardous attempts, so long as reason showed the
probabilities of success; but the deed done, none more thoroughly
stripped it of all false coloring, or viewed it in a truer light than he
who had risked his life in aiding to achieve it.

The person of Dale was in harmony with his moral qualities. It was
manly, seaman-like, and of singularly respectable bearing. Simplicity,
good faith, truth and courage were imprinted on his countenance, which
all who were thrown into his company soon discovered was no more than
the mirror of his mind. The navy has had more brilliant intellects,
officers of profounder mental attainments, and of higher natural gifts,
but it has had few leaders of cooler judgment, sounder discretion, more
inflexible justice, or indomitable resolution. He was of a nature, an
experience, and a professional skill to command respect and to inspire
confidence, tributes that were cheerfully paid by all who served under
his orders. The writer of this article has had extensive opportunities
of hearing character discussed among the sea-officers of his country;
few escape criticism, of some sort or other, for their professional
acts, and fewer still, as men; yet he cannot recall a single instance in
which he has ever heard a whisper of complaint against the public or
private career of Richard Dale. This total exemption from the usual
fortunes of the race may, in part, be owing to the shortness of the
latter’s service in the present marine, and to the limited acquaintance
of his cotemporaries, but it is difficult to believe that it is not
chiefly to be ascribed to the thoroughly seaman-like character of the
officer, and to the perfect truth and sterling probity of the man.

-----

[1] This ship has been differently stated to have been the Liverpool and
the Pearl. We follow what we think the best authorities.

[2] The prize-officer of the Lexington was a young American, of a highly
respectable family, then an acting lieutenant in the English navy. His
prisoners seized an occasion to rise, at a moment when he had gone below
for an instant, in consequence of which he was dismissed the service;
living the remainder of his life, and dying, in his native country.

[3] It is a curious feature of the times, that, the French ordering the
Americans to quit their ports with their prizes, the latter were taken
out a short distance to sea and sold, Frenchmen becoming the purchasers,
and finding means to secure the property.

[4] This sword has, quite recently, become the subject of public
discussion, and of some private feeling, under circumstances not wholly
without interest to the navy and the country. At page 63, vol. 2, of
Mackenzie’s Life of Paul Jones, is the following note, viz.:

    “This sword was sent by Jones’ heirs to his valued friend,
    Robert Morris, to whose favor he had owed his opportunities of
    distinguishing himself. Mr. Morris gave the sword to the navy of
    the United States. It was to be retained and worn by the senior
    officer, and transmitted at his death, to his successor. After
    passing through the hands of Commodore Barry, _and one or two
    other senior officers_, it came into possession of Commodore
    Dale, and now remains in his family, through some mistake in the
    nature of the bequest, which seems to require that it should
    either be restored to the navy in the person of its senior
    officer, or else revert to the heirs of Mr. Robert Morris, from
    one of whom the writer has received this information.”

    That Captain Mackenzie has been correctly informed as to a
    portion of the foregoing statement, is as probable as it is
    certain he has been misled as to the remainder. It would have
    been more discreet, however, in a writer to have heard both
    sides, previously to laying such a statement before the world. A
    very little inquiry might have satisfied him that Commodore Dale
    could not have held any thing as the senior officer of the navy,
    since he never occupied that station. We believe the following
    will be found to be accurate.

    Of the manner in which Commodore Barry became possessed of this
    sword we know nothing beyond report, and the statement of
    Captain Mackenzie. We understand that a female member of the
    Morris family gives a version of the affair like that published
    in the note we have quoted, but the accuracy of her
    recollections can hardly be put in opposition to the _acts_ of
    such men as Barry and Dale.

    The sword never passed through the hands “_of one or two other
    senior officers_,” as stated by Captain Mackenzie, at all. It
    was bequeathed by Commodore Barry to Commodore Dale, in his
    will, and in the following words, viz.

    “Item, I give and bequeath to my good friend Captain Richard
    Dale, _my_ gold-hilted sword, as a token of my esteem for him.”

    We have carefully examined the will, inventory, &c. of Commodore
    Barry. The first is dated February 27, 1803; the will is proved
    and the inventory filed in the following September, in which
    month Commodore Barry died. Now, Commodore Dale was not in the
    navy at all, when this sword was bequeathed to him, nor when he
    received it. Dale resigned in the autumn of 1802; and he never
    rose nearer to the head of the list of captains, than to be the
    third in rank; Barry, himself, and Samuel Nicholson, being his
    seniors, when he resigned.

    The inventory of Commodore Barry’s personal property is very
    minute, containing articles of a value as low as one dollar. It
    mentions _two_ swords, both of which are specifically
    bequeathed—viz. “_my_ gold-hilted” and “_my_ silver-hilted
    sword.” No allusion is made in the will to any trust. Only these
    two swords were found among the assets, and each was delivered
    agreeably to the bequest. The gold-hilted sword was known in the
    family, as the “Paul Jones sword,” and there is not the smallest
    doubt Commodore Barry intended to bequeath this particular
    sword, in full property, to Commodore Dale.

    Let us next look to the probabilities of the case. The heirs of
    Paul Jones, who left no issue, gave the sword to Robert Morris,
    says Captain Mackenzie, as a mark of gratitude. This may very
    well be true. But Mr. Morris “gave the sword to the navy of the
    United States,” to be retained and worn by its senior officer.
    It would have been a more usual course to have lodged the sword
    in the Navy Department, had such been the intention. That
    Commodore Barry did not view _his_ possession of the sword in
    this light, is clear enough by his will. He gave it, _without_
    restraint of any sort, to a friend who was not in the navy at
    all, and who never had been its senior officer. This he did, in
    full possession of his mind and powers, six months before he
    died, and under circumstances to render any misconception highly
    improbable.

    Can we find any motive for the bequest of Commodore Barry? It
    was not personal to himself, as the sword went out of his own
    family. The _other sword_ he gave to a brother-in-law. “Paul
    Jones’ sword” was bequeathed to a distinguished professional
    friend—to one who, of all others, next to Jones himself, had
    the best professional right to wear it—to “Paul Jones’ first
    lieutenant.” Commodore Dale did leave sons, and some in the
    navy; and the country will believe that the one who now owns the
    sword has as good a moral right to wear it, as the remote
    collaterals of Jones, and a much better right than the senior
    officer of the navy, on proof as vague as that offered. His
    _legal_ right to the sword seems to be beyond dispute.

    In the inventory of Commodore Barry’s personals, this sword is
    thus mentioned, viz.—“a very elegant gold-hilted sword—$300.”
    The other sword is thus mentioned, viz.—“a handsome
    silver-hilted, do. $100.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE SERENADE.


    Beneath a bower, where poplar branches long
    Embracing wove Seclusion o’er the abode
    Of hermit sage, what time the full moon rode
    ’Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along,
    Rose on the listening air a plaintive song,
    Sweet as the harmony of an angel’s lyre,
    And soft as sweet; breathed heavenward from a quire
    Of Beauty, hid the encircling shades among.
    Of mysteries high, I ween, that sage had dreamed—
    Who now, upstarting, clasps his hands to hear
    The _mystic notes of Nature’s Anthem_ clear,
    Which holiest bards have heard and heavenly deemed!
    ’Tis even thus as to that sage it seemed—
    ’Tis Beauty makes the dreams of Wisdom, dear!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE WIDOW OF NEWBURY.


                    BY THE AUTHOR OF “HENRI QUATRE.”


’Twas the eve of Newbury fair, and the time near the close of the long
reign of Harry the Eighth, after monasteries were suppressed. Reform
stalked through the land—all things were turned topsy-turvy—abbots and
monks beggared, that poor lords might thrive—priests permitted
marriage, and nuns driven from their pleasant retreats, were forced to
spin for a livelihood. But amid the greater marvels, the townspeople of
Newbury had often leisure to ask why Mistress Avery remained so long a
widow.

Sitting in her embowered porch, watching the cavalcade of merchants,
buffoons and jugglers, on their way to the encampment and site of the
morrow’s revels, she attracted many a longing eye. The merchant, whose
wandering vocation led him from ancient Byzantium to the shores of the
Thames, who came to Newbury to exchange rich silks and foreign jewelry
for broadcloth, as he rode by the capacious square tenement, with its
deep, embayed windows of dark chesnut-wood, and caught a glimpse of the
fair owner, sighed when contrasting his own desolate, wandering lot with
that of the fortunate wooer of the rich, comely widow. Mistress Avery
was relict of the richest clothier of Newbury, who, dying, left her in
sole possession of looms, lands, tenements and leases. Handsome, young,
brisk, with riches unquestionable, she attracted tender regards from all
quarters—even the proud gentry of Berkshire, with genealogical tree
rooting from Norman marauder, far back as the conquest, disdained not an
alliance garnished with broad manors, woods of a century’s growth, and
goodly array of tenements, of which our widow held fee-simple. But when
pressed successively by belted knight and worshipful esquire, she
courteously declined their offers, alleging she was bent on marrying one
of her own class in life, (if she should change condition,) one who
could take upon himself, without degradation, the task of superintending
the looms. High born swains repulsed, the field was open to gallants of
lowlier rank. But these faring no better, and incurring the ridicule of
neighbors, suitors became shy and reserved, seeking to extract token of
favor ere they avowed themselves. If the curate called, ’twas merely an
inquiry after her soul’s health—the inquiry perhaps linked to a request
that she would, from her stores of boundless wealth, add a trifle to the
contributions of the poor’s box. The lawyer had his ever ready and
undeniable excuses for visiting—leases there were to sign, indentures
to cancel. Nor was the tailor barred his plea—was there not much
broadcloth yearly fashioned into apparel for lusty serving-man, active
apprentice?

Behind Mistress Avery, as she sat gazing at the straggling pageantry,
there loitered in hall and doorway the apprentices and domestic servants
of the household. Distinguished amongst his companions, by superior
stature, stood John Winehcomb, chief apprentice. To him the widow oft
turned with remark on passing stranger; the soft regard thrown into her
address would have excused boldness in one far less favored by nature
than the apprentice, but his answers were submissive, modest, even
bashful. An acute observer might perhaps have detected a shade of
discontent on the widow’s handsome features, perhaps, as fancifully,
attributed it to the coyness and reserve of young Winehcomb; and,
indeed, as revolving months lengthened the period of widowhood, there
had not been wanting whispers, that ’Prentice John stood a fairer chance
with his mistress than all the knights or reputable burgher citizens and
yeomen of the county. His appearance certainly did not gainsay the
rumor—he had completed his twentieth year, health flushed his cheeks,
honesty and intelligence stamped his looks—the features were bold and
decided, though of modest expression. In character, he was one of those
gifted youths, in whom strict attention and unvarying promptitude supply
the place of experience, and who acquire the management and conduct of
business, in ordinary cases, rarely entrusted to men of mature years.
The clothier, when dying, recommended his spouse to confide business
affairs to John—she had done so; in the factory and with the workmen
’Prentice John was all and everything—from his word ’twas useless to
appeal.

But when young Winehcomb’s credit with Mistress Avery was canvassed, the
gossips were at a loss to affix on decisive marks of favor or
tenderness. ’Tis true, he accompanied her to church, but so did the
other apprentices—walked by her side, sat next his mistress during
prayers, his arm was accepted, his hand arranged the cushions—but then,
was he not chief apprentice, would it not be slighting to prefer the
services of a junior? Look narrowly at his conduct—there were none of
the characteristics of a favored swain, no semblance of behavior
indicating one presumptuous of the honor, nor could the absence of these
tokens be attributed to natural timidity in the presence of the sex, for
at country meetings and fairs, where hoydenish romping was the usual
diversion of youth, John participated in rustic gallantries. Yet, sooth
to say, though the gossips were at fault, they were not wrong in their
conjectures; the widow was deeply in love with ’Prentice John, for his
sake had dismissed high-born suitors, wealthy citizens, and, we need
hardly say, (though scrupulously regardful of reputation,) had given him
many hints, which, alas! he was slow to understand. It might be
inexperience, want of self-confidence, or innate modesty, which withheld
the youth from tracing her encouragement to its real motive; but from
whatever cause, Mistress Avery, who had a very high opinion of her own
personal attractions, knew he must be perfectly well acquainted with her
riches, was greatly perplexed with his diffidence, his want of
susceptibility, and concluded the apprentice must be in love elsewhere
to withstand such allurements.

One while, racked with jealousy, determined in very spite and vexation
to accept the offer of the first suitor, the next hour affection gained
the ascendancy, and she resolved to declare her love. But pride took
fire and caused a tumult in the heart, of which young Winehcomb, the
unconscious origin, was little aware. How provoking the calmness of his
replies, the quiet gaze which met her impassioned glance! Oft with
difficulty she refrained from bestowing a hearty cuff on the cold youth,
object of fond desire—as often, and with greater difficulty, did she
refrain from tenderer salute. To-morrow shall put this wilful-headed boy
to the test! If his heart be engaged, it is more than likely he has made
an assignation, which I will frustrate! So thought Mistress Avery,
revolving a scheme to bring young Diffidence on his knees, or to a
direct confession that he loved another. Under pretence of making
inquiries respecting the description of merchandise then passing the
house, borne on a long train of pack-horses, under conduct of merchants
of foreign aspect, the widow beckoned the apprentice (who was standing
at respectful distance, beneath the threshold, with his fellow
apprentices) to approach her chair, placed outside the house under cover
of the overarching porch.

“John!” said the dame, fixing her large eyes on the youth, “I warrant
there is store enough of trinkets and finery in yon bales to satisfy the
wants of every maiden in Newbury. Happy the youth whose wages are
unspent, for to-morrow, by ’r Lady! he might buy the love of the most
hard-hearted damsel. Certes, no swain need die of love, if he have money
in his purse!”

“If the love were bought by those foreign pedlar wares, it would not be
much for a Newbury lad to boast of,” replied the young man,
blushing—for the gaze of his mistress was keen and ardent.

“Are the lads of Newbury then so disinterested, Master John,” exclaimed
the widow. “Well! I will put one, at least, to the proof. I must walk
through the fair, if only to chat with my tenants’ wives from Spene and
Thatcham, and shall need your protection, for these strange foreigners
may be rude, and Cicely is such a coward she would run away.”

Mrs. Avery was rather baffled by the result of her own feint; for,
contrary to expectation, she could discover neither chagrin nor
disappointment; the apprentice answered cheerfully, he should be proud
to attend on his honored mistress, and would not forget a good cudgel,
more than a match for any foreigner’s steel—nay, to ensure her from
insult, he would bring all his fellow apprentices. This was more than
the lady desired. She was again puzzled, and declined, rather pettishly,
the extra corps of gallants, volunteered by the apprentice, more
especially, as she affirmed that it was contrary to the letter and
spirit of their indentures, which guaranteed festival and fair-days to
be at their own disposal. But they would gladly abandon the privilege to
do her service, rejoined the pertinacious and simple youth, with
ill-timed assiduity.

“Fool!” muttered the widow between her teeth, but not so indistinctly as
to pass unheard by the apprentice, who immediately drew back abashed.

A bright morrow gladdened the hearts of the good folk of Newbury. The
morn was occupied in the sale and purchase of commodities—the staple
article of the town was readily exchanged for foreign merchandise, or
broad Spanish pieces, as suited the inclination of the parties dealing.
These were busy hours for young Winehcomb and his associates, but amply
redeemed by the gayety and attractive dissipation of the afternoon. In
walking through the fair, Mistress Avery leaned on the youth’s arm, an
honor envied the apprentice by many an anxious, would-be suitor. Ere
growing tired of the drollery of the jugglers, mountebanks and buffoons,
or the more serious spectacle of the scenic moralites, they encountered
Master Luke Milner, the attorney, who thought the opportunity should not
be thrown away of endeavoring to gain the widow’s good graces. Master
Luke believed his chance very fair—he was of good family, on the
youthful side of thirty, but exceedingly foppish, after the style of the
London gallants, but caricatured—too many ribbons on doublet, too many
jewels on beaver, shoes garnished with roses large as sunflowers. “The
worshipful attorney will never do for me,” thought Mistress Avery! She
had often thought so, and was blind to many courtesies and compliments
which the learned man ventured to throw in with his legal opinions. But
now she had a part to play, a stratagem to practice on the feelings of
young Winehcomb. Love, like hunger, will break through every restraint;
she scrupled not making the lawyer’s vanity subservient to her policy,
and, accordingly, listened to his flattery with more than ordinary
attention, keeping an eye, the while, on ’Prentice John, to observe the
effect of the legal gallant’s honeyed speeches. Alas! for poor,
love-stricken Mistress Avery—no burning jealousy flushed the cheek of
John—lightened in his eye, or trembled through his frame! Hearing the
conversation grow each moment more interesting and tender, believing
himself one too many, he politely retired to a respectful distance. Was
he so cold and insensible, the handsome blockhead? soliloquized Mistress
Avery, heedless of the lawyer’s flowing speeches—I will break the
indentures—banish him the house! The wretch!

Not cold, not insensible, Mistress Avery, for see! Even whilst he
loiters, there approaches a party from the village of Spene, with whom
our apprentice is intimate—he laughs, chats with the young men and
maidens, and finally, as the mirth grows more uproarious, salutes a very
handsome, fresh colored, smart young damsel. The dame, who witnessed the
scene, stung with jealousy, believing her suspicions confirmed, broke
off abruptly, whilst Master Luke was at the very _acme_ of his tender
theme; leaving the astonished gallant, cap in hand, to the derision of
acquaintance, who sarcastically advised him to repair the loss by writ
of error.


                              CHAPTER II.

Though the widow took no notice of the incident which aroused her
jealousy, John was made sensible he had incurred her displeasure. She
walked silent, moody, reserved, scarcely replied to his remarks; her
large, dark eye flashed anger, but the apprentice, though awed, was
struck with its beauty, more struck than he had ever been. It was a new
sensation he experienced. He inwardly deprecated the threatened wrath,
wondered by what sad mischance he had incurred it, was more tremblingly
alive to her resentment, than when oft-times—during the course of
apprenticeship—conscious of deserving it. A strange, uneasy feeling
began to haunt him—he was sensible of loss of favor, and though, after
taxing memory, unconscious of merited disgrace—was surprised,
inquieted, by the deep dejection of spirits under which he labored. It
seemed as though he had incurred a loss, of which he knew not the extent
till now. His arm trembled, and she snappishly rebuked his unsteadiness;
he again encountered her glance—it was wild, angry, fierce, yet he felt
he could have looked forever.

They were opposite one of those temporary taverns, erected for the
accommodation of the higher classes frequenting the fair—tricked out
with gaudy splendor, yet affording delicious viands, choice wines to
wearied strollers. It so happened that, passing by the open doorway,
their progress was arrested by Master Nathaniel Buttress, the wealthy
tanner—mean, avaricious, advanced in years, yet ardently longing to add
the widow’s possessions to his own accumulated riches. With studied bow,
and precise flourish of beaver, he bade Mistress Avery good day, and
followed up the salute by invitation to sip a glass of sack, the
fashionable beverage of the time. At fair-season, there was not the
slightest impropriety, either in the offer, or its acceptation—it was
quite in the usual license of these festivals. But ’Prentice John was
doubly surprised; in the first place, that the miserly tanner (his
niggardliness was proverbial) should have screwed up courage to treat
any one with the high-priced nectar—and that his arm, which he
gallantly offered, should have been accepted with alacrity by the fair
dame, who, our apprentice was aware, had oft made devious circuits, on
many occasions, to elude a meeting. Young Winehcomb found himself,
lacquey-fashion, following in the rear. He was deeply mortified—such
circumstance had never happened before—yet, though vexed, the annoyance
was only secondary to extreme surprise at the character of his own
feelings. He had valued highly the good will, kind words, and occasional
gifts of the lady, as proofs of favor, founded on his honesty, diligence
and promptitude, or, at least, without deeply analizing his feelings,
believed that in such spirit he received them. But now, smarting under
disgrace, it seemed as though lost favor was dear for its own
sake—bereft of smiles to which he had been insensible till the present
hour, he was unhappy, miserable. ’Prentice John had great difficulty in
withholding his cudgel from the tanner’s back, but though he gave him
not a beating, he mentally promised one. Master Buttress, elated with
good fortune, was more vain-glorious than cautious; unlike prudent
lover, uncertain of continuance of sudden favor, dreading loss of
vantage ground, snatched by eager rivals, he escorted the dame to a
conspicuous seat, whence they could behold the fair, from whence his
favored lot was visible to all. The ready drawers, ere ardor called,
hastened to place before the guests a tray laden with costly delicacies,
crowned with silver flagon full of the favorite potation. Young
Winehcomb, who sat apart, though partaking the dainties, was maddened to
behold his mistress listen so complacently to the addresses of the
veteran suitor. Could she be serious? And if she were—what then? Was
she not absolute mistress of herself, her wealth—and was he so
specially concerned in her choice? This self-questioning elicited the
conviction, startling though true, that he was deeply, personally
concerned. He was, then, undeniably in love with his mistress! Was the
passion of sudden growth, the birth of the present hour? Alas! no—it
had been long smouldering unconsciously—nay, if he doubted, memory
flashed innumerable, though till now, unnoticed facts proving its
existence—and he had foolishly let slip the golden chance of wooing
till too late—till his advantages were the prey of a successful
rival!—his own affection only brought to light by the torch of
jealousy. Such was the cruel, torturing position of young Winehcomb.
’Twas aggravated in being obliged to listen to the tanner’s flattery, to
witness its favorable reception. Nay, worse—he became conscious that
Mistress Avery remarked his inquietude, his ill-suppressed hatred of
Master Nathaniel, as her eye was often for a moment bent on him. He was
convinced she took pleasure in his torments, for on these occasions her
manner—though strictly within the rigid limits of propriety—invariably
was more marked and tender toward the detested, fulsome niggard. He had
heard, alas! such was the custom of the sex. Often was ’Prentice John
resolved on leaving the lovers to their own conversation, but restrained
anger on reflecting it was his duty to be present with and protect
Mistress Avery, till she quitted the fair and returned home. Nor did he
relish the notion of leaving the field altogether to the
tanner—jealousy united with sense of duty in detaining the youth.

Master Buttress was in rare good humor; he could not deem otherwise but
that he was the fortunate, chosen man, and he found leisure in the
intervals of fits of gallantry, to conjure flitting visions of broad
manor added to broad manor, tenement to tenement, and to picture the
future Master—nay, Worshipful Master Nathaniel Buttress, richest
gentleman in the county of Berkshire. The only damp on his high spirits
was the present outlay; he had been drawn into expenses far beyond usual
habits; had never been guilty of similar extravagance; the veriest
prodigal of London could not have ordered a more costly board; and that
tall, rosy-cheeked lad imbibed the precious sack with the avidity of a
sponge, and never looked a tithe the better humored, but sat grinning
menaces at him—the donor of the feast! Well! well! all should soon be
remedied, and the disagreeable, lanky apprentice turned adrift.

“But who is that now passing the tavern; is it not Master Luke Milner,
the attorney? How enviously he looks! he has the reputation of having
pressed hard his own suit, but in vain! If I invite him, he will gladly
come—drink the widow’s health—and it will save me half the reckoning!”
So reasoned the tanner. The lawyer accepted the invitation, though a
slight shade of displeasure, he could not wholly dispel, flushed his
brow. Master Luke entered, bowing lowly to the widow. Drawing a chair,
near as good manners admitted, to the fair dame, he carefully deposited
scented gloves and jeweled beaver on adjoining bench, and, in sitting,
showed anxiety to display a trim foot, though rather overshadowed by the
large roses. The tanner soon perceived that avarice had induced a
grievous oversight, for the widow was not quite won. It was both
unaccountable and annoying—how perverse these women are! she seemed now
disposed to extend as much favor to Master Luke as she had previously
exhibited to Master Buttress. ’Prentice John was pleased and distressed
at the scene—glad of the tanner’s discomfiture, he was enraged at the
other’s success. The elder suitor had shown indifference to the presence
of the apprentice, viewed him as a necessary appendage to the widow’s
state, or, at worst, a tax on his purse to the extent of sack imbibed;
but our lawyer, nearer John’s own age, and gifted with keener eye than
his rival, liked not young Winehcomb’s vicinity, his prying, resolute
gaze.

“Mistress Avery,” said the lawyer blandly, “our young friend appears
uneasy; nor do I wonder, for more than once, in the fair, did I hear
red, pouting lips lament the absence of Jack Winehcomb. I pray thee,
suffer the lad to stroll where he lists; Master Nathaniel and your
unworthy servant, with permission, will zealously protect the pride and
boast of Newbury.”

If John had broken any engagement by attendance on her, replied the
dame—and a keen smile, part malicious, part searching, lit up the
widow’s features as she gazed on the disconcerted youth—let him seek
Cicely, who was not far off, to take his place, and he had full
permission to absent himself. ’Prentice John, though vexed and out of
countenance, said he had no other engagement than duty enjoined, and he
was entirely at his mistress’ command.

“Then I must not spoil Cicely’s holiday,” remarked the widow. The
apprentice was doubtful whether she spoke in displeasure or not—the
tone of voice and expression of countenance were equivocal. A quiet
smile, which played for an instant around her mouth, when he declared he
had no engagement, presaged returning favor, but the horizon was again
clouded. Mistress Avery, turning to the gallants, said the youth should
have his own way, that for herself she never found his presence
irksome—he was so stupid, she might talk treason in his company without
danger—what she was obliged to say was generally misunderstood. Stupid!
misunderstood! Were there, in these words, more meant than met the ear?
Had he been so blind, so deaf? Meanwhile the situation of the rivals was
far from pleasant; the tanner had introduced an enemy within the
fortress, whom he could neither dislodge nor compete with; the lawyer
was angry that he had not the field to himself; whilst fair Mistress
Avery, with impartial justice, hung the scales of favor suspended.
Neither could now positively declare he was the chosen swain. Half
suppressed taunts, and sarcasm clothed in ceremonious language,
threatened more open bickering, when Master Luke, with due regard to a
lady’s feelings, besought her to pardon their absence for a few minutes,
as he suddenly recollected an affair important to the welfare of his
friend, Master Buttress. The dame was condescending, declared she had
too much regard for Master Nathaniel to deem their absence a slight,
under the circumstances; so the lawyer, affecting to produce a leathern
note-case, retired with his rival. The apprentice felt his situation
awkward, but he was presently relieved; Mistress Avery bade him follow
the gentlemen unperceived, and if they drew weapons, or otherwise
exhibited hostilities, immediately interfere to prevent mischief.
Concealed by the angle of a canvass booth, he listened, unseen, to the
wordy strife. The lawyer was cool, sarcastic, overbearing; the tanner,
fiery and threatening. Presuming on youth, good figure, and flowing
rhetoric, the former contemned the pretensions of the elder rival, whom
he affirmed had nothing to recommend him but wealth not needed; why,
therefore, pursue a rivalry, when he could not lay claim to one certain
token of affection? And the man of law began enumerating the
distinguishing marks of favor which Dame Avery, spite of prudent,
cautious, self-restraint, could not avoid exhibiting as soon as he
entered the tavern. The tanner’s replication was in the same style. If
these be marks of affection, thought the listener, what would they say
to my pretensions if I told all? And ’Prentice John, as he listened and
commented on what he heard, grew a wiser, more knowing youth.

“If thou wert a younger man, Master Nathaniel,” said the lawyer, “there
would be no need for these mutual taunts. We have a readier mode of
settling—”

“Curse thy youth, and thee too,” exclaimed the tanner; “’cause thou art
a vain, braggart fop, with thy galloon and thy large cabbage roses,
think’st to brave it over me?—there!—and there!” And so saying, the
valiant tanner dealt successive cuffs on Master Luke’s doublet, and
drawing weapon, awaited the attack. Their rapiers—for the tanner,
though following a handicraft, yet, as owning broad lands, deemed
himself entitled to wear a weapon and dub himself gentleman—immediately
crossed, but the alert apprentice, with stout cudgel, threw himself
between and struck down their guard.

“Good sirs! good sirs! forbear!” cried one hastening to assist young
Winehcomb. ’Twas the curate of Spene. The belligerents immediately
sheathed their weapons, muttering future vengeance. The holy man
requested to know the cause of quarrel, and offered to act as umpire.
This, after demur and consideration, was agreed to. Hearing each in
turn, he proposed, as more becoming their respective characters than
fighting, that the case should be stated to Mistress Avery—the election
left to the fair widow. As each deemed himself the favored candidate,
and, indeed, with good cause, for our dame had been gracious to both,
the curate’s proposal was accepted, and his eloquence solicited to open
the pleadings. The party thereupon returned to the tavern, the
apprentice not the least interested actor in the drama.

The curate of Spene, though grave and sententious, threw into his speech
an under current of humor and _bonhommie_, which touched off the
pretensions of each suitor with dramatic effect and felicity. Neither
could question his impartiality, nor had he, as he affirmed, secret
preponderance either way; both were esteemed friends, both had received
the offices of the church at his hands, both had listened to his Sabbath
exhortations. Which of the twain reigned in the lady’s heart, to him he
should offer congratulation; to the other he could fairly say, that he
merited the honor for which he had unsuccessfully striven.

There was a pause, a deep silence. The blushing widow must now speak,
declare herself, decide her own fate, and with it the fortunes of the
suitors. How ardently did ’Prentice John long for one of the many
opportunities of pleading his passion, oft thrown in his way, so
heedlessly neglected! Would she indeed make an election? then, farewell,
Newbury! in some far distant land would he hide his disgrace, forget his
folly.

Mistress Avery said the gentlemen had certainly given her cause long to
remember Newbury Fair; yet they could not expect her mind made up on so
momentous a question of a sudden; besides, it was now Wednesday, which
had ever been an unlucky day with the Averys, but to-morrow (Thursday)
week they should have a decisive answer—her preference made
known—provided, and it was the only stipulation besides secrecy, they
both refrained pressing their amorous suits in the interim.

So ended the conference, and as the rivals, with the curate, gallantly
bade the lady adieu (having promised obedience in every particular)
’Prentice John, in a paroxysm of anger and remorse, made firm resolve
that he would challenge to mortal combat the favored suitor, beat him
within an inch of life if he refused to fight, upbraid the widow for
secretly fomenting a passion which she laughed at, and flee, forever,
the town of Newbury.

“You forget, John, I shall need your arm through the press,” exclaimed
the dame reproachfully. The apprentice started; he had been leaning
against the bench, lost in bitter reverie; he saw not his mistress was
waiting. Uttering an indistinct apology, he escorted the lady from the
tavern in time to witness that the tanner had been sufficiently adroit
to palm off half the expense of the entertainment on his rival. Whether
this was omen of higher fortune, the sequel will show.

They scarcely spoke during the remainder of the walk, nor even after
reaching home. ’Prentice John was reserved, melancholy, brooding over
bitter reflections; the dame, sly, observant, oft casting furtive
glances at young Winehcomb, seemingly, as he thought, indulging secret
pleasure on beholding his misery. On the morrow they were together in
the compting-room; it was his duty to produce entries of the bales of
cloth sold during the business-period of the Fair; to account for the
same in bullion, or according to the terms of sale.

“These for thyself, John,” said the widow, placing a few gold pieces on
the table, whilst she proceeded to place, under triple lock, the
remainder. They remained untouched. The third lock of the huge iron
chest duly shot, the dame arose, was surprised on beholding the money
still lying unappropriated; John looking like man under sentence of
death.

“Have I grown niggardly, Master Winehcomb?” exclaimed the widow, “speak,
if you would have more.”

John replied by asking if she thought the ten pieces sufficient to equip
him, and pay passage to Cadiz, where he heard an expedition was fitting
out, in which many Englishmen had volunteered. Mistress Avery, with a
calmness which confirmed his despair, replied in the negative, but
demanded why he should think of starting for Cadiz, ere, indeed, his
indentures were determined. The apprentice declared wildly, if she
married either tanner or lawyer, he would depart, even with no more than
the ten pieces, and for his reasons—he was not then sufficiently master
of himself to detail them!

“But, John,” said the widow, in a tone of expostulation, whilst a smile
lurked in the eyes and round the mouth, “what am I to do if I say No?
they press me so hard!”

The Newbury apprentice, at his mistress’ feet, taught the answer she
should give. On the following Monday, Master John Winehcomb was united
in marriage with Mistress Avery—the wedding celebrated by the grandest
entertainment ever beheld in the county of Berkshire, the fame whereof
spread even as far as the court of bluff Harry. If lacking splendor in
any particular, the omission was owing to the short time for
preparation, as no expense was spared. The unfortunate suitors, of
course, understood the affair from common report, and thought it
unnecessary to seek their fate at the widow’s domicil, when they could
learn it from every man, woman and child in the town. They were invited
to the wedding feast, but wisely declined, as the story of their strange
wooing was already abroad.

It was the custom, in those days, for the bridegroom to salute the bride
on the cheek, in the church, after the ceremony was performed.

“And you are ready to swear, Master John,” whispered the dame as the
bridegroom approached, “that you never saw that damsel before Fair-day,
whom you kissed at the Fair?”

“No—nor since!” replied he, believing it a hint for his future conduct.

Master Winehcomb lived happily—his wealth increased so quickly, with
the increasing demand for the staple article of Newbury, that when the
Earl of Surrey marched against James the Fourth of Scotland, who was
then ravaging the borders, the rich clothier accompanied the expedition
with a retinue of one hundred servants and artisans, clothed and armed
at his own expense. The memory of John Winehcomb and his rich and
handsome spouse was long preserved in their native town.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                SONNETS.


                     BY MISS ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.


                    I.

    I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
    That only men incredulous of despair,
    Half taught in anguish, through the midnight air
    Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
    Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
    In hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bare
    Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare
    Of the free chartered heavens. Be still! express
    Grief for thy dead in silence like to Death!
    Most like a monumental statue set
    In everlasting watch and moveless wo,
    Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
    Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet?
    If it could weep it could arise and go!




                    II.

    When some belovéd voice, which was to you
    Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
    And silence against which you dare not cry
    Aches round you with an anguish dreadly new—
    What hope, what help? What music will undo
    That silence to your sense? Not friendship’s sigh,
    Not reason’s labored proof, not melody
    Of viols, nor the dancers footing through;
    Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,
    Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress trees
    To Venus’ star! nor yet the spheric laws
    Self-chanted—nor the angels’ sweet “all hails,”
    Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these!
    Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause.




                    III.

    What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil!
    Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines
    For all the heat o’ the sun, till it declines,
    And Death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil.
    God did anoint thee with his odorous oil
    To wrestle, not to reign—and he assigns
    All thy tears over like pure crystallines
    Unto thy fellows, working the same soil.
    To wear for amulets. So others shall
    Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand,
    From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,
    And God’s grace fructify through thee to all!
    The least flower with a brimming cup may stand
    And share its dew-drop with another near.




                    IV.

    The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
    A pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle,
    She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
    Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
    Is full, and artfully her fingers feel,
    With quick adjustment, provident control,
    The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,
    Out to the perfect thread. I hence appeal
    To the dear Christian church—that we may do
    Our Father’s business in these temples mirk,
    So swift and steadfast, so intent and strong—
    While so, apart from toil, our souls pursue
    Some high, calm, spheric tune—proving our work
    The better for the sweetness of our song.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                SONNET.


                          BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.


    I dreamed last night, that I myself did lay
    Within the grave—and after stood and wept—
    My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept—
    ’Twas a strange dream, and yet meseems it may
    Prefigure that which is akin to truth—
    How sorrow we o’er perish’d dreams of youth!
    High hopes, and aspirations doom’d to be
    Crush’d, and o’er-mastered by earth’s destiny!
    Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth—
    And that deluding faith so loath to part,
    That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart;
    Oh, ’tis the ashes of such things, that wring
    Tears from the eyes! Hopes like to these depart,
    And we bow down in dread, o’er-shadowed by death’s wing.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              MALINA GRAY.


                          BY ANN S. STEPHENS.


                       (Concluded from page 278.)


                              CHAPTER III.

            “I sigh when all my youthful friends caress—
              They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
            Love has for them a gentle power to bless,
              While I shall moulder in my silent grave.
            God of the just, thou gavest the bitter cup,
            I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.”


We had penetrated to the depth of the pine grove, and it was difficult
to find our way out through the tangled undergrowth and the unequal
hollows; but Malina had become thoughtful for others once more, and
though excitement no longer made her own progress easy, she guarded me
with double care; lifted me over the hollows and carried me in her arms
when the thickets were too intricate or the ground very uneven. She
kissed me as we reached a foot-path which led to our cottage, and,
pointing to the door, would have left me to go home alone; but when she
saw that I was troubled regarding my torn frock, kindness of heart
prompted her to come back. She led me to the house, explained my
misfortune, and went away. I sat down on the door-sill and watched her
till she entered the portico of her mother’s dwelling, and when they
remarked on her dejected looks, and questioned me of the cause, I
answered that Malina was tired with walking so long in the woods, for it
seemed as if the tears which I had seen her shed and the passionate
words which she had uttered were a secret which I should do wrong to
mention.

In about an hour Phebe Gray and our young minister stopped at the
door-yard gate to inquire for Malina. I told them that she had gone
home, and when Mr. Mosier lifted me in his arms, and, looking into my
face, asked what I had been crying about, I turned my head away to evade
his kiss and besought him to set me down. The contrast between his happy
face, the deep and almost brilliant expression of joy which lighted it
up, and the sorrowful look of poor Malina forced itself even on my
childish mind. I felt that which I had no power to comprehend, and from
that time never loved our minister nor Phebe Gray as I had loved them.
They walked home very slowly, she leaning on his arm with an air of
dependence and trustfulness which was full of feeling and feminine
delicacy; he would check their progress every few moments to point out
some familiar beauty in the landscape, as if they had never looked upon
it before. They loitered by the rock spring, and along the river road,
tranquil in their happiness, till the dusk almost concealed them as they
entered Mrs. Gray’s house.

Almost every evening, for a week, our minister and Phebe Gray took their
walk around the pine grove, and always alone. Malina was confined to the
house. She had taken cold, Mrs. Gray said, and the night air was bad for
her lungs. But often, when her sister was loitering along the river’s
bank, happy in the wealth of her newly aroused affections, Malina might
be seen at her chamber window, with her cheek languidly supported by a
hand which was becoming thinner each day, and gazing earnestly after the
two beings dearest to her on earth, but whose happiness she could not
witness without emotions that were well nigh killing her. Her mother saw
nothing of this. She only knew that Malina was quieter than usual and
not very well, that her eyes were heavy and her step languid as she
moved around the house. She did not see the heart struggling against
itself, the stern principle which grew strong in the contest. She never
dreamed of that desolate and lonely sensation which haunted her
daughter’s pillow with watchfulness, and made her waking hours a season
of trial cruel as the grave. She saw that Malina was strangely affected;
true, she smiled still, but it was meekly, sadly, and it seemed as if
the music of her laugh was exhausted forever; her eyes grew misty and
sorrowful in their expression, and tears would sometimes fill them
without apparent cause. Still it was gravely asserted that Malina had
only a slight cold, a nervous attack which would go off in a day or two!
But there was something in her illness which Phebe could not comprehend;
a wish for solitude, and a strange nervous dread of any thing like
intimate conversation with herself, which prevented an acknowledgment of
her own deep causes of happiness. Her sensitive modesty made her
desirous of some encouragement to unburden her heart of its wealth of
hope even to her sister, and when she saw that Malina shunned her, that
her eyes had a wandering and estranged look whenever they turned upon
her face, she felt checked and almost repulsed in her confidence. If any
thing could have disturbed the pure happiness which reigned in her
bosom, it would have been this extraordinary mood in one who had from
childhood shared every thought and wish almost as soon as it was formed.
It had a power to disturb, though it could not entirely destroy the
tranquillity of her mind.

“I will talk with her about it to-night,” murmured Phebe, as she opened
her chamber door one evening, after a long conversation with Mr. Mosier
in the portico. “I wish, though, she would ask some question, or even
look curious to know what keeps us together so much; I little thought to
have kept a secret from Malina so long.”

As these thoughts passed through her mind, Phebe Gray gathered up the
bed-drapery, and lying down by her sister, passing an arm caressingly
over her waist, laid her blushing cheek against the now pallid face
which rested on the pillow. She felt that tears were upon it, and that
the snowy linen under her head was wet as if Malina had cried herself to
sleep.

“Malina, wake up a minute, I have something to tell you,” murmured the
young girl, in a low, half timid whisper.

The moonbeams lay full upon the bed, and Phebe Gray was looking
earnestly in the face of the beautiful sleeper. She could see the silken
lashes quivering on her cheek, and a tremulous motion of the lips, nay,
it seemed to her as if a single tear broke through the lashes and rolled
over the pale cheek, and she was certain that something like a faint
shudder crept through the form which was half circled by her arm. But
Malina gave no answer, and the gentle questioner was too sensitive for
another effort to win attention. She quietly laid her head on the pillow
and sunk to sleep, but not to indulge in the sweet, unbroken dream of
happiness which had shed roses over her couch so many nights. There was
sadness at heart, a presentiment of coming ill, and a solicitude
regarding her sister which kept her anxious and rendered her slumber
broken and unrefreshing. About midnight, when the stillness of her
chamber rendered every sound more than usually audible, she was
disturbed by the broken and half stifled sobs which arose from her
sister’s pillow. Again she stole her arm over the weeping girl, and
questioned her regarding the source of her grief. Malina only turned her
face away, and sobbed more bitterly than before.

“Why will you not speak to me, Malina? what has come between us of
late?—speak to me, sister—you are in sorrow, and I have—oh how
much—cause for joy! yet we have all at once learned to conceal thoughts
from one another. Tell me what troubles you—for I cannot be entirely
happy while you are ill and so sad.”

Malina redoubled her sobs, but amid the tumult of her grief she
murmured, “Tell me all, Phebe, all you feel, all you wish; but I have no
secrets, no sorrow. There is a little pain in my side, sometimes, and
that makes me low spirited. I have always been so healthy, you know,
that a little illness frightens me. Do not mind me, but talk of
yourself. You are happy, Phebe, _very_ happy! were not those your words?
tell me all—I can be glad and rejoice in any thing that gives you
pleasure—any thing on earth—if my heart were breaking. So let us talk
it all over now, the room is so quiet and dark, and we shall neither of
us get sleepy—do you think we shall, sister?—you may, but I have
almost forgotten how to sleep,” and, as Malina ceased speaking, she
stole an arm around her sister’s neck, and, choking back her sobs,
composed herself to listen.

Phebe rose up in the bed, gathered the drapery around them, for the
moonbeams were bright enough to reveal her blushes, and, sinking to her
pillow, again murmured the story of her love, its return, and all the
bright anticipations that made her future so beautiful. Malina nerved
herself to listen; she uttered no word of distrust, and checked all
manifestations of discontent by a strong effort of self-control, when
all was told—when she was made certain that her sister and the only
being she had ever regarded with more than a sister’s love, were to be
married—that their wedding day was fixed, and, that the mother’s
sanction had already been granted—she remained silent for a moment, and
strove to gain the mastery over her feelings. When she spoke, her frame
shook with the bitter emotions which could not be altogether subdued,
but her voice was low and very calm. Mr. Mosier was poor, and Phebe not
yet of age. If he were installed in the old meeting-house, they would be
compelled to live with Mrs. Gray till something could be saved from his
small salary to purchase a dwelling and begin housekeeping. This thought
caused some anxiety to the engaged couple. The young clergyman had
learned something of Mrs. Gray’s real character, and was reluctant to
erect his domestic altar beneath her tyrannical auspices. Phebe, too,
longed for a quiet home of her own, a happy, free home, where she might
follow her own innocent impulses, unchecked and without fear.

“You shall have that home, my sister,” said Malina Gray, twining her
arms around her companion, and kissing her with a gush of true
affection; “there is the old parsonage house; you shall have that, and
the money which dear minister Brown left to me; all are yours and _his_.
You will be happy there—very happy. I know he loved the old place. Now,
good night, Phebe; let us go to sleep!” and with a low gasping sob,
which was not the less painful that it gave no sound, Malina turned away
her head.

Phebe was too disinterested and high-minded herself, for a thought of
refusing Malina’s generosity.

“We shall, indeed, be happy,” she said; “you will come and live with us,
and by the time you are married, we shall have saved enough to pay all
the money back again. You _will_ live with us?”

Malina thought of the quiet grave-yard, which could be seen from the
parsonage window, and answered—

“I shall want no other home.”

Phebe talked on, more cheerfully than usual, and when her sister did not
answer, she thought her asleep; but Malina had fainted, and lay
senseless upon her pillow.

It was soon rumored through the village that our new minister was
engaged to Phebe Gray, and every body was delighted with the match.
Phebe was just the creature for a clergyman’s wife, quiet and gentle,
with manners that gave dignity to the softness of her disposition. In
the general satisfaction which reigned in the village, Malina was quite
overlooked. Her change of appearance was imputed to sadness at parting
with her sister; and, at times, when the wedding was talked of in her
presence, the rich color which burned over her cheeks, the brilliancy of
her eyes, and the flashes of wild merriment that sprung to her lips,
deceived the unobserving into a belief of her entire happiness. She
spent much of her time at the old parsonage, superintending the
arrangements of her sister’s home with a degree of taste and energy
which surprised all who witnessed her exertions. The rooms were all
newly arranged, delicate paper was purchased at New Haven for the walls,
new stepping stones were laid at the front door, green blinds gave a
look of elegance and seclusion to the windows; the profuse rose bushes
and lilac trees were pruned, and a white picket-fence hedged in the
little wilderness of flowers which blossomed in the front yard. The
cabinet maker, on School Hill, was busy with the furniture, all of a
superior kind. The carpet-weaver had borrowed two _quill-wheels_, and
all the spools, for a mile round, in order to expedite the progress of
sixty yards of striped carpeting through his cumbrous loom. The house
and its adornments were to be comfortable and elegant beyond any thing
that had been known in our village for a long time; and all was Malina’s
work. Her untiring assiduity created the little paradise which another
was to enjoy. Her money purchased the books which filled the little
study, whose window opened upon the most verdant corner of the orchard.
Her trembling hands placed a new inlaid flute on the little table, and
drew the easy chair close by, that the bridegroom might find every thing
ready and home-like in his new dwelling.

One afternoon Malina was left alone; the workmen had departed to their
suppers, and her task was finished for the day. She had just hung the
pet robin in his old place by the dining-room window; he seemed to
recognize the room, and flew about his cage, chirping and fluttering his
wings, as if to thank her for bringing him home once more. It was the
first hour of repose that Malina had known for many weeks, and now, that
she had nothing more to perform, painful thoughts and regrets that would
no longer be stifled, fell back upon her heart, and she was, oh, how
desolate! There, in her blooming youth, she sat hopeless and weary of
life—for what is life to a woman without affection? The heart was full
of warm and generous feelings, burthened with a wealth of tenderness,
and yet she had no future, nothing to hope for, nothing to dread; her
destiny seemed consummated there and then. Youth is in itself so
hopeful, that we can scarcely imagine a creature in the first bud of
life yearning for the grave. But Malina was very sad. She looked through
the open door into the orchard; the green old apple trees were heavy
with blossoms, and through the garniture of thrifty leaves, and the rosy
shower which blushed among them, a corner of the old meeting-house met
her gaze—a portion of the grave-yard, and a new tomb-stone, which
gleamed out from the young grass which had already started up from our
minister’s death place. How green and quiet it looked—and oh, how
earnestly Malina Gray longed to lie down in that still spot, and be at
rest. Yet Malina was young, and no human being dreamed how wretched she
was. The orchard was full of singing birds that day, and there had been
a time when the gush of sweet sounds, that rose and swelled amid the
foliage, would have made her heart leap, but now it filled her eyes with
tears. The sunshine that played and quivered among the leaves—the wind
that now and then gushed through the heavy boughs, scattering the grass
with rosy flakes, and sighing as it swept off to the open plain—all
seemed a mockery.

She was heart sick, and yearned to die. How cruel is that power by which
a broken heart draws thoughts of sadness from the sweet and beautiful
things of nature. Malina gazed through her tears at the change her own
hands had wrought. The unseemly plantains had disappeared from the back
door-step, and around the well-curb a bed of valley-lilies were just
forming their pearly buds.

“They will be in blossom for Phebe’s hair,” murmured the young girl,
“and for mine—for am I not to be bridemaid?”

With a mournful smile gleaming through her tears, Malina arose, and
tying on her bonnet, left the house. She met Phebe and Mr. Mosier near
the front gate. They were sauntering toward their new dwelling, tranquil
and happy; to them, every thing whispered of joy; the fragrant orchard,
the birds caroling within its shadows, and all the beautiful landscape
were full of pleasant associations. Every hope and thought in _their_
bosoms blossomed in unison with nature.

How true it is that thought and feeling, like the sun, give color to
outward things. The heart creates its own sunshine, or the cloud through
which nature is revealed to it. Phebe Gray and her betrothed husband
felt nothing but the sweet and the beautiful—their hearts were brimful
of sunshine. But, alas, for Malina, she looked through the cloud.

Malina walked on. The two contented beings by the gate were happy enough
without her. She strove to smile cheerfully as they spoke to her, and in
a tone of forced playfulness forbade them entering the house till their
wedding day.

Malina had gathered beneath the roof of that old parsonage house many
luxuries almost unknown in the neighborhood; every thing calculated to
gratify the fine taste of the young divine, or add to the comfort of her
sister, had been unsparingly purchased, till her patrimony was almost
exhausted. While this duty lasted, and the excitement of action was upon
her, Malina sustained the burthen of her sorrows with an aching, but
firm heart. She had taken no time for thought—scarcely for tears—but
worked on, as if toiling through a feverish dream. Her cheeks were
always flushed, and sometimes the music of her laugh rang loud and
strangely through the bridal chamber which she was decorating; but the
companions who assisted her were often startled by the reckless tone of
her laugh; it was too absent and wild for happiness or merriment,
entirely deficient in that low, rich melody, which had once made her
voice so full of healthy joy. Yet all the neighbors were commenting on
her generous conduct, and the brilliancy of her spirits; and it was
often remarked that Malina Gray was never so fond of company, so
careless in her mirth, or so startling in her wit, as she had been since
the engagement of her sister, and since she had recovered from the
slight cold which confined her to the house when that engagement was
first whispered in the village.

To a heart capable of self-sacrifice, there is no feeling so lonely as
that which follows exhausted power. No conviction, so keenly painful, as
a knowledge that a beloved being, who has cost us the hopes of a life in
resigning, can be happy without our aid—that we have nothing to render
up—no aim for exertion—nothing to do but sit down and gaze upon the
blank which existence has become. Her task was done. The excitement
over, and then came to the heart of Malina Gray the toil and pain of
concealed suffering; the aching restlessness which eats into the bud of
human life. Once more it was rumored that she was ill, and, but for
other and more absorbing subjects, Mrs. Gray might have been alarmed for
the safety of her child; but she was so intent on other things, that the
poor girl and her sufferings remained unheeded at home, save by the
gentle Phebe and her betrothed husband.

When Mrs. Gray invited our young minister to reside at her house, it was
probably with some vague expectation of the result which followed; and
when her consent was desired to his union with Phebe, it was given
promptly, and with evident satisfaction. But the young divine, though a
meek and true Christian, had a dignity of character and opinion which
sometimes proved at variance with the exactions of an ambitious and
arbitrary matron. She had expected that he would continue to reside in
her family, after the marriage, and looked forward to an extended
dominion in her own household, and increased influence in the church, to
be secured by this arrangement. But when he persisted in establishing an
independent home, in managing his own salary, and becoming the sole
protector of his future wife, whose state of moral servitude he could
not witness without pain, Mrs. Gray’s enthusiasm in favor of the match
gradually subsided, and when Malina insisted upon surrendering her newly
acquired property to the young couple, and giving them the parsonage for
a residence, the haughty woman became stern in her opposition, and while
she took every means to render her own house an unpleasant residence for
the parties, found some excuse to delay the wedding, from week to week,
and at last refused to sanction it, till Mr. Mosier should be regularly
installed in the pulpit, which he had now filled almost a year. Still
Mrs. Gray was not a woman to talk openly of a change in her opinions.
She was too calculating and subtle for useless words.

It had been settled in church council, that our young minister should be
installed a few weeks after the time appointed for his marriage, and the
young couple submitted to the imposed delay without a murmur. During
these intervening weeks, and while Malina was occupied in embellishing
the parsonage, Mrs. Gray was observed to be absent from home more
frequently than usual. There was scarcely an influential church member
near the old meeting-house, with whom she had not taken her knitting
work, to spend a social afternoon; and several tea-parties were given in
a quiet way at her own house, where she presided over the silver
tea-urn, and old fashioned china, with more than ordinary condescension
and dignity. But these were all impromptu meetings, and invariably took
place when Mr. Mosier and Phebe were invited elsewhere.

The parents of our young minister were aged and very respectable
farmers, residing in the vicinity of New Haven; but they were far from
wealthy, and the farm they cultivated was not their own property. A week
before the Sabbath appointed for the installation, Mr. Mosier
accompanied his intended bride and her mother on a visit to his parents,
where the haughty matron first learned that the man whom her daughter
was about to marry had been a _charity student_. A benevolent society
had paid his tuition at Yale College, at least that portion which he had
been unable to meet by his own exertions. There had been no concealment
of this truth on his part, for he had informed Phebe of the matter, and
believed Mrs. Gray already aware of it. But Phebe, in the generous
simplicity of her heart, never conceived it possible that the manner of
his education could be deemed a cause of reproach, and it had left no
impression on her mind; to her upright understanding there was no
degradation in the thought that her lover had been a _charity student_.

Mrs. Gray gave no demonstration of the displeasure which filled her
bosom on receiving this intelligence, but she quietly made an excuse for
returning home with her daughter the next day, and, with every
appearance of disinterested kindness, insisted that Mr. Mosier should
not interrupt his visit to accompany them. “She could easily drive
home,” she said, “the horse was gentle, and the roads perfectly good;
her son-in-law must remain with his family; it would be cruel to force
him away so abruptly.” Mrs. Gray said all this in her usual manner,
shook hands with the old people, allowed the young divine to assist her
into the chaise, and pretended to be very intently occupied in searching
for something in her traveling basket, while he placed Phebe in her
seat, and, with her slender hand clasped in his own, was whispering his
farewell.

“Remember, and be in readiness next Sabbath,” he said, in a low voice,
“tell Malina that she must take good care of you. I shall come on
Saturday evening.”

Phebe murmured that she would be ready; but as she returned the farewell
clasp of his hand, tears started to her eyes. She could not have told
the reason, but a strange feeling of melancholy came over her, and it
seemed as if the parting were forever. She looked back as the chaise
drove away—he was standing on the door step by his parents, and the
whole group waved their hands, smiling cheerfully, as they saw her turn
for a last glance. But still her heart was heavy.

What passed between Mrs. Gray and her daughter during their drive home,
we have no means of recording. But as Malina sat in her chamber window,
and saw the chaise toiling up the hill that afternoon, her sister leaned
forward, and she caught a glimpse of her face. It was white as marble,
and stained with tears. Malina had been ill, but she started up, hastily
girded her white morning wrapper to her waist, and went down. Mrs. Gray
loitered to give some directions to the “hired man” about her horse, and
Phebe was descending from the chaise without assistance. The moment her
foot touched the earth, she tottered, and would have fallen but for
Malina, who sprang forward, and flinging her arms around her, inquired
eagerly and kindly what had befallen her.

Phebe attempted to speak, but the words died on her lips, and the color
left them; she lifted her hand as if to grasp at something for support,
and fainted in her sister’s arms.

“Mother, what is the matter?—where is Mr. Mosier?—tell me, pray tell
me, what has made poor Phebe so ill, and why is she looking so
wretched?”

Mrs. Gray turned, and saw that her child was senseless.

“Go and bring some water,” she said to the man, “carry that basket in
with you, and make haste. Raise her head a little, you are crushing her
bonnet,” she continued, turning to Malina; “there, take it off—she will
come to, directly.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Gray calmly untied her daughter’s bonnet, and held it
till the man came with water, while Malina stood trembling beneath the
weight of the fainting girl, tenderly smoothing back the bright tresses
from her forehead, and wildly kissing her pale lips, amid a thousand
vague questions, which no one thought of answering.

Mrs. Gray took a pitcher of water from the man, who came panting from
the well, and laving her hands in it, laid them on the pale face which
Malina was still covering with tears and kisses. There was a faint
struggle, a gasping sigh, and after a little Phebe began to murmur upon
her sister’s bosom, like one just awaking from a dream. She shrunk from
her mother, when that stubborn woman would have assisted her to rise,
and clinging to Malina, walked with trembling steps toward the house.

“Oh, not there—up, to our own room, Malina,” said the poor girl, as her
sister would have led her into the parlor. She was obliged to sit down
more than once in ascending the stairs; and when at length Malina laid
her upon the bed in their own dear room, she looked sadly around, and
reaching up her arms, clasped the bending neck of her sister, and began
to weep.

“I must never see him again—never—never,” she said, while her voice
was broken with tears; “oh, Malina, did you think any human being could
be so cruel?”

Malina started, and for one instant a flash of pleasure broke into her
eyes. It was an unworthy feeling, and the next moment her face was
flooded with shame that she had known it; and when she sat down by her
sister, and besought her to say what had thus unnerved her, it was with
as true sympathy as ever warmed the heart of a noble and
self-sacrificing woman.

The cause of her sorrow was soon explained. Phebe had been commanded by
her arbitrary mother to give up all thoughts of a union with Mr. Mosier.
The gentle girl, for the first time in her life, had ventured to
expostulate with her parent. The hope of her young life was at stake,
and her heart trembled at the thought of separation from the man whom
she had learned to love so devotedly. It was all in vain. Mrs. Gray was
resolved, her prejudices were aroused, and to their gratification the
happiness of her child was as dust.

Phebe had been educated with almost holy reverence for the authority of
a parent, and though her heart broke, she dared not oppose her mother’s
command. Her spirit withered beneath it, like a flower trodden to the
earth, but she submitted. Not so Malina. Once more she ventured to
reason with and oppose her mother, but only to call down resentment on
her own head. This was no sudden resolution in Mrs. Gray; she had gone
steadily to work, and planned out her own results. She was one of those
cold pattern women who never know an impulse—whose virtues are
polished, like marble, and as cold. She had paved her way quietly and
well. The next morning, while her two children were sorrowing in their
room, she was driving from house to house, exerting her influence over
better hearts and weaker minds than her own, to the ruin of those who
had loved and trusted her. And while Phebe lay upon a sick bed, a vestry
council was called at the old meeting-house, and a decision passed by a
majority of a single man, which deprived our young minister of the
pulpit he was to have taken as his own the following Sabbath. Many good
and just men of the congregation protested against this cruel and unjust
act; but in churches, as in communities, the good and the merciful do
not always constitute a majority.

The decision of this church meeting was forwarded to Mr. Mosier, and
with it a letter from Mrs. Gray. The next morning he rode by our cottage
on horseback, slowly, and as one in deep and morbid thought. He crossed
the old bridge, and, as he did so, looked earnestly toward Mrs. Gray’s
dwelling. He paused a moment at the end, and then rode at a brisker pace
up the hill.

Phebe had been feverish, and very low, all that morning. Malina was
watching by her side, and as she lay with her eyes closed in an
imperfect slumber, the sound of a horse coming up the road made her
start from the pillow, and while her cheek burned with a more feverish
red, she fixed her eyes upon the open sash.

“It is he—I know it!” she said, clasping her hand, and looking into
Malina’s face; “I will get up; mother cannot refuse to let me see him
this once;” and with a kind of feverish joy the poor girl flung aside
the bed clothes, and stepped out on the floor. With trembling and eager
hands she gathered up her beautiful tresses, and began to braid them
about her head, earnestly beseeching Malina all the time to assist her
in getting ready to go down.

The kind hearted sister required no entreaty. She helped to array the
invalid, though her own breath came gaspingly, and her hands shook like
aspens in performing their duty.

“There, now—there, I am ready. See, do I look very ill, Malina?” said
the excited young creature, turning to her sister; “it will make his
heart ache to see how red my cheeks are. Do you think he will detect the
fever?” and dashing some lavender over her handkerchief with an
impetuosity all unlike her usual quiet movements, the half delirious
girl took her sister’s arm, and was hurrying from the room. But the
sound of a horse, rapidly passing the house, again came to her ear, and,
with a faint exclamation, she sprung to the window just in time to catch
a glimpse of her lover as he rode by. He lifted his face to the open
sash, and she saw that it was very pale. He saw her, checked his horse
an instant, half raised his hand, and then turning away with seeming
effort, he rode slowly down the hill.

“He is gone,” exclaimed the unhappy girl, “gone without a word, almost
without a look!”

And with a wavering step, Phebe Gray moved toward the bed, and amid the
confusion of her feverish thoughts, she called on Malina to come and
undo the bridal wreath which was girding her forehead so painfully.

But Malina was away. She had caught one glimpse at the pale face
uplifted to her window, and with a wild impulse to see the minister once
more, she flung a shawl over her head, and left the room. With the speed
of an antelope, she darted through the garden, and forcing a passage
through the brushwood which lined a hollow beyond, leaped down upon the
natural basin of granite, where the rock-spring poured its waves, just
as he had dismounted, and was proceeding to dip up the water in his
palm, and bathe his forehead with it. He looked care-worn and pale, and
the expression of his eyes, as he dropped the water from his hand, and
turned them suddenly on the young girl, was that of a strong heart in
ruins, and with its energies prostrated. He held forth his hand and
tried to smile, but the attempt was a painful one, and died in a faint
quiver of the lips.

Malina did not take his hand—she had no power—but stood with her left
foot half buried in the damp moss which lined the spring, and the other
planted hard against the granite basin; her hands clasped amid the
drapery of her shawl, and her eyes lifted to his, glittering with
excitement, and yet full of tears. The breath came pantingly through her
unquiet lips, and in the struggle of her emotions, the words of greeting
which she would have uttered, were broken into sobs.

“This is very kind of you, Miss Gray,” said the young clergyman, in a
low voice, which had something of proud constraint in its tones; “I
inquired for you at the house, but your mother informed me that you were
engaged, and that your sister did not wish to see me.”

“Not wish to see you!” exclaimed Malina, suddenly finding voice;
“Phebe—my poor Phebe—not wish to see you! Alas, for her, she cannot
see any one; this cruel business has broken her heart. Oh, Mr. Mosier,
why is it that such wrong can be done? why submit to it? what right has
my mother thus to interfere, to the unhappiness of her child?”

Mr. Mosier did not reply, his thoughts were far away, and, though he
gazed earnestly on the enthusiastic face lifted to his, Malina knew that
he was not thinking of her. She felt humbled, and turned away her face
as one who had been rebuked. So she stood gazing, with a look of patient
humility, on the waters sparkling in the basin at her feet, till at last
he aroused himself and spoke. But she, who felt every word he uttered as
if it were a tone of music, had no share in his speech or his thoughts.
Things all too precious for her were rendered to another, and she must
endure the pain.

“So she was ill, and _could_ not come. Yet she knew I was there, and sat
in the room all the time. I saw her at the window, and she looked—tell
me, Malina, my sweet, kind sister,” he added, suddenly, “did she wish to
see me?—would she come for a moment here or into the garden?”

The young man looked anxious, and his cheek flushed brilliantly as he
spoke, for the moment his well regulated mind had lost its balance, and
the passions of earth were strong within him. It was but for a moment;
before Malina had time to reply, the flush died from his face.

“No,” he added, with a sorrowful motion of the head, “it is wrong to
ask, foolish to desire an interview—comfort her, Malina, say that which
I cannot have permission to utter in her presence; say how deeply, how
earnestly I have loved her, how weary I am of the world, how lonely my
heart is now—say to her—alas! what message have I to send—I, who can
scarcely turn my face heavenward, the clouds are so dark that lie heaped
before me!”

These words were uttered in a tone of such despondency that Malina once
more lifted her eyes, and would have spoken words of encouragement which
she was far from feeling, for her own wretchedness seemed completed in
that of the beings she most loved; but, while her lips were parted, he
made a sudden effort at composure, and saying that all might yet be
well, in a broken and hurried voice, he drew Malina toward him and
stooped to press his lips to her forehead, without seeming conscious of
the act—but she was all too conscious, the blood rushed to her cheeks,
and she trembled in his arms like a frightened child. He saw it not, for
to his thought she was a sister only, and though his lips had pressed
her forehead for the first time, he did not think of it, but mounted his
horse and rode away before she had power to utter a word or make a
gesture to detain him.

He was gone forever, and she was alone—alone! how often is that word
misapplied; the loving and the loved are never alone—but so it was with
Malina Gray.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                 “In the cold, damp earth we laid her,
                   When the forest cast its leaf,
                 And we sighed, that one so beautiful
                   Should have a lot so brief.”


“So, Madam, you refuse—my boy is dying, and he yearns to look once more
on the poor girl who would have been his wife in a single week.”

It was but a few days after her interview with Mr. Mosier, that Malina
heard these words issue from her mother’s parlor, as she was passing
through the hall, from the chamber where she had just left Phebe
striving to beguile her weary thoughts with a book. The door was ajar,
and there was a power in the words which made her start and listen. It
was a deep, manly voice, that of an aged person, but entreaty,
tenderness and something almost like resentment, combined to render it
startling and pathetic. Malina held her breath, and, drawing a step
nearer, looked through the door.

An aged man was standing before her mother, he held a cane without
resting on it, and a broad brimmed hat was in his left hand; firm and
erect he stood in the quiet room, the gray hair sweeping back from his
forehead, and his plain dress giving him the look of a patriarch; his
face was agitated, but so full of benevolence that Malina loved the old
man before she guessed who he was. Violent passions could seldom have
passed over those mild features, still they were disturbed as he spoke,
and the good old man was evidently struggling with strong and bitter
emotions. There was something in the grasp of his hand on the cane, and
in his dignified bearing, which awed the sympathy it excited.

Mrs. Gray was sitting in her easy chair, looking rather earnestly at the
old man. She had been engaged in knitting when he entered, but had laid
the work on a little round stand by her side, and seemed rather anxious
to take it up again; but she was too punctilious for that, and very
blandly requested her visitor to resume the seat from which he had
risen. “No, I have not time to sit down, every minute is worth years to
me now—my only son is dying, and I am absent from his side.” The old
man now paused, his chin began to quiver, and turning away his face, he
strove to conceal the tears that broke into his eyes from the calm and
heartless woman who sat gazing upon him.

“Madam,” he said, but his voice was broken, and his hand shook till the
hat fell from his grasp to the floor. “Madam, I beseech you, think
better of this! My boy cannot live forty-eight hours; the doctors told
me so before I left him. But I came from his bed side, when each lost
moment was as a drop of blood wrung from my heart, thinking that you
might refuse any messenger but his father. You are a woman and should
feel for him, and here I gave up five whole hours of this precious time
that he might look on the face of that poor girl before he dies; and his
mother—you have had children sleeping against your heart, madam—do you
think his mother would not find it a comfort if the soul of her only
child could go up to heaven from her bosom where he nestled in his first
infancy? Do you think she has no woman’s yearning wish for the last
embrace, the last endearing word? She loves the boy better than her own
soul, and he is dying before her eyes—but she gave him up. When she saw
that he moaned for the presence of one who had become dearer than his
own mother, she bade me come hither and bring the girl that her first
born might die in the arms he loved best—think, woman, every moment I
spend in talking here is wrung from the death bed of a child that was
all on earth that two old people had to love and hope for. I must
depart, but let _her_ go with me.”

The old man unconsciously clasped his hands as he spoke, and tears fell
like rain over his withered cheeks.

Mrs. Gray glanced at him with something of wonder in her face, and
extending out her hand, took up the knitting work as if to end the
conference.

“And can you still refuse!” exclaimed the old man.

“It would not be proper,” replied Mrs. Gray, quietly unscrewing the top
of her silver knitting case, “besides, Phebe is not well enough to ride
so far even if she desired it, and the fever may be contagious.”

“If I could talk with the young lady I am sure she _would_ desire it,”
said the old man, almost humbly, for his heart grew heavy at the thought
of returning to the death bed of his son with his errand unaccomplished.
“Leave it to her good feelings, madam, and if they plead against me I
will depart and trouble you no more.”

Neither the pleading voice, nor the agony of over-wrought feelings with
which the unhappy father spoke, reached the heart of Mrs. Gray. While
the old man stood before her, trembling beneath the burden of his grief,
she placed her needle in its sheath, twisted the worsted over her
finger, and went through the intricacies of a seam stitch before even
her eyes were lifted toward him.

“You must recollect, Mr. Mosier,” she said, “Phebe is not at present
engaged to your son, and even if she were, I do not think it would be
exactly correct for her to visit him. I am sorry for the young
gentleman, very; I will see that our new minister mentions his case in
prayer next Sabbath; we all feel for him—but he would not be advised.
Indeed—”

Here Mrs. Gray dropped a stitch, and paused while it was looped up
again. When she raised her eyes, the face of her auditor was stern, and
as calm as her own. The tears had dropped from his cheek, his hands were
both grasping the head of his cane, and if that pharisaical woman could
have shrunk from any thing, the solemn and reproving eyes which dwelt on
her face would have kindled the most generous blood of her heart into
blushes of shame. But it is hard to wring the die of shame from a
self-righteous heart. Mrs. Gray believed herself to be acting in a most
Christian-like spirit, in still retaining the heartless civility of her
manner toward the poor old man whom her own cruelty had bereaved. Her
heart was entombed in the self-conceit of its own sanctity, like dust in
the marble of a sarcophagus.

“Woman,” said the old man, and this time his voice was firm, and
thrillingly solemn; “you have no heart. You are a mother, and should
know how much worse than death it is to see the child whom you have
loved and cherished, and woven in your very heart-strings, perishing
before your eyes. Oh, how proud we were of that boy! how his poor mother
loved him! what a day it was when she and I walked up the broad aisle of
that old meeting-house yonder, and saw him standing in the pulpit—a
minister of the gospel. We had prayed for that sight—toiled and slaved
for it—and were so happy—so very happy. He is on his death bed now.
Woman, _you_ have sent him there—you, who were a mother, thought
nothing of smiting a sister woman through the heart—you, a professor of
religion, can do murder more subtle and cruel than that which cleaves a
man through the brain, and look calm and speak softly, nay, smilingly
refuse the last dying request of your victim. Woman, I will not curse
you—that right rests with the high God of Heaven, who looketh down upon
the murder you have done, not as man looketh, not as the law
looketh—before _him_, shall you be arraigned, and that cold heart shall
be made to shudder at the depth of its own crime—_he_ will be thine
accuser—he, thy victim, who was so gentle, so sweet tempered, that
thoughts of revenge never entered his heart. In a few short hours he
will stand in the broad light of Heaven, sent there untimely; and even
as Abel bear witness against his brother, he shall bear witness against
thee! The Almighty may not place his mark upon thy brow—the law may not
brand thee—but one who can wring the life from a human being by silent
and moral cruelty, is not less a murderer than the man who smites his
brother to the heart with a poniard!”

Mrs. Gray was at length moved—for the solemn and stern energy of that
pale old man might have startled the dead from their graves—the
knitting dropped from her hands, her eyes darkled with terror, and her
face turned white as a corpse beneath the snowy lace and the black and
false hair that shaded it. She would have spoken, but the pallid lips
trembled without uttering a sound, while the hands which rested in her
lap began to shiver, as she strove to lift them and motion him away.

The old man left her where she sat, and went into the hall; but his
feelings had been too cruelly outraged, and there his strength gave way;
he sunk helplessly to a settee, and covering his face with his hands,
wept like a child.

Malina had left the hall and stood in her sister’s chamber. Phebe was
dressed and seated by the window, pondering over the pages of a book,
though she had not turned a leaf that day. She did not raise her eyes
when the door opened, but seemed unconscious of a second person.

“Come with me,” said Malina, grasping the hand which lay in her sister’s
lap, with fingers that clung to it like ice. “Come!”

There was something in Malina’s face that frightened her companion from
the apathy that had for days settled on her spirits. She arose, without
a word, and was led down stairs, and into the hall. It was empty. Old
Mr. Mosier had departed, and the front door was left open behind him.

“Phebe,” said Malina Gray, in a faint whisper, “_he_ is dying, and has
sent for you—his father sat there, but a moment since. Our mother has
refused that you should see him. He is pining to die with his head
against your heart. Sister, will you go?”

“I will plead with her—kneel to her,” said Phebe Gray, and opening the
parlor door, she entered alone.

Malina paused an instant, and turning through a side door, passed across
a small clover lot, toward the stables. A horse stood cropping the white
blossoms in a corner of the field. She looked around for some one to
help her, but the men were all away on the upper farm—so she drew
toward the gentle animal, and beckoning with her hand, uttered a few
coaxing words, and persuaded him toward the stables. He bent his neck
while her trembling hands placed the bit in his mouth, which was yet
half full of fragrant grass, and turned his head to watch her, as she
girded the saddle to his back. When she tied him to the garden fence,
and entered the house again, he followed her with his eyes, and, with a
short neigh, fell to tearing with his mouth the honeysuckle vines that
crept along the fence.

As Malina entered the hall she saw Phebe gliding up stairs toward their
room; she was walking feebly, and held by the bannister as she went.
When the sisters stood within the chamber together, Phebe sunk to a
chair, while Malina looked earnestly in her face, and uttered a single
sentence—

“Will you go?”

“She has forbidden it,” replied Phebe, faintly.

“Will you go?” said Malina, once more.

“I dare not disobey her!” Phebe spoke with difficulty, and clasping both
hands over her face, moaned as if in pain, for the struggle within her
heart was terrible.

When Phebe became sufficiently composed to look up, her sister was gone.
She was glad to be alone, and creeping toward the bed, knelt down and
prayed.

Malina had snatched a bonnet and shawl from the bed while her sister’s
face was concealed, and gliding down stairs into the open air, she
mounted the horse and rode away.

It was sunset as the poor girl came slowly over the old bridge, and rode
by our house. I was playing in the front yard, and ran out to meet
her—but all at once she drew the bridle tight, and the spirited horse
sprung forward on the way before my childish voice could be heard. The
gloom of coming night lay heavily amid the pine boughs, as the young
girl rode under them, and when she dashed up the road, and disappeared
over Fall’s Hill, both horse and rider were for one moment displayed in
bold relief against a pile of crimson and golden clouds which lay heaped
in the horizon. When she disappeared, it seemed, to my infant fancy, as
if the gates of heaven had unfolded to receive her.

The night came on clear, and lighted both by moon and stars, the
solitary traveler still kept the road, accompanied only by her spirited
animal, and the shadow which seemed gliding along the dewy green-sward
by her side, like a silent guardian. It was late in the evening when the
horse checked himself at the fence before a red farm-house, with a
sloping roof, and two large trees embowering it with foliage.

It seemed like supernatural instinct in the animal, for he had only been
there once before, and Malina, in the tumult of her thoughts, scarcely
knew where she wished to stop. There was a light twinkling through the
thick leaves of a tree bough that dropped over one of the front windows,
but it was very faint, and seemed forcing itself through the folds of a
window curtain. Malina grasped the horn of her saddle, and dropping
feebly down to the green-sward, moved toward the house. There was a
foot-path which led to the front door—she followed this, and found
herself in a dark entry, with a narrow stream of light falling through
the entrance to an inner room. The sound of a faint, wandering voice,
and of smothered sobs, stole from the room. Malina breathed heavily as
she touched the door, and glided into the room. It was indeed the
chamber of death. A solitary candle burned on the table, amid glasses
and vials, sending forth just sufficient light to reveal an old
fashioned tent bed, with its white drapery sweeping to the floor, and
its heavy fringes hanging motionless, as if they had been cut from
marble. At the foot of this bed knelt an old man; his hands were clasped
beneath his face, and the long gray hair swept thickly over them, as he
prayed. A female stood between Malina and the bed; she was bending over
the pillows which were heaped high upon it, and though the poor girl
could not see her face, she _felt_ that it was _his_ mother. She moved,
and the sound of her footstep on the sanded floor made the old lady lift
her head, and Malina saw his face once more. Oh, how white and changed
it was! The damp, black hair fell heavily over his forehead, shadows lay
about the closed eyelids, and there was an expression about the mouth,
which was not a smile, and yet seemed deathly and sweet. His head was
raised high with pillows, and though he seemed to sleep, the breath came
painfully from his lips, and with a struggle that constantly disturbed
the linen which lay in waves across his breast.

Malina stood upright in the dim light, motionless as a thing of marble,
her eyes fixed on the dying man, and unconscious, in the force of her
grief, that to all in the room, save him who saw her not, she was a
stranger, and had intruded into the sanctuary of private grief.

It mattered not; Malina’s step had been mistaken for that of a woman
from the kitchen, and no one knew that the wretched young creature was
there.

There was a motion of the bed clothes, a faint murmur, and the dying man
opened his eyes—those large, eloquent eyes that Malina had thought upon
so often, and so thrillingly. There was a mist upon them now, but
through it broke a soft and strange light, heavenly and beautiful. The
old lady bent her ear, and listened to the faint murmur, which seemed
dying on his lips.

“My father—when will he come back?—it is late!”

The sound was very faint, but the old man had heard it amid the strong
agony of his prayer. He arose, and moving round the bed, bent over his
son. A light, almost preternatural, came to the eyes of that dying man,
and with a sudden effort he found voice to speak.

“My father,” he said, “thank God—you have returned in time. Where is
she?”

“My son,” said the old man, in a voice which he vainly strove to render
calm, “in a little time she will meet you in heaven—but she is not
here.”

The invalid had turned his head upon the pillow, with a look of touching
eagerness; but it fell back—his eyes closed faintly, and after gasping
once or twice, he lay motionless, save the lips, which gave forth broken
but beautiful fragments of speech, such as came uppermost in his pure,
but wandering mind, for he was delirious now. The last vibrations of his
soul were disturbed by disappointment in his sole earthly wish. In the
broken murmurs that fell from his lips, Malina heard her own name, and
it unlocked the ice which seemed closing round her heart. With a sob
that broke to her lips amid a gush of tears, she sprung toward the bed,
and falling upon her knees, clasped the pale hand which fell over the
bed, and pressed her quivering lips repeatedly upon it, while her voice
mingled with the choking grief that shook her whole frame.

“Forgive me! oh, let me stay!” she said, lifting her face to the old
woman, but still nervously grasping the dying man’s hand; “I loved him
better than she did—better than anybody could—better than my own soul!
Let me stay, and die with him! No one asked _me_ to come, but I am here.
You will not send me away?”

The voice of Malina Gray was soft and low, like that of her sister; and
though broken with grief, it is probable that the dying man was
bewildered by the sound. He started from the pillow—a glorious lustre
broke through the mist which whelmed his eyes, and as Malina sprang to
her feet, his face fell upon her shoulder, and his cold cheek lay
against hers. It was very strange—Malina knew that he was dying, but a
flash of wild joy thrilled through her heart, and for the first time
since she had heard of his illness, a faint color broke into the cheek
which pressed his. She laid him gently upon the pillow, and parting the
damp hair from his forehead, pressed her lips tremblingly upon it, while
her sobs filled the chamber. When the dying man felt the touch of her
quivering mouth, a smile stole over his face—again the misty eyes were
unclosed, and feebly lifting his arm, he wound it over her neck and drew
her to his bosom, while the unformed words he would have spoken were
lost amid the dying music of his soul. A moment, and his arm fell softly
from Malina’s neck. The young creature lifted her face from his bosom,
and looking at his mother, murmured—

“He loved _her_ living—but is he not mine in death?—mine, for ever and
ever!”

She turned to lay her face near his heart once more, but there was no
color in her lips then. She started, and, with a cold shudder, bent her
cheek slowly to his bosom—it pressed heavily, and more heavily, on the
cold clay—her limbs relaxed, and she sunk across the bed, senseless as
the beautiful corpse which cumbered it.

The gloom of death had shadowed that farm-house two days, and now it was
desolate. The kind neighbors who had walked in and out, ministering to
grief, no longer broke the solemn hush which pervaded the dwelling. The
departed was indeed the departed—for they had borne him over his
father’s threshold, and laid him down to sleep in the dark earth. Malina
followed him to the grave. She was a stranger, but no one asked why she
stood among the mourners, and without their sable vestments. When the
aged mother bent over the coffin, and looked upon the dead, the young
girl drew to her side, and fixed her eyes upon the cold still face which
had never met her glance coldly before. The mother wept, but Malina
could not shed a tear, although the solemn and hushed grief upon her
face awed even village curiosity.

And now they were alone—the parents, and that poor girl. She was upon
her knees—her head was bent, and its redundant hair veiled her face,
while the broken hearted young creature begged a blessing from _his
mother_ before she went away. The sorrowing woman laid her hands upon
the bright tresses which flowed over her lap for a moment, then lifting
the suppliant to her bosom, wept over her.

Mr. Mosier, when he heard the sobs of his wife, arose, and clasping his
hands over Malina’s head, silently besought a blessing on her. She drew
back, and he saw that her face was still calm; so taking her hands in
his, he began to persuade and reason with her. She listened, and gazed
earnestly in his face as he spoke. At last, tears started to her eyes,
and when the old man saw this, big drops began to stream down his own
cheek, and the clasp of his hand grew tremulous, as he led her from the
room.

As the old man placed Malina in her saddle, he glanced in her face, and
a misgiving came to his heart. He questioned himself if it was safe to
trust her to the road without protection; but when he proposed
accompanying her part of the way, at least, she pleaded against it with
startling eagerness, and, thinking of his afflicted wife, he allowed her
to depart.

Malina had a secret wish at her heart, which caused it to pant for
solitude. Her road lay close by the grave-yard where our young minister
was buried, and she yearned to stand once more by his death place, and
alone. When she reached the sacred place, she looked to the right and
left, timidly, as if her errand had been a wrong one. Her nerves were
strung to their utmost tension, and she was morbidly fearful of being
seen—every thing was solitary and quiet; the long grass bending to the
breeze, as it sighed over the graves, and the soft rustling sound which
whispered amid the leaves of a clump of weeping willows, that curtained
an entire household that had gone down to sleep together, were all the
sounds that fell upon her ear. She tied the horse to the fence, and
passing forward to _his_ grave, sat upon a pile of sods that had been
left by the sexton. She neither wept nor moved—but there she remained
in the bright sunshine, gazing hour after hour on a tuft of tiny white
blossoms, which sprung up from a sod which they had placed just over his
heart. Now and then, she twined her hands together as they reposed in
her lap—and as the sunshine went suddenly away, and heavy black clouds
rolled over the sky, with the lightning playing amid their ragged folds,
she smiled, and drew closer to the grave.

At last, a roar of thunder burst from the clouds, big drops of rain came
down upon the graves, and bent the willows more droopingly to the earth.

Malina lifted her eyes upward with a wild and startled look, then
turning them on the willows which sheltered that single family, and on
the congregation of graves which lay around her, all covered with long
grass, she rested them on the mound at her feet, murmuring—

“Have all a covering from the cold rain, but thee?”

As she spoke, Malina took off her shawl, and spreading it over the newly
made grave, cast herself upon it, and for the first time since she felt
his heart stop beating beneath hers, moaned and sobbed as if her very
life were going from her.

In a few moments the garments of our poor mourner were saturated with
rain—still she clung closer to the grave, murmuring words of wild
endearment to the unconscious inmate, and congratulating herself, with
strange earnestness, that she was still able to shield his bosom from
the storm.

At last, the clouds rolled away, and though the sun was just going down,
his last fires kindled a rainbow amid the water drops that yet filled
the air. Malina lifted her head, and gazed upward—a smile parted her
lips when she saw the rainbow, and pressing her cheek upon the grave
again, she whispered—

“The angels have built thee a bridge, love!”

The sun went down, and Malina arose from the grave, shivering from head
to foot. She gazed around, and was turning her eyes with a wistful look
on her late resting place, as if she meditated casting herself down
again, when a low neigh from the horse which still remained by the
fence, aroused her, and leaving the shawl behind, she hurried toward the
patient animal, and mounting him, rode away.

Malina must have wandered from the usual road, in the strange
abstraction of her mind, for it was midnight when she came opposite the
old meeting-house. Prompted, doubtless, by some vague fear of returning
home, or perhaps allured to pause by the open gate, the weary and half
bewildered girl turned her horse, and riding close to the front door of
the parsonage house, dismounted, and allowed him to wander amid the
flower beds and rose bushes which filled the yard. Thrusting her hand
beneath the door sill, she took out a key, and fitted it to the lock,
but with difficulty, for her hands trembled; and though hot flushes
every moment darted through her frame, she was shivering with cold. She
went up stairs, holding feebly by the balusters, and guided by the
moonlight, which fell from a window overhead, she entered a room—that
which she had decorated as the bridal chamber of her sister Phebe, and
of the departed. A clear moonlight came through the windows, and lay
like flags of silver amid the black shadows which filled the apartment.
Every thing was still and motionless; not a breath stirred the bridal
ribands with which the muslin curtains were looped back. The bed lay
with the moonlight sleeping amid its pillows, like a snow drift, when
the air is calm; and the atmosphere was impregnated by the dead flowers
which had been profusely lavished on the toilet, and now hung crisp and
withered in their vases. Malina was very ill, and a fever burned through
her veins—her limbs were almost powerless, and her forehead seemed
girdled with iron. Still was she sensible of surrounding things, and her
heart swelled with the recollections which thronged on her aching brain.
She unfastened her damp dress, and with difficulty crept into bed.

“Poor, poor Phebe,” she murmured, gathering the white counterpane over
her shivering form, “how little she thinks I am here—how she would pity
me, so ill, and all alone. Alas, how sad a thing this trouble is—I have
not thought of Phebe these many long days—I wonder if she is ill as I
am—if her head is so hot, and her limbs chilled, till they shake so.
This is a cold bed—very, very cold—but his is colder still. Oh, my
God! _he is dead_—and I have seen his grave. I—but it was not
me—no—he loved my sister. But I had his dying kiss! It was the last
throb of his heart that beat against mine, and chilled me so. That was
it—that was it!”

With such fragments of speech, and moans of pain, Malina verged into the
delirium of a raging fever. At times she would weep, and call for her
sister, in tones of yearning tenderness—then notes of music would break
from her lips, and ring through every corner of the solitary house, as
if a prisoned angel were pleading for release there. When the fever came
on, fierce and strong, she began to ask for water—to weep, and wring
her hands, while she entreated some visionary being to leave her in the
grave-yard where _he_ was; where showers were continually falling and
weaving rainbows around those who thirsted for rest or drink; and so her
voice of suffering rose and swelled through the lone building all night.
When the day dawned, she was still awake and delirious; tears stood on
her crimson cheeks, and entreaties for water still rose to her parched
lips.

It came at last—she knew not how it was, but a pale, sweet face bent
over her, a soft voice was speaking comfort, and a glass of water cooler
and more refreshing than she had ever tasted before was held to her
lips. She was just conscious enough to think that it was Phebe who
ministered to her wants, or some good seraph that looked as sweetly sad
and kind. Then she sunk to sleep, and it was many weeks before she awoke
from the dream that followed.

It was Phebe Gray who stood by the sick bed of the sufferer. A villager
had seen Mrs. Gray’s horse that morning, bridled and with his saddle on,
trampling among the flower beds and feasting upon the choice rose bushes
which grew in the parsonage yard—he went in to secure the animal and
was terrified by the voice of suffering which issued from the house. He
went up stairs, saw the delirious young creature who occupied the bridal
chamber, and hastened to inform Mrs. Gray—but Phebe had struggled with
her own sufferings and stood over Malina’s sick bed many hours before
the mother had arranged her dress and prepared herself to pass through
the village with that degree of propriety which she considered due to
her character.

Malina lay many weeks before the fever left her; then a cough set in and
a hectic spot settled and burned into her thin cheeks. The poor girl
smiled a sad quiet smile, when she heard them say each evening, that a
little over exertion had excited her, that she had taken a slight cold
which in the turn of her disease was felt more than usual. Still the
cough deepened, the crimson spot burned on, and she knew that the life
which kindled would soon be exhausted. And so it was, that autumn when
the woods were all flushed with those dyes which an early frost brings
to the foliage, when the nuts were ripe and the brown leaves fell in
showers over the crisp moss, Malina Gray was extended beneath the snowy
drapery which her own hands had gathered above the bridal bed. White
ribands were still knotted amid the folds which seemed brooding over her
like a cloud, and a few crimson fall flowers lay scattered upon the
pillow, some of them so close to the marble cheek that a faint tinge was
coldly reflected there. For two whole nights Phebe watched the beautiful
clay reposing in the dim light upon her own bridal bed, but scarcely
more changed than her own sweet self. Malina was the happiest, her heart
had broken amid the struggle of its suffering, but that of the watcher
lay crushed and withering in her young bosom. She felt that life was yet
strong within her; but hope, love, every thing that makes life pleasant
to a woman, had departed. She was still good, still pure almost as an
angel, but the sad smile which settled on her lips never deepened to a
laugh again, and no human being ever saw a tear in her changeless and
sorrowful eyes.

They laid Malina Gray down to sleep beside old minister Brown—in the
very spot she had yearned to repose in. A large circle of neighbors
gathered around the grave, some in tears, and all very sorrowful. Mrs.
Gray stood by the coffin; her mourning was arranged with great care, and
a veil of new crape, deeply hemmed, fell decorously over her face, and
the white handkerchief, with which she concealed those maternal tears
proper for a mother, whose duty it was to be resigned under any
dispensation. But Phebe stood silent and motionless; no handkerchief was
lifted to her eyes, and the face which gleamed beneath the crape veil,
was profoundly calm, almost as that of the corpse.

We had a new minister, on trial, of Mrs. Gray’s choosing, who performed
the funeral service, and when all was over, returned home with the
mourners; when they knelt in the little parlor that night, he prayed
earnestly, and with genuine tears, for the bereaved mother; he besought
the Lord to visit, with consolation, one who was a mother in Israel, a
bright and shining ornament in the Christian church; a woman who had
brought up her children in the fear and admonition of the Lord; whose
path was growing brighter and brighter to the perfect day when she would
reap a rich reward in heaven.

Amid a few natural sobs which awoke in the widow’s heart, she murmured,
“Amen,” satisfied that her life had been one of perfect rectitude, and
that in all things she had been a pattern mother, and an ornament to the
church, which ought to be her consolation under any bereavement.

The new minister was a very conscientious man, but practical in all his
ideas; he was honest in the high opinion which he entertained of Mrs.
Gray, and not sufficiently sensitive to shrink from offering his hand to
Phebe, when that lady delicately gave him to understand that the step
would be satisfactory to herself. The old parsonage house was still
empty, and Phebe’s inheritance. He was an installed pastor, and Miss
Gray’s engagement to his predecessor never entered his mind as an
objection.

Phebe betrayed no emotion when the proposal was made. She simply
declined it, without giving a reason; and when he married another
person, and would have rented the parsonage, she said with decision—“It
must remain as my sister left it!”

And when Mrs. Gray would have remonstrated, she answered, still with
firmness—

“I am of age, mother, but still will obey you in all things else. Act as
you like regarding the other property—but no stranger shall ever live
in the parsonage. Poor Malina furnished it for _him_, and for me. She
died there, and so will I!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

It may be so, for the old house is still uninhabited. Every thing
remains as Malina left it; the bridal chamber, the easy chair, and the
flute upon the table; time has made little change in those silent
apartments, for every week Phebe, who has become a calm and sorrowful
old maid, goes up to the house alone, and remains there for many hours;
sometimes seated at the study table, and gazing at a grave which may be
seen through the trees. Once, a child gathering valley lilies, beneath
the window, saw her standing at the open sash, with her sad eyes turned
toward the grave-yard. She was talking to herself—the child dropped his
flowers and listened, for there was something so mournful in her voice,
that his little heart thrilled to the sound.

“They tell me that he wearied himself, and died of fever,” she said;
“and that thou, my sister, perished naturally, and as we all must. Alas,
if I could but think so. Why not have told me how he was beloved before
it was too late? I would have given him up—and while you were happy,
this heart had not become so palsied and feelingless. Alas, it was well
that thy heart _could_ break, my poor, poor Malina!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                NOON.[5]


                       BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.


      ’Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee
    And worshiped, while the husbandman withdrew
    From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man
    Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount,
    Or rested in the shadow of the palm.

      I, too, amid the overflow of day,
    Behold the power which wields and cherishes
    The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock
    That overlooks the Hudson’s western marge,
    I gaze upon the long array of groves,
    The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in
    The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;
    Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays
    Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst,
    The swelling river into his green gulfs,
    Unshadowed save by passing sails above,
    Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys
    The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers,
    That would not open in the early light,
    Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet’s pool,
    That darkly quivered all the morning long
    In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun,
    And o’er its surface shoots, and shoots again,
    The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within
    Run the brown water-beetles to and fro.

      A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,
    Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits within
    His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,
    Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog
    Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.
    Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws,
    No more sits listening by his den, but steals
    Abroad, in safety, to the clover field,
    And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while
    A ceaseless murmur from the populous town
    Swells o’er these solitudes; a mingled sound
    Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash
    Upon the stony ways, and hammer clang,
    And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks,
    And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet,
    Innumerable, hurrying to and fro.
    Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings
    No pause to toil and care; with early day
    Began the tumult, and shall only cease
    When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds
    Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest.

      Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain
    And luxury possess the hearts of men,
    Thus is it with the noon of human life.
    We in our fervid manhood, in our strength
    Of reason, we, with hurry, noise and care,
    Plan, toil and strive, and pause not to refresh
    Our spirits with the calm and beautiful
    Of God’s harmonious universe, that won
    Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire
    Why we are here, and what the reverence
    Man owes to man, and what the mystery
    That links us to the greater world, beside
    Whose borders we but hover for a space.

-----

[5] From an unpublished Poem.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 TRUTH.


                    BY MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.


              “This above all!—to thine own self be true!
              And it must follow, as the night the day,
              Thou canst not then be false to any man.”



                               CHAPTER I.

                         A MOTHER’S INFLUENCE.

“Mother! mother!” exclaimed a sweet, eager voice, and the speaker, a
child of thirteen years, burst into the room, where Mrs. Carlton sat at
work, “don’t you think there is to be a prize given on exhibition day
for the best composition! And I mean to try for it—sha’nt I?”

She was a little, harum-scarum looking imp! I suppose she had run all
the way home from school, for her straw bonnet hung on her neck instead
of her head, and a profusion of soft dark hair was streaming in such
disorder about her glowing face, that you could not tell if she were
pretty or not; but you could see a pair of brilliant, gray or blue or
black eyes—they certainly changed their color with every new emotion;
but I think they were really gray—full of laughter, and love beaming
through the truant tresses, and all eloquent with the beauty of a fresh,
warm soul. This change in the child’s eyes is no freak of a foolish
fancy; for every one noticed it; and her school-crony, Kate Sumner, used
to declare, that when Harriet was angry they were black; gray when she
was thoughtful; violet when sad; and when happy and loving, they changed
to the tenderest blue.

Mrs. Carlton drew the little girl toward her, and smoothed back the
rebellious curls, at the same time exclaiming, with a long drawn sigh,
“My _dear_ Harriet! how you _do_ look!”

“Oh, mother! it’s not the least matter how _I_ look! If I were only a
beauty, now, like Angelina Burton, I would keep my hair as smooth as—as
_any_ thing; but I wouldn’t rub my cheeks though, as she does always,
just before she goes into a room where there’s company—would _you_,
mother?”

The mother gazed at her child’s expressive face, as she spoke, with its
irregular, yet lovely features, the strange, bright eyes, the changing
cheek, the full and sweet, but spirited mouth, and said to herself,
“Whatever you may think, my darling, I would not change your simple,
innocent, childlike unconsciousness, for all Angelina’s beauty, spoiled
as it is by vanity and affectation.”

“But, mother, do give me a subject for composition, for I want to write
it now, this minute!”

“Harriet,” said Mrs. Carlton quietly, “go and brush your hair, change
your shoes, and mend that rent in your dress as neatly as you can.”

Harriet half pouted; but she met her mother’s tranquil eye; the pout
changed to a good-humored smile, and kissing her affectionately, she
bounded off to do her bidding.

While she is gone, you would like—would you not, dear reader?—to ask a
few questions about her. I can guess what they are, and will answer
them, to the best of my knowledge.

Mrs. Carlton is a widow, with a moderate fortune, and a handsome house
in Tremont street, Boston. She has been a star in fashionable life, but
since the loss of her husband, whom she tenderly loved, she has retired
from the gay world, and devoted herself to her child—a wild, frank,
happy, generous and impetuous creature, with half a dozen glaring
faults, and one rare virtue which nobly redeemed them all. That virtue,
patient reader, you must find out for yourself. Perhaps you will catch a
glimpse of it in


                              CHAPTER II.

                              AUNT ELOISE.

Harriet was busy with her composition, when her aunt, who was on a visit
to Mrs. Carlton, entered the room. Aunt Eloise was a weak minded and
weak hearted lady of a very uncertain age—unhappily gifted with more
sensibility than sense. She really had a deal of feeling—for
herself—and an almost inexhaustible shower of tears, varied
occasionally by hysterics and fainting-fits, whenever any pressing
exigency in the fate of her friends demanded self-possession, energy, or
immediate assistance. If, too, there happened, as there will sometimes,
in all households, to be an urgent necessity for instant exertion by any
member of the family, such as sewing, watching with an invalid, shopping
with a country cousin, poor Aunt Eloise was invariably and most
unfortunately seized with a sudden toothache, headache, pain in the
side, strange feelings, dreadful nervousness, or some trouble of the
kind, which quite precluded the propriety of asking her aid.

Every morning at breakfast Aunt Eloise edified the family with a
wonderful dream, which the breakfast-bell had interrupted, and every
evening she grew sentimental over the reminiscences which the twilight
hour awakened. It was then that innumerable shades of former admirers
arose. Some doubted if they had ever been _more_ than shades; but Aunt
Eloise certainly knew best about that, and who had a right to deny, that
Mr. Smith had knelt to her for pity; that Colonel Green had vowed
eternal adoration; and that Lawyer Lynx had laid his heart, his hand,
and his fees, which were not quite a fortune, at her feet?

Aunt Eloise had been—at least she hinted so—a beauty and a blue, in
her day; and, to maintain both characters, she rouged, wore false
ringlets, and scribbled love-verses, which she had a bad habit of
leaving, by accident, between the leaves of books in every frequented
room of the house.

She thought and avowed herself extravagantly fond of her niece, during
her early childhood, and imagined that she displayed a graceful
enthusiasm in exclaiming, every now and then, in her presence, and in
that of others, “Oh! you angel child! I do think she is the sweetest
creature! Come here and kiss me, you beauty!” &c. &c. But no one ever
saw Aunt Eloise taking care of the child, attending to its little wants,
or doing any thing for its benefit. The only tangible proof of her
affection for her niece, was in the shape of bonbons and candy, which
she was in the habit of bringing home from her frequent walks in Tremont
street. Harriet regularly handed these forbidden luxuries to her mother,
and Mrs. Carlton as regularly threw them in the fire.

“Isn’t it a pity to waste such nice things, mother? Why not give them to
some poor child in the street?” asked the little girl one day, as she
watched, with longing eyes, a paper full of the tempting poison, which
her mother was quietly emptying into the grate.

Mrs. Carlton did not disdain to reason with her child—

“That would be _worse_ than wasted, dear. It would be cruel to give to
another what I refuse to you on account of its unwholesomeness.”

But Harriet had now been for a long time out of the spinster’s books—as
the saying is—and this misfortune occurred as follows—

One morning, when she was about six years old, the child came into her
mother’s room from her aunt’s, where she had been alternately pelted,
scolded, and teased, till she was weary, and, seating herself in a
corner, remained for some time absorbed in thought. She had been reading
to her mother that morning, and one sentence, of which she had asked an
explanation, had made a deep impression upon her. It was this—“God
sends us trials and troubles to strengthen and purify our hearts.” She
now sat in her corner, without speaking or stirring, until her mother’s
voice startled her from her reverie.

“Of what are you now thinking, Harriet?”

“Mother, did God send Aunt Eloise to strengthen and purify my heart?”

“What do you mean, my child?”

“Why, the book says he sends trials for that, and she is the greatest
trial _I_ have, you know.”

The indignant maiden was just entering the room as this dialogue began,
and hearing her own name, she had stopped, unseen, to listen. Speechless
with rage, she returned to her chamber, and was never heard to call
Harriet an angel child again.

But we have wasted more words on the fair Eloise’s follies than they
deserve. Let us return to Harriet’s all-important composition.

The maiden-lady, selfish and indolent as she was, took it into her head
sometimes to be exceedingly inquisitive; and officious too, particularly
where she thought her literary talents could come into play. She walked
up to Harriet and looked over her shoulder.

“What’s this, hey? oh! a story! That’s right, Harriet, I am glad to see
you taking to literary pursuits. Come, child! give me the pen and I will
improve that sentence for you.”

“Thank you, aunt! but I don’t want it improved.”

“Not want it improved! There’s vanity!”

“Indeed, aunt, I am not vain about it, and I would like you to help me,
if it were not to be shown as mine. It wouldn’t be fair, you know, to
pass off another’s as my own. I am writing for a prize.”

“For a prize! So much the more reason that you should be assisted.
There, dear, run away to your play and I will write it all for you.
You’ll be sure to win the prize.”

With every word thus uttered, Harriet’s eyes had grown larger and
darker, and at the close, she turned them, full of astonishment, from
her aunt’s face to her mother’s. Reassured by the expression of the
latter, she replied,

“But, Aunt Eloise, that would be a falsehood, you know.”

“A falsehood, miss!” cried the maiden, sharply, “It is a very common
thing, I assure you!”

“But not the less false for being common, Eloise,” said Mrs. Carlton;
“pray let Harriet have her own way about it. It would be far better to
lose the prize, than to gain it thus dishonestly.”

Aunt Eloise, as usual, secretly determined to have _her_ own way; but
she said no more then, and Harriet pursued her employment without
further interruption.


                              CHAPTER III.

                               THE PRIZE.

The exhibition day had arrived. Harriet had finished her story several
days before, and read it to her mother. It was a simple, graceful,
childlike effusion, with less of pretension and ornament, and more of
spirit and originality than the compositions of most children of the
same age contain.

Mrs. Carlton seemed much pleased; but Aunt Eloise had criticised it
without mercy. At the same time she was observed to smile frequently
with a cunning, sly, triumphant expression, peculiar to herself—an
expression which she always wore when she had a secret, and secrets she
had, in abundance—a new one almost every day—trivial, petty secrets,
which no one cared about but herself; but which _she_ guarded as
jealously as if they had been apples of gold.

The exhibition day had arrived.

“Good bye, mother; good bye, aunty,” said Harriet, glancing for a moment
into the breakfast-room.

She was looking very pretty in a simple, tasteful dress, made for the
occasion. She held the story in her hand, neatly enclosed in an
envelope, and her eyes were full of hope—the cloudless hope of
childhood.

“Don’t be surprised, Harriet,” said her aunt, “at any thing that may
happen to-day. Only be thankful if the prize is yours, that’s all.”

“If Kate Sumner don’t win it, I do _hope_ I shall!” replied the eager
child, and away she tripped to school.

At twelve o’clock Mrs. Carlton and her sister took their seats among the
audience, in the exhibition room. The usual exercises were completed,
and it only remained for the compositions to be read aloud by the
teacher.

The first was a sentimental essay upon Friendship. Mr. Wentworth, the
teacher, looked first surprised, then amused, then vexed as he read,
while a gaily and fashionably dressed lady, who occupied a conspicuous
place in the assembly, was observed to toss her head and fan herself
with a very complacent air, while she met, with a nod, the conscious
eyes of a fair and beautiful, but haughty looking girl of fifteen seated
among the pupils.

“By Angelina Burton,” said the teacher, as he concluded, and laying it
aside without further comment, he took up the next—“Lines to a Favorite
Tree,” by Catherine Sumner.

It was short and simple, and ran as follows—

    Thy leaves’ lightest murmur,
      Oh! beautiful tree!
    Each bend of thy branches,
      The stately, the free,
    Each wild, wavy whisper,
      Is music to me.

    I gaze thro’ thy labyrinth,
      Golden and green,
    Where the light loves to linger,
      In glory serene,
    Far up, till yon heaven-blue
      Trembles between.

    I shut out the city,
      Its sight and its sound,
    And away, far away,
      For the forest I’m bound,
    For the noble old forest,
      Which ages have crowned!

    I lean on its moss banks,
      I stoop o’er its rills,
    I see, thro’ its vistas,
      The vapor-wreathed hills,
    And my soul with a gush
      Of wild happiness fills!

    I pine for the freshness,
      The freedom, the health,
    Which Nature can give me—
      My soul’s dearest wealth
    Is wasted in cities;
      Where only, by stealth,

    The mountain-born breezes
      Can fitfully play,
    Where we steal but a glimpse
      Of this glorious day,
    And but by the calendar,
      Learn it is May.

    But away with repining,
      I’ll study, from thee,
    A lesson of patience,
      Oh! noble, old tree!
    ’Mid dark walls imprisoned,
      Thou droop’st not like me;

    But strivest forever,
      Still up, strong and brave,
    ’Till in Heaven’s pure sunshine,
      Thy free branches wave!
    Oh! thus may _I_ meet it,
      No longer a slave!

The next was a story, and Harriet Carlton’s eyes and cheeks changed
color as she listened. It was the same, yet not the same! The incidents
were hers, the sentiment more novel-like, and many a flowery and highly
wrought sentence had been introduced, which she had never heard before.

She sat speechless with wonder, indignation, and dismay, and though
several other inferior compositions were read, she was so absorbed in
reverie, that she heard no more until she was startled by Mr.
Wentworth’s voice calling her by name. She looked up. In his hand was
the prize—a richly chased, golden pencil-case, suspended to a chain of
the same material. The sound, the sight recalled her bewildered
faculties, and ere she reached the desk, she had formed a resolution,
which, however, it required all her native strength of soul to put in
practice.

“Miss Carlton, the prize is yours!” and the teacher leaned forward to
throw the chain around her neck. The child drew back—

“No, sir,” she said in a low, but firm and distinct voice, looking up
bravely in his face, “I did not write the story you have read.”

“Not write it!” exclaimed Mr. Wentworth, “Why, then, does it bear your
name? Am I to understand, Miss Carlton, that you have asked another’s
assistance in your composition, and that you now repent the deception?”

Poor Harriet! this was too much! Her dark eyes first flashed, and then
filled with tears; her lip trembled with emotion, and she paused a
moment, as if disdaining a reply to this unmerited charge.

A slight and sneering laugh from the beauty aroused her, and she
answered, respectfully but firmly,

“The story, I did write, was in that envelope yesterday. Some one has
changed it without my knowledge. It was not so good as that you have
read; so I must not take the prize.”

There was a murmur of applause through the assembly, and the teacher
bent upon the blushing girl a look of approval, which amply repaid her
for all the embarrassment she had suffered.

Aunt Eloise took advantage of the momentary excitement to steal
unobserved from the room. Harriet took her seat, and Miss Angelina
Burton was next called up. The portly matron leaned smilingly forward;
and the graceful, little beauty, already affecting the airs of a fine
lady, sauntered up to the desk and languidly reached out her hand for
the prize.

“I cannot say much for your taste in selection, Miss Burton. I do not
admire your author’s sentiments. The next time you wish to make an
extract, you must allow me to choose for you. There are better things
than this, even in the trashy magazine from which you have copied it.”

And with this severe, but justly merited reproof of the imposition that
had been practiced, he handed the young lady, not the prize, which she
expected, but the MS. essay on Friendship, which she had copied, word
for word, from an old magazine.

The portly lady turned very red, and the beauty, bursting into tears of
anger and mortification, returned to her seat discomfited.

“Miss Catherine Sumner,” resumed the teacher, with a benign smile, to a
plain, yet noble-looking girl, who came forward as he spoke, “I believe
there can be no mistake about _your_ little effusion. I feel great
pleasure in presenting you the reward, due, not only to your mental
cultivation, but to the goodness of your heart. What! do _you_, too,
hesitate?”

“Will you be kind enough, sir,” said the generous Kate, taking a paper
from her pocket, “to read Harriet’s story before you decide. I asked her
for a copy several days ago, and here it is.”

“You shall read it to the audience yourself, my dear; I am sure they
will listen patiently to so kind a pleader in her friend’s behalf.”

The listeners looked pleased and eager to hear the story; and Kate
Sumner, with a modest self-possession, which well became her, and with
her fine eyes lighting up as she read, did full justice to the pretty
and touching story, of which Harriet had been so cruelly robbed.

“It is well worth reading,” said Mr. Wentworth, when she had finished;
“your friend has won the prize, my dear young lady; and, as she owes it
to your generosity, you shall have the pleasure of bestowing it,
yourself.”

Kate’s face glowed with emotion as she hung the chain around Harriet’s
neck; and Harriet could not restrain her tears, while she whispered,

“I will take it, _not_ as a prize, but as a gift from _you_, dear Kate!”

“And now, Miss Sumner,” said Mr. Wentworth, in conclusion, “let me beg
your acceptance of these volumes, as a token of your teacher’s respect
and esteem,” and presenting her a beautifully bound edition of Milton’s
works, he bowed his adieu to the retiring audience.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Will you lend me your prize-pencil this morning, Harriet?” said Mrs.
Carlton the next day. She was dressed for a walk, and Harriet wondered
why she should want the pencil to take out with her; but she immediately
unclasped the chain from her neck, and handed it to her mother without
asking any questions.

She was rewarded at dinner by finding it lying at the side of her plate,
with the single word, “Truth” engraved upon its seal.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: E. T. Parris., Engraved by Rawdon, Wright, Hatch, &
  Smillie.
_True Affection._
_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine._]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            TRUE AFFECTION.


                       ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.


    Matron in thy golden prime,
      Well the world may envy thee;
    Thou hast reached the happy time
      When life holds her jubilee—
    Midway on her pilgrimage,
      Looking backward and before,
    Where end infancy and age
      On her being’s misty shore.

    Turning to the past, thine eye
      Dwells upon a way of flowers—
    Not a cloud upon the sky
      ’Neath which passed the happy hours.
    Clear the vision of the True!—
      Standing on the verge of Time,
    See! Hope opens to your view
      Glories of the better clime!

    So the past and present life—
      What the tale the present tells?
    Childhood—maidenhood—a _wife_—
      Thus the tide of being swells—
    Mother! oh all else in this
      Fade as stars before the sun,
    Thou the highest point of bliss
      Yielded to the True hast won.

    Love—communion—in these words
      All the happiness we know;
    Without them the world affords
      Nought to bind the heart below;
    “True Affection!” with unrest
      We the boon demand of all;
    Vainly seeking, still unblest—
      Strangers at life’s carnival.

    Earnest, calm, unchanging love,
      With no doubt its light to shade—
    Oh, the happiness above
      Is but this eternal made!
    Thou hast found it—in thine eyes,
      In the eyes that look to thine,
    As the stars from summer skies
      Sweetly do we see it shine.

    Exiles from a better sphere
      Weary wanderers are we,
    Doomed ’mid clouds to linger here,
      Source of bliss, unknowing thee!
    Save, when from the world apart
      Thou upon our gloomy way
    Shinest from a kindred heart,
      Turning darkness into day!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       THE PERSECUTOR’S DAUGHTER.


                        BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.


The last days of November are at hand, and the melancholy woods, shorn
of their foliage, stand skeleton-like against the cold, lowering sky; or
toss their branches to and fro, with a low moaning sound, in the fitful
tempest. Hark! how the gale swells out with the deep voice of a
cathedral organ, or dies plaintively away like the cry of a lost child
in the forest. The sky is covered with cloud-rifts of a deep, leaden
color, only a spot of blue sky being here and there visible; but
occasionally the sun, bursting, like a god, from the darkness that
encircles him, covers the brown hills with an effulgent glory, while the
opposite firmament is lit up with a dull, fiery glow, that has something
almost spectral in its aspect. The streams are swollen and discolored,
and roll their turbid waters hoarsely onward. Along the fields the brown
grass whistles in the wind, and the bare flower-stalks rattle, with a
melancholy tone, in the garden. Now and then, drops of rain plash
heavily to the ground. The wind comes with a sudden chill to the
nerves—the bay is crisped into foam by the fitful gusts—and along the
bleak coast the now mountain waves roll in with a hoarse, sullen roar,
forewarning us of shipwreck and death. Sad thoughts insensibly possess
the mind, and tales of sorrow, that had long been forgot, come up to our
memories. One such is even now heavy on our heart—listen! and we will
rehearse it.

It was on just such a morning as this, many a long year ago, and far
away from our own happy land, that a little congregation was gathered
together in the hills to worship God. The time was in those sore and
evil days when the decree of a tyrannical king had gone forth, that no
man should worship, except as a corrupt hierarchy and lascivious court
might ordain—and when, all over Scotland, those who would not give up
the free birthright of their fathers, were driven to meet in mountain
glens, and on lonely moors, whither their pastors—the holy men who had
baptized them in infancy, and united them to the dear objects of their
love—had already been hunted. And often, in solitary places, where
hitherto only the cry of the eagle had been heard, the Sabbath hymn rose
sweetly up from tender maidens and tearful wives, while their brothers
and husbands listened with weapons in their hands, or watched from some
neighboring eminence, lest the fiery dragoons of Claverhouse should be
in sight. And when these God-defying troopers, with hands red with the
blood of the saints, burst into the little flock, woful was the tale,
and loud the wailing that went through all the vales around. Every new
Sabbath brought its tale of slaughter, until the land smoked with blood,
and the incense thereof went up from a hundred hills, crying for
vengeance to the Most High.

And such a congregation had now met in the hollow of three hills, far
away from the usual track of the persecutors. A simple rock served the
hoary headed pastor for a pulpit; while hard by, a rivulet, brawling
over its pebbly bed, and then for a moment expanding into a mimic lake,
bottomed with silvery sands, formed the holy font for baptism. Around
was gathered the little flock—aged sires and young striplings, staid
matrons and meek-eyed maidens, young children and stalwart men—all
gazing upward into the pastor’s face, a sacred throng. But there was one
other there, who seemed equally with him an object of anxious interest,
and on whom every eye was occasionally turned—a bright, beautiful
being, with far more of heaven than earth in her deep, azure eyes. Oh!
lovely was that fair-haired girl, even as we may have dreamed a seraph
to be, all glorious with golden wings, under the throne of God. And now
there sat in those soft blue eyes an expression of meek sorrow, tempered
with high and holy faith, for many and sore had been the trials of Helen
Græme; but grace had been given her to endure them all, and even to rise
above them, with a courage which had made her dear unto every heart
among these wandering and persecuted ones.

The father of Helen was the last son of a family which had been decaying
for centuries, and which, of all its once mighty possessions, retained
only the comparatively small estate of Craigburnie, in one of the
southern counties of Scotland. To rebuild the fortunes of his house had
been the darling wish of her father. For this purpose he had entered the
army of the Covenanters, during the wars of the great revolution, and
served with some distinction, though without permanent advantage, in
consequence of the return of the king. On the happening of this event,
Mr. Græme retired to his estate, soured and disappointed. Here he would
have been far more discontented than he was, but for his wife, a lady of
the meekest piety, and whose single minded charity was known throughout
all her native hills, for Mrs. Græme was the daughter of one of the
holiest ministers of the kirk, and inherited not only his piety, but the
fervent admiration with which he was regarded by his parishioners. She
early instilled into her child the pure precepts of our holy religion,
and often might the little girl be seen seated at her mother’s knee,
lisping the word of God, which the parent taught her thus early to
peruse. And, on the Sabbath, who listened more attentively to the
venerable pastor, or joined with sweeter voice in the anthem of praise?
Nurtured thus, what wonder that at seventeen she seemed the counterpart
of the mother, and was regarded by the poorer folk around the Brae—her
mother’s birthplace, and where she spent several months each
year—almost with veneration, for had not many of them, in times of sore
trial, been sustained by the bounty, and cheered by the smiles of the
heavenly girl?

But at length her mother fell sick, and for many a weary month Helen
watched by the sufferer’s bed-side, a ministering angel. During this
illness she noticed that, at times, her father would seem lost in
thought, as if something weighed heavily on his mind; but Helen regarded
it little, attributing it to his suspense at her mother’s danger, for he
loved both her and his child with an intensity seemingly in
contradiction to his hard, unbending character, but which, in truth, was
the result of his total seclusion from the world; for the sympathies
thus shut out from others lavished themselves wholly on his wife and
daughter. At length, Mrs. Græme died, and for many days it seemed as if
that strong man’s heart would break, while Helen wept in silence, though
not less uncontrollably. Her father was now sterner than ever, though
not to her. He was more alone, often indulged in fits of musing, and was
absent at Edinburgh for some days—an unusual occurrence—and when he
came back it was as Sir Roland Græme, a title which men said he had
purchased by selling himself to the Court. Helen heard these
rumors—which, however, came to her ears in whispers, and which at first
she could not believe—with sorrow and despair of heart; but no word of
reproof broke from her lips. Her sufferings were endured silently; but
so deep was her grief, that she pined away, seeming to all eyes a being
lent awhile to earth, and gradually exhaling to heaven. Her father,
thinking her sorrow sprung wholly from her mother’s death, and wishing,
perhaps, that she should be from home when he should first act for the
government, sent her to her mother’s native vale, alleging, and
doubtless hoping, that change of air would restore her to health. It
were doing him no more than justice to say, that his paternal love was
fully aroused to Helen’s danger, and that he took the only possible
means to keep at his side this dear bud of her who was now in heaven. He
forgot how much the little family at the Brae leaned toward the
persecuted sect—he forgot the disaffected character of the district
into which Helen went—he forgot the danger lest her own feelings should
become enlisted in behalf of those against whom he was so soon to draw
his sword; remembering only—for was he not a father?—that his child’s
health was in danger, and that a residence in the mountain district
where she had been born, and where she had spent so many happy years,
was the sole chance of saving her life.

And now Helen was once more amid the scenes where her childhood had been
spent, and every old counsel and prayer of her mother, recalled to mind
by the spots where they had been first heard, rose up before her, and
softened her heart; and often, at Sabbath eve, or in the still watches
of the night, it seemed to her as if the spirit of that sainted mother
hovered over her, whispering her heavenward, and bidding her never to
forget or forsake her God. All the sympathies which now surrounded her,
drew her to the persecuted sect; for her cousin and aunt were both among
the non-conformists; and though the little kirk, standing all alone in
the hills, a cool well in a parched desert, was now closed, and he who
had formerly ministered there an outcast, yet the sight and recognition
of him, at more than one stolen meeting, recalled to Helen’s mind the
time when he blessed her, nestling bird-like to her mother’s bosom, she
looking the while half affrightedly, yet oh, how reverentially, up into
the face of the mild old man! And was not her heart softened, even to
tears, when the patriarch, well remembering her—for none did he ever
forget—sought her among the crowd, and, laying his hands on her head,
blessed her, hoping that God still kept her in the way her mother had
trod? From that hour Helen became a changed being. The light heartedness
of youth was gone. She wept often, and prayed in solitary places by
herself; for lo! the struggle in her bosom, between duty to her parent,
and a higher duty to God, waxed stronger and stronger; but daily she
yearned more and more to the oppressed remnant, until finally it was
whispered in the scattered congregation that the persecutor’s
daughter—that child of many prayers—was to become a professed member
of the flock. And old men and nursing mothers in the church blessed God
as they heard it.

On this Sabbath morning, Helen had, for the first time, openly attended
a meeting in the hills. At first, she had come with fear and trembling,
but when she saw the looks of kindly sympathy with which all regarded
her, she became more composed, and could enter on the holy duties of the
day in a fitting mood. And when the aged pastor gave out the hymn, and
the congregation joined in the sacred anthem, what voice sang of
redeeming love so sweetly as that of Helen?

Lo! the vision of light has passed from our souls, and in place of that
seraphic countenance, we behold the face of a stern warrior, in every
feature of which we read of cruelty and blood. Even now he is hot in
pursuit of the suffering remnant, and with his troop of fiery dragoons
interrupts the Sabbath quiet of the vales and glens, with the jingling
of broad swords and the ribald jests of scoffers; and many a dark-browed
peasant scowls on the persecutor as he passes, and prays that God will
yet avenge his slaughtered saints. Nor, if the popular rumor is to be
believed, is that vengeance altogether withheld; for men say that Sir
Roland Græme, having sold his religion for the paltry honors of earth,
has been already cursed from on high, and that, sleeping or waking, he
finds no rest from the stingings of remorse; yet, like one who has
committed the unpardonable sin, he cannot draw back from his career of
blood, but is impelled onward, as if by some irresistible power, to
still darker crimes. Look upon his face again, and tell us if there is
not something there which you shudder to behold—something of untold
horror in that stern, God-defying brow, as if the arch-enemy had already
been suffered to affix his seal upon it.

And whither was that man of blood going? Far, far over hill and dale, to
the slaughter of the saints. He had heard, through some traitor, of the
assemblage to be held that morning in the hills, and with the first dawn
of day he and his troopers had been in the saddle, thirsting to
participate in the bloody sacrament. For the last half hour he had
seemed lost in thought, and now he suddenly drew in his rein, and turned
to his lieutenant.

“Lennox,” he said, “I believe I will not lead these brave fellows
to-day, but surrender the command to you. I see, over yonder hill, the
blue summit that looks down on the Brae, where my daughter is visiting.
I have not seen her for months, nor is it probable I shall be in this
district for many months more. The country here is widely disaffected,
and therefore an unbecoming residence for a child of mine. It has just
struck me that I might cross the hills, and bring her home with me this
afternoon. And yet something whispers to me that I ought rather to
pursue these traitors and schismatics,” he continued, as if to himself;
“however, I can trust to you, and it is imperative that my daughter
leave this district. We will meet here by four o’clock. Your road lies
down yonder glen. All I have to say is, ‘spare none!’”

“I understand,” said the subordinate; “neither age nor sex.”

“Neither age nor sex, nor even those of rank, if such there be,” sternly
said Sir Roland; “when the poison has sunk deep, nothing but the cautery
will cure. And hark ye! on the faithful execution of your commands
depends your hope of preferment. I would not spare my own child, if I
found her among these spawn of Satan!”

And, with these memorable words, he ordered a detachment of his company
to follow him, and rode off, though at first reluctantly, in the
direction of the Brae.

The route was passed in silence, for Sir Roland was buried in thought.
There was indeed cause for it. One or two things in the last letter he
had received from his daughter—and that missive had now been written a
month—made him feel uneasy, lest she looked more favorably on the
persecuted sect than became a daughter of his; and it was this fear, all
at once recalled to mind by the business on which he had set forth this
morning, that determined him so suddenly to leave the dispersion of the
conventicle to his lieutenant, while he should ride over to the Brae,
and bring his daughter home. Other thoughts, too, were busy within him.
The long coveted rank had brought little alleviation to his soured and
disappointed mind, for his fortune was now more than ever inadequate to
his condition, and all the peculiarly sensitive feelings of a proud man
were stung to the quick by the indignities to which, in consequence, he
was often exposed. Moreover, he was aware of the light in which he was
held, since his change of politics, not only by the common people, but
by large portions of the gentry; so that, on every hand, he was soured
and irritated, and longed to wreak on the Covenanters the hate which he
felt toward all men.

And yet, as he approached the Brae, and saw at a distance the low roof
of the mansion from which he had taken his bride, gentler feelings stole
into his bosom. He thought of her whom he had once loved with all the
fervor of a first passion—he remembered the happy years they had spent
together—and when he recollected that she was now no more, and that the
last time he had beheld these roofs he had been in her company, a tear
almost gathered into his eye. Then he thought of his daughter. As her
image rose up before him, his heart was fully melted. With all the
sternness of his character he loved that daughter as few fathers
loved—ay! loved her doubly since her mother’s death, for she was now
the only object in the whole wide world on which he could bestow aught
of affection. And now, joy at the prospect of meeting her gave to his
spirits the glad exhilaration of boyhood, and quickening his pace, he
galloped gaily across the hills, nor drew his rein until he reached the
door of the old mansion.

The Brae was an antique and partially dilapidated residence, at present
inhabited by the aunt of Helen, and a daughter about the age of Miss
Græme. At all times it wore a sombre, deserted look, but on this morning
it seemed peculiarly desolate, for the whole front of the house was
closed, and all the outhouses shut up. A strange fear came over the
father, as he beheld the absence of these signs of life, and he hastily
ordered one of the dragoons to dismount and knock at the door. The man
obeyed, but for a time knocked in vain. The sound of the hilt of his
heavy sword, striking on the door, echoed through the long hall of the
house; but no signs of life within were visible. The usual frown on the
face of Sir Roland grew darker, and he cried angrily—

“Blow off the lock with a pistol, and search the house!”

At this instant, however, and just as the trooper was proceeding to
execute this order, the face of an old woman was protruded from one of
the upper windows, while she demanded who was below.

“Sir Roland Græme,” replied the leader; “where are the family? where is
Miss Græme? Is any one sick?”

“They are all well, but out!” briefly said the woman.

“Out—out!” exclaimed the persecutor, “and on Sunday, when there is no
church within miles. By G—,” he continued, striving to drown his fears
in rage, “is this a time to be out? Where have they gone? Answer truly,
on your life!”

“May it please your honor,” said one of the dragoons, touching his cap,
“may they not have gone to this conventicle, and taken your daughter
with them?”

Quick as lightning, Sir Roland wheeled round on the unthinking speaker,
and while the indentation on his brow became deeper than ever, and his
eye flashed with rage, he said—

“_My_ daughter consorting with traitors and schismatics! Breathe but the
word again, and by the God of heaven I will cleave you to the chine!”
and his fingers played nervously with the hilt of his sword; but, seeing
the deprecating look of the trooper, he recovered himself, and added,
“tush! man, you are innocent, but take care how even innocently you
rouse the tiger.”

“Tiger,” shrieked the old woman, who had known Sir Roland in former
days, and who now seemed impelled by some sudden gust of passion to
speak out, “it is well said; ay! one whose fangs have been in the hearts
of the persecuted remnant—but God will avenge his people. Know, false
persecutor, that your daughter _has_ gone forth to-day to become one of
the chosen few against whom, oh! man of sin, you have so often ridden
with steel and war horse, holding the commission of your master, the
Evil One. Go to, Roland Græme, I mind ye when ye were a boy, and little
did I think ye would ever become the Judas you are now.”

It is probable that if her hearer had comprehended the whole of this
harangue, a bullet would have been the speaker’s reward; but the first
words of the old woman, when taken in connection with the desertion of
the house, and his own misgivings from Helen’s late letter, assured him
that his daughter had indeed attended the conventicle. The conviction
fell on his heart with agonizing force. Remembering the injunctions of
indiscriminate butchery he had laid on his subordinate, and well knowing
that the command would be fulfilled to the very letter, he staggered
back in his saddle, with a face whiter than ashes, and was fain to grasp
the pommel for support, while he exclaimed in tones wrung from him by
the keenest anguish—

“My child!—my child!—I have murdered my child!”

“What is that ye say?” screamed the old hag, leaning eagerly forward;
“have ye sent out your reiving dragoons against the Lord’s anointed? and
ye fear that they will slay your ain bairn. Oh! man of blood, the
judgment of God has come upon ye—the judgment has come upon ye!”

But to the voice of the speaker, as well as to the astonished looks of
the dragoons, the father was insensible. He still remained clutching the
saddle, every feature of his face working with intense agony, and his
eyes glaring vacantly on the air. Those who looked on him shrunk back
aghast at the horror of his aspect; which, fearful as it was, only
faintly shadowed forth the torture of the soul within. The peril of his
only child stupefied him for a time. Then a succession of wild images
rose up to his mind. He saw his daughter flying before the ruthless
dragoons—he heard her cries for mercy, and the bitter sneer of
disbelief on the part of her pursuers—he beheld her lying a corpse on
the bare heath, her bosom gashed with brutal wounds, and her long fair
hair dabbled with blood. In that moment the memory of every one whom he
had slain came up before him—the mothers who had clung to his knees,
the babes who had looked innocently in his face as they died, the
daughters whose aged parents he had slain before their eyes. He thought
of the silvery headed patriarch whom he had shot for refusing the test,
and the prophetic warning of the victim that he, even he, the proud
persecutor, should curse the day he ever drew his sword against the
saints, came up to his memory. He groaned in anguish. For a time none
dared to intrude on his misery. One of his men, a trusty body adherent,
at length ventured to speak, by asking him if they had not better ride
with all haste after Lennox, in the hope that they might yet come up in
time. Starting, as if a shot had struck him, the father plunged his
rowels into the side of his steed, until the blood gushed forth, and
wheeling his horse sharp around, looked back sternly on his followers,
as he led the way at a fearful pace up the hill. Well did he know the
country around, and necessary, indeed, was that knowledge, for his
frantic gallop required the most intimate acquaintance with every turn
and inequality of the road. Over hill and dale, through glen and moor he
dashed, reckless of danger, for how could he think of aught but his
daughter? Oh! what would he not have given to be assured that he should
once more look into her soft blue eyes, that he should again press her
to his bosom. What now to him was rank or wealth? Perhaps he thought
that Helen would be able to reveal her name ere she fell a victim—but
no! for even if she spoke, would his subordinate believe her story?
Once, the very suspicion that she favored the Covenanters had angered
him, but now he would forgive every thing, only to be assured of her
safety. The contending emotions—hope and fear, love and anger, suspense
and despair—that agitated his bosom, made that hour’s ride an hour of
agony, such as he had never before thought a human being could endure,
and live. He felt that the curse of God was on him—that all the agonies
he had inflicted on others were now concentrated on himself—that he was
bound to the wheel of fire. His punishment had already begun. He had
rushed against the thick bosses of the Almighty’s buckler, and found,
like him of old, that man could not contend against the Most High.

We remember, when a boy, waking from a dream of horror, to find our
mother smiling over our sleep. Oh! never shall we forget the heavenly
radiance of that loved face, for radiant with heaven it seemed to us,
after the terrors of that midnight vision. Even so we feel when turning
from contemplating the tortures of the persecutor, to gaze on his
sainted child. The hour was now approaching noon, and Helen, in the
presence of the silent flock, had taken upon her those vows she could
never put off. Tears fell from many an eye as the worshipers beheld her
thus in their midst; and the old pastor was so affected that he could
scarcely speak.

“God will reward you, my daughter, and give you strength,” he said; “I
bless His holy name that thou art delivered from the dominion of Baal.
It is hard, I know, to disobey a parent; but saith not the Scripture,
that we must leave father and mother, if required, and take up our cross
and follow Christ? Only persevere, and God will make your way plain to
you, guiding you, even as he led the children of Israel, with a pillar
of cloud by day, and of fire by night. Trials, and sore ones, we must
all have in this world—and I boast not, but only speak to cheer you,
when I say that mine have been many and hard, but God has given me grace
to endure all, even as He will give it unto you. But my race is nearly
run; the golden urn will soon be broken at the fountain. I only pray to
die like the martyrs of old, with my armor on, and my sword girt to my
thigh. Come, oh! Lord, most mighty,” he continued, raising his hands and
eyes rapturously above, “come, oh! Lord most gracious, and come
quickly!”

A deep silence followed the conclusion of this prayer, while the tears
of many fell fast and thick. Every eye was fixed on the holy man, or
turned to Helen, for the countenances of both already seemed to glow, as
those of angels. None dared to draw a breath, lest they should dispel
the hushed stillness that so well accorded with the solemnity of the
moment. But suddenly a cry was heard, clear, loud and startling—“The
dragoons—the dragoons are here!” and had a voice come from the dead, it
would not have produced a more sudden change in the hearers. Every one
started up, and all eyes were turned toward the point whence the cry had
proceeded. There, on a gentle eminence, stood a shepherd waving his
plaid, and making gestures for the congregation to fly up the glen. In
an instant all was confusion. Mothers clasped their infants to their
bosoms, and looked up tremblingly, with faces whiter than ashes—maidens
clung to their lovers, and gazed around with dilated eyes and looks of
terror—and fathers and brothers, gathering around these dear ones,
hurried them on foot and horseback, in the direction indicated by the
sentinel. The escort of Helen and her aunt had been several armed
retainers, and these now rallied to the side of their mistress and the
pastor, prepared to make good their retreat, or defend themselves to the
last. Hoping to escape the notice of the pursuers, they dashed off in a
different direction from that pursued by the others of the congregation;
but just as they turned the angle of the hill, the pennons of the
troopers came into sight, and by the immediate diversion of a party in
pursuit of them, the fugitives knew they were detected. Pricking their
horses, they now hurried rapidly onward, and for several hundred yards
lost sight of their pursuers. At length, the little party reached the
brow of a slight acclivity.

“Faster—faster,” said one who had looked back, “they gain on us—press
on.”

Every eye was turned in the direction of the pursuers, and there, not
half the distance they had been before, were the dragoons, thundering
along with fiery haste. The sight gave new energy to the fugitives, who
urged on their steeds with redoubled vigor. For a while now the result
seemed doubtful. During this interval of suspense the feelings of the
fugitives were of the most conflicting character—the instinctive love
of life alternating with a holy resignation to whatever fate might be
assigned them. Now, as they gained on the troopers, the former
prevailed, and now, as they saw their pursuers drawing nigher, the
latter won the mastery. The emotions of each, meanwhile, were different.
The old pastor, with eyes uplifted, seemed rapturously awaiting
martyrdom—the aunt and cousin of Helen were pale and red by turns as
their fear or faith rose triumphant, while the serving men frowned
darkly as they looked behind, and appeared to wish for a chance to
exchange passes with their steel-clad oppressors. But the feelings of
Helen were most difficult to analyze, though perhaps they had less of
earth in them than those of any except the pastor. Subdued by the day’s
sacrifice of herself, and all glowing with divine faith and energy, what
had she to fear from death? Yet, even with this perfect resignation, she
could not avoid looking back on their pursuers, while her heart heat
quicker as the distance increased between the troopers and themselves.

“We gain—we gain—press on, we shall escape,” shouted the leader of the
little party, “the Lord will yet deliver us from our enemies.”

“Nay, nay,” said the pastor suddenly, “the hour has come—see ye not
that we are cut off in front, lo! the horses and the men-of-war.”

A cry—almost a shriek—broke from Helen’s two female companions as they
looked ahead, and saw, emerging from a narrow ravine, another party of
dragoons, led by a tall, dark man far in advance of the rest, and all
riding with tumultuous haste. Helen spoke not, but only raised her eyes
to heaven, for escape was now impossible. The ravine ahead was the only
feasible outlet in that direction, from the glen up which the fugitives
had fled, and to turn back would be to fall on the swords of their
pursuers. The serving men looked aghast, and drew in their reins, which
example the rest of the party immediately followed. For a minute there
was a profound silence. At length the leader again spoke.

“Why stand we here? Escape is impossible, unless we can cut our way
through. Let us charge the party behind, for that is the smaller. Form a
circle around the women—wheel—trot.”

There was no time for consultation, and the proposal seemed to point out
the only feasible plan. With the words they wheeled their horses, and
dashed to the desperate attack. The dragoons seemed for an instant
astonished by the movement, but did not slacken their pace. Their leader
waved his sword, and turning to his men, led the onset in person,
shouting “God save the king and bishops,” while the Covenanters,
unsheathing their blades, raised the cry of “The sword of the Lord and
Gideon.” And thus, borne in the midst of those armed men as in the
embrace of a whirlwind, Helen was hurried toward the dragoons. And as
they galloped along, the heavenly girl, with heart uplifted, prayed,
while her countenance shone with a glory as of the cherubim.

And who was it that dashed so frantically up the glen, as if fearful
that he might not arrive to whet his blade in the blood of the
fugitives? Who, but Sir Roland Græme, flying to save his daughter, and
even now almost maddened with the thought that he had come too late, for
the instant that he emerged from the ravine he recognized his child, and
now, when he saw her turned back to the pursuers, and his practiced eye
told him that he could not reach her until the two parties should be
engaged in deadly combat, the same sickening sensation of horror which
had attacked him at the Brae came over him again. With a sharp cry of
agony he ploughed his spurs into the already bloody sides of his horse,
and sprang forward at a pace even more frantic than that which he had
before led; but swift as was his progress it seemed to him only that of
a snail. On—on—he urged his gallant beast, and nearer and nearer the
fugitives and their first pursuers drew to each other. What though he
gained on the group!—he saw that the hostile parties would meet while
he would yet be far away. Oh! what were his feelings as this conviction
forced itself on him. If only another mile, in which to overtake them,
had been given him, he might perhaps have succeeded; but now hope was in
vain! Cold drops of sweat stood on his brow, while his heart throbbed
almost to bursting against his corselet. Did none recognize him, and
could they not understand his frantic signs? He
shouted—again—again—again. The dead might as well be expected to
hear. He waved his plumed hat on high, but, at that instant, with the
shock of an earthquake, the opponents met. A dizziness came over his
eyes, but with a mighty effort he rallied his reeling faculties, and
looked at the fight. Was his child yet alive? He saw the gleam of the
broadswords, the blaze of firearms, and all the tumult of the conflict,
but his daughter was not visible. Suddenly a sharp, quick, female
shriek, rising shrill over the uproar, met his ear. God of heaven, had
his Helen fallen! Another leap of his frantic steed, and he was near
enough to hear the shouts of the combatants and distinguish particular
persons. He trembled with eagerness, but lo! his daughter was still
unharmed, girt around as with a wall of steel, by the broadswords of her
defenders. He rose in his stirrups at the sight, and waving his hat
around his head, shouted with the voice of a Titan. Joy—joy! they
recognize him, and his child extends her arms toward him. She is saved.
But no! for at this very instant, when at length they understood by
their leader’s gestures that they were to desist, one of the dragoons,
availing himself of the confusion of the moment and thirsting for
vengeance for a wound he had received, aimed a pistol at the pastor’s
bosom, and though a fellow soldier struck aside his arm, it was only to
wing the deadly ball to another heart, even that of Helen, who all along
had been nestled by the side of the holy man. She fell back into his
arms, the blood gushing from her bosom, and for an instant they thought
her gone. But when the pastor called on her name she faintly opened her
eyes, pressed his hand, smiled sweetly, and murmuring of heaven, sank
away apparently into a slumber.

One wild cry of horror had risen, at her fall, from those immediately
around her, telling the tale of her murder; but the father needed not
this confirmation of his worst fears, for he had seen the shot and
beheld her fall. Galloping wildly forward, with a few gigantic leaps he
reached the offender, whom he smote to the earth with a single blow of
his broadsword. The next instant he was by his daughter’s side, the
group opening awe-struck to let him pass. He spoke not, but oh! the
terrible agony of his countenance. Putting them aside with arms
extended, he approached and gazed down into the face of his child—gazed
as Sapphira did when the apostle told her doom, and she saw the bearers
returning from her husband’s burial. And for a minute of profound
silence he continued gazing thus, into that fair sweet face, on which,
though now stilled as in death, there yet lingered a smile of heavenly
joy. He shuddered as he looked, and his countenance became livid as that
of a corpse. He essayed to speak, but though his lips moved, no sound
proceeded from them. At length slowly, almost reluctantly, he stooped
down and took her hand.

“Helen—Helen,” he said, in a choking voice, “you are not dead. Say
so—tell me I am not your murderer. Oh! speak, and forgive me.”

The dying girl faintly opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly into her
father’s face. Her senses were fast deserting her. She did not recognize
him.

“Oh God! my child is dying,” groaned the father. “Helen, Helen,” he
continued, raising his voice, “do you not know me? I am your
father—your murderer. Do not look on me with such strange eyes! Helen,
Helen dear, say, if only by a smile, that you forgive me. Oh! Lord God
of heaven,” he exclaimed, lifting his eyes agonizingly above, “have
mercy on me—suffer her to live to forgive me—crush not the bruised
reed,” and hot tears gushed from his eyes and trickled in his daughter’s
face.

“Who weeps?” faintly said the dying sufferer, “weep not for me. Tell my
father how I love him, and die blessing him—”

“Thank thee, Almighty Father, I thank thee,” gasped the penitent.
“Helen, here is your father—I am he.”

For the first time, now, the dying girl seemed fully to comprehend her
situation. She looked a minute around the group, and then, with a sweet
smile, her eyes rested on her father’s face. She faintly pressed his
hand. Tears gushed from his eyes like rain, and though he strove to
speak he could not for his sobs. She murmured of him, of her mother, of
heaven, and then they knew she was dead. The father looked on her a
moment, and with a groan—which none there ever forgot—sunk helpless to
her side. They raised him, but he was a corpse. “Vengeance is mine,”
saith the Lord, “and I will repay.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        A RACE FOR A SWEETHEART.


                           BY MR. SEBA SMITH.


Hardly any event creates a stronger sensation in a thinly settled New
England village, especially among the young folks, than the arrival of a
fresh and blooming miss, who comes to make her abode in the
neighborhood. When, therefore, Squire Johnson, the only lawyer in the
place, and a very respectable man of course, told Farmer Jones one
afternoon that his wife’s sister, a smart girl of eighteen, was coming
in a few days to reside in his family, the news flew like wildfire
through Pond village, and was the principal topic of conversation for a
week. Pond village is situated upon the margin of one of those numerous
and beautiful sheets of water that gem the whole surface of New England,
like the bright stars in an evening sky, and received its appellation to
distinguish it from two or three other villages in the same town, which
could not boast of a similar location. When Farmer Jones came in to his
supper about sunset that afternoon, and took his seat at the table, the
eyes of the whole family were upon him, for there was a peculiar working
about his mouth and a knowing glance of his eye, that always told them
when he had something of interest to communicate. But Farmer Jones’
secretiveness was large, and his temperament not the most active, and he
would probably have rolled the important secret as a sweet morsel under
his tongue for a long time, had not Mrs. Jones, who was of rather an
impatient and prying turn of mind, contrived to draw it from him.

“Now, Mr. Jones,” said she, as she handed him his cup of tea, “what is
it you are going to say? Do out with it; for you’ve been chawing
something or other over in your mind ever since you came into the
house.”

“It’s my tobacher, I s’pose,” said Mr. Jones, with another knowing
glance of his eye.

“Now, father, what is the use?” said Susan; “we all know you’ve got
something or other you want to say, and why can’t you tell us what
’tis?”

“La, who cares what ’tis?” said Mrs. Jones; “if it was any thing worth
telling, we shouldn’t have to wait for it, I dare say.”

Hereupon Mrs. Jones assumed an air of the most perfect indifference, as
the surest way of conquering what she was pleased to call Mr. Jones’
obstinacy, which by the way was a very improper term to apply in the
case; for it was purely the working of secretiveness without the least
particle of obstinacy attached to it.

There was a pause for two or three minutes in the conversation, till Mr.
Jones passed his cup to be filled a second time, when with a couple of
preparatory hems he began to let out the secret.

“We are to have a new neighbor here in a few days,” said Mr. Jones,
stopping short when he had uttered thus much, and sipping his tea and
filling his mouth with food.

Mrs. Jones, who was perfect in her tactics, said not a word, but
attended to the affairs of the table, as though she had not noticed what
was said. The farmer’s secretiveness had at last worked itself out, and
he began again.

“Squire Johnson’s wife’s sister is coming here in a few days, and is
going to live with ’em.”

The news being thus fairly divulged, it left free scope for
conversation.

“Well, I wonder if she is a proud, stuck up piece,” said Mrs. Jones.

“I shouldn’t think she would be,” said Susan, “for there aint a more
sociabler woman in the neighborhood than Miss Johnson. So if she’s at
all like her sister I think we shall like her.”

“I wonder how old she is,” said Stephen, who was just verging toward the
close of his twenty-first year.

“The squire called her eighteen,” said Mr. Jones, giving a wink to his
wife, as much as to say, that’s about the right age for Stephen.

“I wonder if she is handsome,” said Susan, who was somewhat vain of her
own looks, and having been a sort of reigning belle in Pond village for
some time, felt a little alarm at the idea of a rival.

“I dare be bound she’s handsome,” said Mrs. Jones, “if she’s sister to
Miss Johnson; for where’ll you find a handsomer woman than Miss Johnson,
go the town through?”

After supper, Stephen went down to Mr. Robinson’s store, and told the
news to young Charles Robinson and all the young fellows who were
gathered there for a game at quoits and a ring at wrestling. And Susan
went directly over to Mr. Bean’s and told Patty, and Patty went round to
the Widow Davis’ and told Sally, and before nine o’clock the matter was
pretty well understood in about every house in the village.

At the close of the fourth day, a little before sunset, a chaise was
seen to drive up to Squire Johnson’s door. Of course the eyes of the
whole village were turned in that direction. Sally Davis, who was just
coming in from milking, set her pail down on the grass by the side of
the road as soon as the chaise came in sight, and watched it till it
reached the squire’s door, and the gentleman and lady had got out and
gone into the house. Patty Bean was doing up the ironing that afternoon,
and she had just taken a hot iron from the fire as the chaise passed the
door, and she ran with it in her hand and stood on the door steps till
the whole ceremony of alighting, greeting, and entering the house, was
over. Old Mrs. Bean stood with her head out of the window, her
iron-bowed spectacles resting upon the top of her forehead, her
shriveled hand placed across her eyebrows to defend her red eyes from
the rays of the setting sun, and her skinny chin protruding about three
inches in advance of a couple of stubs of teeth, which her open mouth
exposed fairly to view.

“Seems to me they are dreadful loving,” said old Mrs. Bean, as she saw
Mrs. Johnson descend the steps and welcome her sister with a kiss.

“La me, if there isn’t the squire kissing of her tu,” said Patty; “well,
I declare, I would a waited till I got into the house, I’ll die if I
wouldn’t. It looks so vulgar to be kissing afore folks, and out doors
tu; I should think Squire Johnson would be ashamed of himself.”

“Well, I shouldn’t,” said young John Bean, who came up at that moment,
and who had passed the chaise just as the young lady alighted from it.
“I shouldn’t be ashamed to kiss sich a pretty gal as that any how; I’d
kiss her wherever I could ketch her, if it was in the meetin-house.”

“Why, is she handsome, Jack?” said Patty.

“Yes, she’s got the prettiest little puckery kind of a mouth I’ve seen
this six months. Her cheeks are red, and her eyes shine like new
buttons.”

“Well,” replied Patty, “if she’ll only take the shine off of Susan Jones
when she goes to meetin, Sunday, I sha’n’t care.”

While these observations were going on at old Mr. Bean’s, Charles
Robinson and a group of young fellows with him were standing in front of
Robinson’s store, a little farther down the road, and watching the scene
that was passing at Squire Johnson’s. They witnessed the whole with
becoming decorum, now and then making a remark about the fine horse and
the handsome chaise, till they saw the tall squire bend his head down
and give the young lady a kiss, when they all burst out into a loud
laugh. In a moment, being conscious that their laugh must be heard and
noticed at the squire’s, they, in order to do away the impression it
must necessarily make, at once turned their heads the other way, and
Charles Robinson, who was quick at an expedient, knocked off the hat of
the lad who was standing next to him, and then they all laughed louder
than before.

“Here comes Jack Bean,” said Charles, “now we shall hear something about
her, for Jack was coming by the squire’s when she got out of the chaise.
How does she look, Jack?”

“Handsome as a picter,” said Jack. “I haint seen a prettier gal since
last Thanksgiving Day, when Jane Ford was here to visit Susan Jones.”

“Black eyes or blue?” said Charles.

“Blue,” said Jack, “but all-fired bright.”

“Tall or short?” said Stephen Jones, who was rather short himself, and
therefore felt a particular interest on that point.

“Rather short,” said Jack, “but straight and round as our young colt.”

“Do you know what her name is?” said Charles.

“They called her Lucy when she got out of the chaise,” said Jack, “and
as Miss Johnson’s name was Brown before she was married, I s’pose her
name must be Lucy Brown.”

“Just such a name as I like,” said Charles Robinson; “Lucy Brown sounds
well. Now suppose, in order to get acquainted with her, we all hands
take a sail to-morrow night, about this time, on the pond, and invite
her to go with us.”

“Agreed,” said Stephen Jones. “Agreed,” said Jack Bean. “Agreed,” said
all hands.

The question then arose, who should carry the invitation to her; and the
young men being rather bashful on that score, it was finally settled
that Susan Jones should bear the invitation, and accompany her to the
boat, where they should all be in waiting to receive her. The next day
was a very long day, at least to most of the young men of Pond village;
and promptly, an hour before sunset, most of them were assembled, with
half a score of their sisters and female cousins, by a little stone
wharf on the margin of the pond, for the proposed sail. All the girls in
the village, of a suitable age, were there, except Patty Bean. She had
undergone a good deal of fidgeting and fussing during the day, to
prepare for the sail, but had been disappointed. Her new bonnet was not
done; and as for wearing her old flap-sided bonnet, she declared she
would not, if she never went. Presently Susan Jones and Miss Lucy Brown
were seen coming down the road. In a moment all were quiet, the laugh
and the joke were hushed, and each one put on his best looks. When they
arrived, Susan went through the ceremony of introducing Miss Brown to
each of the ladies and gentlemen present.

“But how in the world are you going to sail?” said Miss Brown, “for
there isn’t a breath of wind; and I don’t see any sail-boat, neither.”

“Oh, the less wind we have, the better, when we sail here,” said Charles
Robinson; “and there is our sail-boat,” pointing to a flat-bottomed
scow-boat, some twenty feet long by ten wide.

“We don’t use no sails,” said Jack Bean; “sometimes, when the wind is
fair, we put up a bush to help pull along a little, and when ’tisn’t, we
row.”

The party were soon embarked on board the scow, and a couple of oars
were set in motion, and they glided slowly and pleasantly over as lovely
a sheet of water as ever glowed in the sunsetting ray. In one hour’s
time, the whole party felt perfectly acquainted with Miss Lucy Brown.
She had talked in the most lively and fascinating manner; she had told
stories and sung songs. Among others, she had given Moore’s boat song,
with the sweetest possible effect; and by the time they returned to the
landing, it would hardly be too much to say that half the young men in
the party were decidedly in love with her.

A stern regard to truth requires a remark to be made here, not
altogether favorable to Susan Jones, which is the more to be regretted,
as she was in the main an excellent hearted girl, and highly esteemed by
the whole village. It was observed that as the company grew more and
more pleased with Miss Lucy Brown, Susan Jones was less and less
animated, till at last she became quite reserved, and apparently sad.
She, however, on landing, treated Miss Brown with respectful attention,
accompanied her home to Squire Johnson’s door, and cordially bade her
good night.

The casual glimpses which the young men of Pond village had of Miss
Brown during the remainder of the week, as she occasionally stood at the
door, or looked out at the window, or once or twice when she walked out
with Susan Jones, and the fair view they all had of her at meeting on
the Sabbath, served but to increase their admiration, and to render her
more and more an object of attraction. She was regarded by all as a
prize, and several of them were already planning what steps it was best
to take in order to win her. The two most prominent candidates, however,
for Miss Brown’s favor, were Charles Robinson and Stephen Jones. Their
position and standing among the young men of the village seemed to put
all others in the back ground. Charles, whose father was wealthy, had
every advantage which money could procure. But Stephen, though poor, had
decidedly the advantage over Charles in personal recommendations. He had
more talent, was more sprightly and intelligent, and more pleasing in
his address. From the evening of the sail on the pond, they had both
watched every movement of Miss Brown with the most intense interest;
and, as nothing can deceive a lover, each had, with an interest no less
intense, watched every movement of the other. They had ceased to speak
to each other about her, and if her name was mentioned in their
presence, both were always observed to color.

The second week after her arrival, through the influence of Squire
Johnson, the district school was offered to Miss Brown on the other side
of the pond, which offer was accepted, and she went immediately to take
charge of it. This announcement at first threw something of a damper
upon the spirits of the young people of Pond village. But when it was
understood the school would continue but a few weeks, and being but a
mile and a half distant, Miss Brown would come home every Saturday
afternoon, and spend the Sabbath, it was not very difficult to be
reconciled to the temporary arrangement. The week wore away heavily,
especially to Charles Robinson and Stephen Jones. They counted the days
impatiently till Saturday, and on Saturday they counted the long and
lagging hours till noon. They had both made up their minds that it would
be dangerous to wait longer, and they had both resolved not to let
another Sabbath pass without making direct proposals to Miss Brown.

Stephen Jones was too early a riser for Charles Robinson, and, in any
enterprise where both were concerned, was pretty sure to take the lead,
except where money could carry the palm, and then, of course, it was
always borne away by Charles. As Miss Lucy had been absent most of the
week, and was to be at home that afternoon, Charles Robinson had made an
arrangement with his mother and sisters to have a little tea party in
the evening, for the purpose of inviting Miss Brown; and then, of
course, he should walk home with her in the evening; and then, of
course, would be a good opportunity to break the ice, and make known to
her his feelings and wishes. Stephen Jones, however, was more prompt in
his movements. He had got wind of the proposed tea party, although
himself and sister, for obvious reasons, had not been invited, and he
resolved not to risk the arrival of Miss Brown and her visit to Mr.
Robinson’s, before he should see her. She would dismiss her school at
noon, and come the distance of a mile and a half round the pond home.
His mind was at once made up. He would go round and meet her at the
school-house, and accompany her on her walk. There, in that winding road
around those delightful waters, with the tall and shady trees over head,
and the wild grape-vines twining round their trunks, and climbing to the
branches, while the wild birds were singing through the woods, and the
wild ducks playing in the coves along the shore, surely there, if any
where in the world, could a man bring his mind up to the point of
speaking of love.

Accordingly, a little before noon, Stephen washed and brushed himself
up, and put on his Sunday clothes, and started on his expedition. In
order to avoid observation, he took a back route across the field,
intending to come into the road by the pond, a little out of the
village. As ill luck would have it, Charles Robinson had been out in the
same direction, and was returning with an armful of green boughs and
wild flowers, to ornament the parlor for the evening. He saw Stephen,
and noticed his dress, and the direction he was going, and he at once
smoked the whole business. His first impulse was to rush upon him and
collar him, and demand that he should return back. But then he
recollected that in the last scratch he had with Stephen, two or three
years before, he had a little the worst of it, and he instinctively
stood still while Stephen passed on without seeing him. It flashed upon
his mind at once that the question must now be reduced to a game of
speed. If he could by any means gain the school-house first, and engage
Miss Lucy to walk home with him, he should consider himself safe. But if
Stephen should reach the school-house first, he should feel a good deal
of uneasiness for the consequences. Stephen was walking very leisurely,
and unconscious that he was in any danger of a competitor on the course,
and it was important that his suspicions should not be awakened.
Charles, therefore, remained perfectly quiet till Stephen had got a
little out of hearing, and then he threw down his bushes and flowers,
and ran to the wharf below the store with his utmost speed. He had one
advantage over Stephen. He was ready at a moment’s warning to start on
an expedition of this kind, for Sunday clothes were an every-day affair
with him. There was a light canoe, belonging to his father, lying at the
wharf, and a couple of stout boys were there fishing. Charles hailed
them, and told them if they would row him across the pond as quick as
they possibly could, he would give them a quarter of a dollar a piece.
This, in their view, was a splendid offer for their services, and they
jumped on board with alacrity and manned the oars. Charles took a
paddle, and stood in the stern to steer the boat, and help propel her
ahead. The distance by water was a little less than by land, and
although Stephen had considerably the start of him, he believed he
should be able to reach the school-house first, especially if Stephen
should not see him and quicken his pace. In one minute after he arrived
at the wharf, the boat was under full way. The boys laid down to the
oars with right good will, and Charles put out all his strength upon the
paddle. They were shooting over the water twice as fast as a man could
walk, and Charles already felt sure of the victory. But when they had
gone about half a mile, they came in the range of a little opening in
the trees on the shore, where the road was exposed to view, and there,
at that critical moment, was Stephen pursuing his easy walk. Charles’
heart was in his mouth. Still it was possible Stephen might not see
them, for he had not yet looked round. Lest the sound of the oars might
attract his attention, Charles had instantly, on coming in sight,
ordered the boys to stop rowing, and he grasped his paddle with
breathless anxiety, and waited for Stephen again to disappear. But just
as he was upon the point of passing behind some trees, where the boat
would be out of his sight, Stephen turned his head and looked round. He
stopped short, turned square round, and stood for the space of a minute
looking steadily at the boat. Then lifting his hand, and shaking his
fist resolutely at Charles, as much as to say I understand you, he
started into a quick run.

“Now, boys,” said Charles, “buckle to your oars for your lives, and if
you get to the shore so I can reach the school-house before Stephen
does, I’ll give you half a dollar a piece.”

This of course added new life to the boys and increased speed to the
boat. Their little canoe flew over the water almost like a bird,
carrying a white bone in her mouth, and leaving a long ripple on the
glassy wave behind her. Charles’ hands trembled, but still he did good
execution with his paddle. Although Stephen upon the run was a very
different thing from Stephen at a slow walk, Charles still had strong
hopes of winning the race and gaining his point. He several times caught
glimpses of Stephen through the trees, and, as well as he could judge,
the boat had a little the best of it. But when they came out into the
last opening, where for a little way they had a fair view of each other,
Charles thought Stephen ran faster than ever; and although he was now
considerably nearer the school-house than Stephen was, he still trembled
for the result. They were now within fifty rods of the shore, and
Charles appealed again to the boys’ love of money.

“Now,” said he, “we have not a minute to spare. If we gain the point,
I’ll give you a dollar apiece.”

The boys strained every nerve, and Charles’ paddle made the water fly
like the tail of a wounded shark. When within half a dozen rods of the
shore, Charles urged them again to spring with all their might, and one
of the boys making a desperate plunge upon his oar, snapped it in two.
The first pull of the other oar headed the boat from land. Charles saw
at once that the delay must be fatal, if he depended on the boat to
carry him ashore. The water was but three feet deep, and the bottom was
sandy. He sprung from the boat, and rushed toward the shore as fast as
he was able to press through the water. He flew up the bank, and along
the road, till he reached the school-house. The door was open, but he
could see no one within. Several children were at play round the door,
who, having seen Charles approach with such haste, stood with mouths and
eyes wide open, looking at him.

“Where’s the schoolma’m?” said Charles, hastily, to one of the largest
boys.

“Why?” said the boy, opening his eyes still wider, “is any of the folks
dead?”

“You little rascal, I say, where’s the schoolma’m?”

“She jest went down that road,” said the boy, “two or three minutes
ago.”

“Was she alone?” said Charles.

“She started alone,” said the boy, “and a man met her out there a little
ways, and turned about and went with her.”

Charles felt that his cake was all dough again, and that he might as
well give it up for a bad job, and go home. Stephen Jones and Lucy Brown
walked very leisurely home through the woods, and Charles and the boys
went very leisurely in the boat across the pond. They even stopped by
the way, and caught a mess of fish, since the boys had thrown their
lines into the boat when they started. And when they reached the wharf,
Charles, in order to show that he had been a fishing, took a large
string of the fish in his hand, and carried them up to the house. Miss
Lucy Brown, on her way home through the woods, had undoubtedly been
informed of the proposed tea-party for the evening, to which she was to
be invited, and to which Stephen Jones and Susan Jones were not invited;
and when Miss Lucy’s invitation came, she sent word back, that she was
_engaged_.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE FAREWELL.


    Farewell, farewell—O! ne’er from me
      Till now that word hath hopeless passed;
    But, sweet one, faltered forth to thee,
      It seems this once as ’twere the last—
    The last that thou wilt ever hear
      From him who knows thy worth too well;
    I’ll stifle one relenting tear,
      That mingles in this last farewell.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            HARRY CAVENDISH.


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


                              CONCLUSION.

I was now alone in the world; I had neither ship, nor home; and she I
had loved was wedded to another. It is strange how misanthropical a man
becomes, after disappointment has soured his disposition, and destroyed,
one after another, the beautiful dreams of his youth. When I sat down
and thought of the hopes of my earlier years, now gone forever; when I
speculated upon my future prospects; when I recalled to mind how few of
the friends I had begun life with remained, an indescribable sadness
came over me, and, had it not been for my manhood, I would have found a
relief in tears. My zest for society was gone. I cared little for the
ordinary business of life. I only longed for a fitting opportunity to
re-enter the service, and distinguish myself by some gallant deed, which
I did not care to survive, for even fame had become hateful to me, since
it reminded me how insufficient it was to win or retain the love of
woman. In a word, I had become a misanthrope, and was fast losing all
the energy of my character in sickly regrets over the past.

Of the St. Clairs I had not inquired since my return, and their names,
from motives of delicacy perhaps, were never mentioned in my presence.
Yet they occupied a large portion of my thoughts, and often would I
start, and my heart flutter, when, in the streets, I fancied, for a
moment, that I recognized the form of Annette. But a nearer approach
made evident my mistake, and dissipated my embarrassment. Much, however,
as I thought of her, I had never inquired to whom she had been married;
yet my curiosity on this point continually gained strength; and when I
had been a fortnight in Newport without hearing any allusion to her, I
began to wish that some one would break the ominous silence which seemed
to hang around her and her family. Still I dared not trust myself to
broach the subject. I continued, therefore, ignorant of their present
situation, and of all that concerned them.

There is, not far from the town, and situated in one of the most
beautiful portions of the island, a favorite resort which has long been
known by the familiar and characteristic name of “The Glen.” The spot is
one where the deity of romance might sit enshrined. Here, on a still
summer night, we might, without much stretch of fancy, look for fairies
to come forth and gambol, or listen to the light music of airy spirits
hovering above us. The whole place reminds you of an enchanted bower,
and dull must be his heart who does not feel the stirrings of the
divinity within him as he gazes on the lovely scenery around. He who can
listen here unmoved to the low gurgle of the brook, or the light rustle
of the leaves in the summer wind, must be formed of the coarsest clods
of clay, nor boast one spark of our immortal nature.

The glen was my favorite resort, and thither would I go and spend whole
afternoons, listening to the laughing prattle of the little river, or
striving to catch, in pauses of the breeze, the murmur of the
neighboring sea. A rude bench had been constructed under some trees, in
a partially open glade, at the lower extremity of the ravine, and here I
usually sat, indulging in those dreamy, half-sick reveries which are
characteristic of youth. The stream, which brawled down the ravine, in a
succession of rapids and cascades, here glided smoothly along on a level
bottom, its banks fringed with long grass interspersed with wild roses,
and its bed strewed with pebbles, round and silvery, that glistened in
the sunbeams, which, here and there, struggled through the trees, and
shimmered on the stream. Faint and low came to the ear the sound of the
mill, situated at the upper end of the ravine; while occasionally a bird
whistled on the stillness, or a leaf floated lazily down into the river,
and went on its way, a tiny bark. The seclusion of my favorite retreat
was often enlivened by the appearance of strangers, but as they
generally remained only a few minutes, I had the spot, for most of the
time, to myself. Here I dreamed away the long summer afternoons, often
lingering until the moon had risen, to make the scene seem even more
beautiful, under her silvery light. I had no pleasure in any other spot.
Perhaps it was because I had once been here with Annette, when we were
both younger, and I, at least, happier; and I could remember plucking a
flower for her from a time-worn bush that still grew on the margin of
the stream. God knows how we love to haunt the spot made dear to us by
old and tender recollections!

I was sitting, one afternoon, on the rude bench I have spoken of,
listlessly casting pebbles into the river, when I heard the sound of
approaching voices, but I was so accustomed to the visits of strangers,
that I did not pause to look up. Directly the voices came nearer, and
suddenly a word was spoken that thrilled through every nerve of my
system. It was only a single word, but that voice!—surely it could be
none other than Annette’s. My sensations, at that moment, I will not
pretend to analyze. I longed to look up, and yet I dared not. My heart
fluttered wildly, and I could feel the blood rushing in torrents to my
face; but, if I had been called on at that instant to speak, I could not
have complied for worlds. Luckily the tree, under whose shadow I sat,
concealed me from the approaching visitors, and I had thus time to rally
my spirits ere the strangers came up. As they drew near I recognized the
voice of Mr. St. Clair, and then that of Annette’s cousin Isabel, while
there were one or two other speakers who were strangers to me. Doubtless
one of them was Annette’s husband, and, as this thought flashed across
me, I looked up, impelled by an irresistible impulse. The party were now
within almost twenty yards, coming gaily down the glen. Foremost in the
group walked Isabel, leaning on the arm of a tall, gentlemanly looking
individual, and turning ever and anon around to Annette, who followed
immediately behind, at the side of her father. Another lady, attended by
a gentleman, made up the rest of the company. Where could Annette’s
husband be? was the question that occurred to me—and who was the
distinguished looking gentleman on whose arm Isabel was so familiarly
leaning? But my thoughts were cut short by a conversation which now
began, and of which, during a minute, I was an unknown auditor—for my
position still concealed me from the party, and my surprise at first,
and afterwards delicacy, prevented me from appearing.

“Ah! Annette,” said Isabel, archly, turning around to her cousin, “do
you know this spot, but especially that rose-bush yonder?—here, right
beyond that old tree—you seem wonderfully ignorant all at once! I
wonder where the donor of that aforesaid rose-bud is now. I would lay a
guinea that it is yet in your possession, preserved in some favorite
book, pressed out between the leaves. Come, answer frankly, is it not
so, my sweet coz?”

I could hear no reply, if one was made, and immediately another voice
spoke. It was that of Isabel’s companion, coming to the aid of Annette.

“You are too much given to believe that Annette follows your example,
Isabel—now do you turn penitent, and let me be father confessor—how
many rose-buds, ay! and for that matter, even leaves, have you in your
collection, presented to you by your humble servant, before we had pity
on each other, and were married? I found a flower, last week, in a copy
of Spenser, and, if I remember aright, I was the donor of the trifle.”

“Oh! you betray yourself,” gaily retorted Isabel, “but men are
foolish—and of all foolish men I ever met with, a certain Albert
Marston was, before his marriage, the most foolish. I take credit to
myself,” she continued, in the same playful strain, “for having worked
such a reformation in him since that event. But this is not what we were
talking of—you wish to divert me from my purpose by this light Cossack
warfare—but it won’t do,” she continued, and I fancied she stamped her
foot prettily, as she was wont to do at Clairville Hall, when she was
disposed to have her way; “no—no—Annette must be the one to turn
penitent, and I will play father confessor. Say, now, fair coz, was it
not a certain fancy to see this same rose-bush, that induced you to
insist on coming here?”

During this conversation the parties had remained nearly stationary at
some distance from me. Strange suspicions began to flash through my
mind, as soon as Isabel commenced her banter; and these suspicions had
now been changed into a certainty. Annette was still unmarried, and it
was Isabel’s wedding at which I had come so near being present, at
Clairville Hall. Nor was this all. I was still loved. Oh! the wild, the
rapturous feelings of that moment. I could with difficulty restrain
myself from rising and rushing toward them; but motives of delicacy
forbade me thus to reveal that the conversation had been overheard. And
yet should I remain in my present position, and play the listener still
further? I knew not what to do. All these considerations flashed through
my mind in the space of less than a minute, during which the party had
been silent, apparently enjoying Annette’s confusion.

“Come, not ready to answer yet?” began Isabel; “well, if you will not,
you shan’t have the rose from that bush, for which you’ve come. Let us
go back,” she said, playfully.

The whole party seemed to enter into the jest, and laughingly retraced
their steps. This afforded me the opportunity for which I longed.
Hastily rising from my seat, I glided unnoticed from tree to tree, until
I reached a copse on the left of the glen, and advancing up the ravine,
under cover of this screen, I re-entered the path at a bend some
distance above the St. Clairs. Here I listened for a moment, and caught
the sound of their approaching voices. Determining no longer to be a
listener to their conversation, I proceeded down the glen, and, as I
turned the corner, a few paces in advance, I came full in sight of the
approaching group. In an instant the gay laughing of the party ceased,
and I saw Annette shrink blushing behind her father. Isabel was the
first to speak. Darting forward, with that frankness and gaiety which
always characterized her, she grasped my hand, and said—

“You don’t know how happy we all are to see you. Where could you have
come from?—and how could you have made such a mistake as to
congratulate Annette, instead of me, on being married? But come, I must
surrender you to the others—I see they are dying to speak to you.
Uncle, Annette—how lucky it was that we came here to-day!”

“My dear boy,” said Mr. St. Clair, warmly pressing my hand, “I cannot
tell how rejoiced I am to see you. We heard a rumor that you were lost,
and we all wept—Isabel for the first time for years. It was but a few
days since that we heard you were at Newport, and, as we were coming
hither, I hastened my journey, determined to search you out. We are on
our way there now, and only stopped here a few minutes to relieve
ourselves after a long ride. This day shall be marked with a white
stone. But here I have been keeping you from speaking to Annette—we old
men, you know, are apt to be garrulous.”

My eyes, indeed, had been seeking Annette, who, still covered with
blushes, and unable to control her embarrassment, sought to conceal them
by keeping in the back ground. As for me, I had become wonderfully
self-possessed. I now advanced and took her hand. It trembled in my own,
and when I spoke, though she replied faintly, she did not dare to look
into my face, except for a moment, after which her eyes again sought the
ground in beautiful embarrassment. My unexpected appearance, combined
with her cousin’s late raillery, covered her face with blushes, and, for
some time, she could not rally herself sufficient to participate in the
conversation.

What more have I to tell? I was now happy, and for my misanthropy, it
died with the cause that produced it. Mr. St. Clair said that the
wedding need not be delayed, and in less than a month I led Annette to
the altar. Years have flown since then, but I still enjoy unalloyed
felicity, and Annette seems to my eyes more beautiful than ever. It only
remains for me to bid my readers FAREWELL!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE HOLYNIGHTS.


                           BY HENRY MORFORD.


           Some say that ’gainst the time that season comes
           Wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated
           The bird of dawning singeth all night long,
           And then they say no sprite dares stir abroad,
           The nights are wholesome then, no planets strike,
           No fairy takes or witch hath power to charm,
           So hallowed and so gracious is the time.
                                                     Hamlet.

    Hushed be the voice of mirthfulness,
      And stilled be the plaintive tones of care,
    That from too many a heart recess
      Go forth to float on the midnight air;
    It is no time for the wild excess,
      No time for the loose unbridled reign
    That passion gives to her votaries
      When they sever away the golden chain.

    Stilled on the ears of the seraph choir
      Let the lingering hymns of the season go,
    As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wire
      To the anthem of love and peace below;
    And let us keep in a holy mood
      The coming hours of that sacred time
    When the word went forth for the hush of blood
      And the passing knell for the soul of crime!

    When the hosts of the upper region stirred
      That another star came forth to shine,
    And the rush of an angel’s wing was heard
      O’er the moonlit plains of Palestine,
    And a softer light o’er the earth was flung
      And the pale stars waxed no longer dim,
    And forth on a thousand harps outrung
      The rising notes of the angels’ hymn.

    The same bright stars that then looked down
      With a guardian watch o’er hill and plain,
    Unfading gems in the starry crown
      Glittering on in the blue remain,
    And the solemn awe that crept them round
      As they watched their flocks that holy time,
    An echo with us to-night has found
      In the new-born light of another clime.

    It has been felt this many a year,
      The sacred spell of the season’s death,
    And the brighter glow of the starry sphere
      As it came that time with the angels’ breath,
    For brighter yet the stars gleam out
      As the noisome vapor shrinks away
    From the open glade that it hung about
      Darkened and damp this many a day.

    List how the spirit-breathings come
      Upon our ears from the voice sublime
    Of him who ruled in the spirits’ home,
      Who wrote and sang for the end of time!
    Hark how he tells when the time is near,
      The bird of the dawn sings all night long
    And the fairy legions disappear
      When he comes abroad with his matin song.

    No spirits forth, nor the rank compound
      That glows with the witches’ midnight toil,
    No deeps of the forest-close resound
      With the wizard shriek and the caldron boil.
    No planets chill the warm heart’s blood
      With the mockery of a demon fire,
    No vapors veil with a sickly shroud
      The moss-grown top of the old church spire,—

    For he who stood in that dreadful watch
      On the gray rampart of Elsinore
    Told how they ceased from their revel catch
      And their reign at the Christmas time was o’er;
    We feel it now, as he felt it then,
      That the air is full of holiness,
    And we need not forms from the earth again
      Of the starry hosts to guard and bless.

    Then stilled on the ears of the seraph choir
      Let the lingering hymns of the season go,
    As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wire
      To the anthem of love and peace below;
    And let us keep in a holy mood
      The passing hours of that sacred time
    When the word went forth for the hush of blood
      And the passing knell for the soul of crime!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE LADIES’ LIBRARY.


                            BY W. A. JONES.


That admirable manual of “_les petites morales_,” and even of higher
matters occasionally, the Spectator, contains a paper which we hesitate
not to accept as a just specimen of cotemporary satire on female
education; we refer to the catalogue of a Ladies’ Library. This
heterogeneous collection embraces heroical romances and romancing
histories, the ranting tragedies of the day, with the libertine comedies
of the same period. In a word, it leads us to infer pretty plainly the
insignificant pretensions the gentle women of Queen Anne’s day could lay
to any thing like refinement of education, or even a correct propriety
in dress and demeanor. Tell me your company, and I will disclose your
own character; speak that I may know you, are trite maxims; but give me
a list of your favorite authors is by no means so common, though at
least as true, a test. The literary and indirectly the moral depravity
of taste exhibited by the women of that age, is easily accounted for,
when we once learn the fashionable authors and the indifferent
countenance given to any authors but those of the most frivolous
description. The queen herself was an illiterate woman, and we are told
never once had the curiosity to look into the classic productions of
Pope. King William, the preceding sovereign, was so ignorant of books
and the literary character, as to offer Swift, with whom he had been
agreeably prepossessed, the place of captain of a regiment of horse.

Indulging ourselves in a rapid transition, we pass from this era to the
epoch of Johnson and Burke, and Goldsmith and Sheridan, we come to the
reign of George III. Here we find the scene altered. From the gay saloon
we are dropped, as if by magic, into the library or conversation room.
We read not of balls, but of literary dinners and æsthetic teas, and we
meet for company, not thoughtless, dressy dames of fashion and minions
of the goddess of pleasure, but grave, precise professors in petticoats,
women who had exchanged a world of anxiety for the turn of a head-dress,
or the shape of a flounce for an equally wise anxiety about the
philosophy of education, the success of their sonnets and tragedies, and
moral tales for the young. The pedantry of authorship and dogmatic
conversation superseded the more harmless pedantry of dress. Then we
read of the stupidest company in the world, which arrogated to itself
the claim of being the best. A race of learned ladies arose; _bas
bleus_, the Montagues, the Mores, the Sewards, the Chapones, patronized
by such prosing old formalists as Doctors Gregory and Aiken, and even by
one man of vigorous talent, Johnson, and one man of real genius,
Richardson. The last two endured much, because they were flattered much.

When we speak thus contemptuously of learned ladies, we intend to
express a disgust at the pretensions of those who pass under that name.
Genuine learning can never be despised, whoever may be its possessor;
but of genuine learning it is not harsh to suspect a considerable
deficiency where there is so much of display and anxious rivalry. Even
where the learning is exact and solid, it is to be remembered that many
departments are utterly unsuited to the female mind; where, at best,
little can be accomplished and that of a harsh repulsive nature. We want
no Daciers, no Somervilles, no Marcets, but give us as you will as many
Inchbalds, Burneys, Edgeworths, Misses Barrett, as can be had for love
or money.

From the ladies we seek literature, not learning, in its old scholastic
sense. They certainly have received pleasure from books, and are bound
to return the gratification in a similar way by delighting us. And this
they can do in their legitimate attempts. It shall be a prominent object
of the present general introduction to a short series of critical
sketches, to attempt a definition of the limits which should bound those
attempts, and also to endeavor at suggesting the proper studies for
ladies, and the authors that ought to rank as favorites with the fair.
In a list of the latter, female writers should bear a considerable
proportion, and will assuredly not be forgotten.

We believe the question as to the relative sexual distinctions of
intellectual character, is now generally considered as settled. There is
allowed to be a species of genius essentially feminine. Equality is no
more arrogated than superiority of ability, and it would be as wisely
arrogated. The most limited observation of life and the most superficial
acquaintance with books, must effectually demonstrate the superior
capacity of man for the great works of life and speculation. It is true,
great geniuses are rare and seldom needed, and the generality of women
rank on a par with the generality of men. In many cases, women of talent
surpass men of an equal calibre of mere talent, through other and
constitutional causes—a greater facility of receiving and transmitting
impressions, greater instinctive subtlety of apprehension, and a
livelier sympathy. We cordially admit the female intellect, in the
ordinary concerns of life and the current passages of society, has often
the advantage of the masculine understanding. Cleverness outshines solid
ability, and a smart woman is much more showy than a profound man. In
certain walks of authorship, too, women are pre-eminently successful; in
cases narrative of real or fictitious events, (in the last implying a
strain of ready invention,) in lively descriptions of natural beauty or
artificial manners; in the development of the milder sentiments,
especially the sentiment of love; in airy, comic ridicule. On the other
hand, the highest attempts of women in poetry have uniformly failed. We
have read of no female epic of even a respectable rank: those who have
written tragedies, have written moral lectures (of an inferior sort)
like Hannah More; or anatomies of the passions, direct and formal, like
Joanna Baillie; or an historical sketch, as Rienzi. We are apt to
suspect that the personal charms of Sappho proved too much for the
admirers of her poetic rhapsodies, otherwise Longinus has done her foul
injustice; for the fragment he quotes is to be praised and censured
solely for its obscurity. This would have been a great merit in
Lycophron.

In the volume of British Poetesses, edited by Mr. Dyce, it is
astonishing to find how little real poetry he has been able to collect
out of the writings of near a century of authors, scattered over the
surface of five or six centuries. It must be allowed that some of the
finest shortest pieces by female writers have appeared since the
publication of that selection. In the volume referred to, much sensible
verse and some sprightly copies of verses occur; a fair share of pure
reflective sentiment, delivered in pleasing language rarely rising above
correctness; of high genius there is not a particle,—no pretensions to
sublimity or fervor. The best piece and the finest poem, we think, ever
composed by woman, is the charming ballad of Auld Robin Gray. That is a
genuine bit of true poesy, and perfect in the highest department of the
female imagination in the pathos of domestic tragedy. In the present
century we have Mrs. Howitt and Mrs. Southey, but chief of all, Miss
Barrett.[6] The finest attempts of the most pleasing writer of this
class, do not rise so high as the delightful ballad above named. They
are sweet, plaintive, moral strains, the melodious notes of a lute,
tuned by taper fingers in a romantic bower, not the deep, majestic,
awful tones of the great organ, or the spirited and stirring blasts of
the trumpet. The ancient bard struck wild and mournful, or hearty and
vigorous, notes from his harp—perchance placed “on a rock whose
frowning brow,” &c. and striving with the rough symphonies of the
tempest; but the sybil of modern days plays elegant and pretty, or soft
and tender airs upon her flageolet or accordion, in the boudoir or
saloon.

A poet is, from the laws both of physiology and philology,—masculine.
His vocation is manly, or rather divine. And we have never heard any
traits of feminine character attributed to the great poet, (in the Greek
sense,) the Creator of the universe. The muses are represented as
females, but then they are the inspirers, never the composers, of verse.
So should be the poet’s muse, as she is often the poet’s theme. There
are higher themes, but of an abstract nature, in general: ethical,
religious, metaphysical. Let female beauty then sit for her portrait
instead of being the painter. Let poets chant her charms, but let her
not spoil a fair ideal image by writing bad verses. If all were rightly
viewed, a happy home would seem preferable to a seat on Parnassus, and
the Fountain of Content would furnish more palatable draughts than the
Font of Helicon. The quiet home is not always the muses’ bower; though
we trust the muses’ bower is placed in no turbulent society.

Women write for women. They may entertain, but cannot, from the nature
of the case, become instructors to men. They know far less of life,
their circle of experience is confined. They are unfitted for many paths
of active exertion, and consequently are rendered incapable of forming
just opinions on many matters. We do not include a natural incapacity
for many studies, and as natural a dislike for many more. Many kinds of
learning, and many actual necessary pursuits and practices, it is deemed
improper for a refined woman to know. How, then, _can_ a female author
become a teacher of men?

Literature would miss many pleasant associations if the names of the
best female writers were expunged from a list of classic authors, and
the world would lose many delightful works—the novel of sentiment and
the novel of manners, letter writing, moral tales for children, books of
travels, gossiping memoirs—Mrs. Inchbald, Madame D’Arblay, Miss
Edgeworth, Lady M. W. Montague, Miss Martineau, and Miss Sedgwick, with
a host besides. Women have sprightliness, cleverness, smartness, though
but little wit. There is a body and substance in true wit, with a
reflectiveness rarely found apart from a masculine intellect. In all
English comedy, we recollect but two female writers of sterling value,
Mrs. Conley and Mrs. Guthrie, and their plays are formed on the Spanish
model, and made up of incident and intrigue, much more than of fine
repartees or brilliant dialogue. We know of no one writer of the other
sex, that has a high character for humor—no Rabelais, no Sterne, no
Swift, no Goldsmith, no Dickens, no Irving. The female character does
not admit of it.

Women cannot write history. It requires too great solidity, and too
minute research for their quick intellects. They write, instead,
delightful memoirs. Who, but an antiquary or historical commentator, had
not rather read Lucy Hutchinson’s Life of her Husband, than any of the
professed histories of the Commonwealth—and exchange Lady Fanshawe for
the other royalist biographers.

Neither are women to turn politicians or orators. We hope never to hear
of a female Burke; she would be an overbearing termagant. A spice of a
talent for scolding, is the highest form of eloquence we can
conscientiously allow the ladies.

Criticism is for men; when women assume it, they write scandal. The
current notion of criticism with most, is that of libelous abuse. From
all such, Heaven defend us.

Women feel more than they think, and (sometimes) say more than do. They
are consequently better adapted to describe sentiments, than to
speculate on causes and effects. They are more at home in their letters,
than in tracts of political economy.

The proper faculties in women to cultivate most assiduously are, the
taste and the religious sentiment; the first, as the leading trait of
the intellectual; and the last, as the governing power of the moral
constitution. Give a woman a pure taste and high principles, and she is
safe from the arts of the wiliest libertine. Let her have all other
gifts but these, and she is comparatively defenceless. Taste purifies
the heart as well as the head, and religion strengthens both. The
strongest propensities to pleasure are not so often the means of
disgrace and ruin, as the carelessness of ignorant virtue, and an
unenlightened moral sense. This makes all the difference in the world,
between the daughter of a poor countryman, and the child of an educated
gentleman. Both have the same desires, but how differently directed and
controlled. Yet we find nineteen lapses from virtue in the one case,
where we find one in the other.

Believing that what does not interest, does not benefit the mind, we
would avoid all pedantic lectures to women, on all subjects to which
they discover any aversion. Study should be made a pleasure, and reading
pure recreation. In a general sense, we would say the best works for
female readers are those that tend to form the highest domestic
character. Works of the highest imagination, as being above that
condition, and scientific authors, who address a different class of
faculties, are both unsuitable. An admirable wife may not relish the
sublimity of Milton or Hamlet; and a charming companion be ignorant of
the existence of such a science as Algebra. A superficial acquaintance
with the elements of the physical sciences, is worse than total
unacquaintance with them.

Religion should be taught as a sentiment, not as an abstract principle,
or in doctrinal positions, a sentiment of love and grateful obedience;
morality, impressed as the practical exercise of self-denial and active
benevolence. In courses of reading, too much is laid down of a dry
nature. Girls are disgusted with tedious accounts of battles and
negotiations, dates and names. The moral should be educed best filled
for the female heart, and apart from the romantic periods, and the
reigns of female sovereigns, or epochs when the women held a very
prominent place in the state, or in public regard. We would have women
affectionate wives, obedient daughters, agreeable companions, skilful
economists, judicious friends; but we must confess it does not fall
within our scheme to make them legislators or lawyers, diplomatists or
politicians. We therefore think nine tenths of all history is absolutely
useless for women. Too many really good biographies of great and good
men and women can hardly be read, and will be read to much greater
advantage than histories, as they leave a definite and individual
impression. The reading good books of travels, is, next to going over
the ground in person, the best method of studying geography. Grammar and
rhetoric,[7] (after a clear statement of the elements and chief rules,)
are best learnt in the perusal of classic authors, the essayists, &c.;
and, in the same way, the theory of taste and the arts. The most
important of accomplishments is not systematically treated in any
system—conversation. But a father and mother of education, can teach
this better than any professor. Expensive schools turn out half-trained
pupils. Eight years at home, well employed, and two at a good but not
fashionable school, are better than ten years spent in the most popular
female seminary, conducted in the ordinary style. Such is a meagre
outline of our idea of female education, into which we have digressed
unawares.

Female authors should constitute a fair proportion of a lady’s
library—and those masculine writers who have something of the
tenderness and purity of the feminine character in their works. The
subjects and authors we propose for occasional consideration, will
embrace specimens of each, in prose and poetry, fiction and reality,
satire and sentiment. We think we may promise a less erudite paper for
the second number, though to some readers all that is not very lively is
proportionably dull.

-----

[6] This lady’s failure in an attempt to translate Æschylus, is a fair
confirmation of our opinion of the inability of the female imagination
to soar beyond a certain height.

[7] The benefit flowing from _these_ studies is chiefly of a negative
character.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: A. L. Dick.
__The Pastor’s Visit__

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE PASTOR’S VISIT.


                       ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.


    The noon is past—the sun declines
      Below the western hills;
    Upon the peasant’s face joy shines.
      And peace his bosom fills.
    He stands beside the cottage door,
      His wife and children round,
    With that content which evermore
      Doth with the true abound.

    The pastor, pausing on his way,
      Surveys the happy scene;
    If all mankind were pure as they
      Slights tasks for him, I ween!
    Not in the peasant’s cottage dwell
      Sin and her joyless train,
    He thinks of palace, dome and cell,
      And passes on again!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE HASTY MARRIAGE.


                        A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.


                     BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BRIDAL.”


How few “look before they leap,” even in an affair of so much moment as
matrimony. We fear the fault is in our system. We educate our daughters
superficially—for _display_ rather than usefulness—to catch the eye
rather than win the heart. Our girls are taught in early life, either
directly or indirectly, that marriage is the great object of woman’s
ambition, and in endeavoring to secure that object, and to surpass in
the race of conquest their companions and rivals, they sometimes wed
rashly and to the sacrifice of happiness. Difficult, we are aware, is
the task of discrimination with the young and inexperienced. Pure and
artless themselves, they are apt to imagine the possession of like
virtues by all others, and to conceive it impossible for a fine form and
a handsome face to be associated with a false heart. Alas! how often are
they disappointed! How frequently do the sudden attachments of early
life prove hollow and unsubstantial! How often is it discovered that the
first dream of love, which has been so extravagantly eulogized by poets
and romancers, was a mere delusion that would not bear the test of time
and of reason! With what bitterness of disappointment have many started
from this dream! Stripped of the rainbow coloring with which the fancy
is apt to paint an object of idolatry, how prominent appear the darkness
and the deformity! How broad the contrast between the just view of truth
and the rapid and prejudiced survey of passion! How often do we see
beings standing before the altar, pledging themselves to each other for
weal and for wo, who, comparatively speaking, were strangers but
yesterday! Knowing little of each other’s lives and dispositions, merits
or demerits, they are willing to risk peace of mind for long years, and
to identify destinies for time, perhaps for eternity! Can we wonder that
strife sometimes mars the domestic circle—that wives are left lonely
and deserted—that the agency of man should so often be invoked to part
beings who have been joined together by an ordinance of God!

A happy union is indeed a scene upon which, without irreverence, we may
suppose the angels in Heaven gaze from their bright places of abode with
delight and approval. An unnatural or a discordant marriage, on the
other hand, must form a source of delight to the arch enemy of mankind,
for in it he can recognize the soul of evil. That the young should seek
for and cling to a kindred spirit is natural. The undivided possession
of a pure heart is perhaps the very acme of human felicity. “One home,
one wife, and one God,” is the sentiment of one of the wisest of his
race, and it is only when man is on the shady side of fifty that he
begins to appreciate the truth of this philosophy in all its solemnity
and force. Then his pleasures of life are derived as much from the past
as the future, and the associations of that past, if mingled with
virtue, fidelity, patriotism and religion, are indeed blissful.

We pity the lonely and the desolate—the loveless and the unloved—the
being without a wife or a friend—without one trusting and confiding
spirit, to whom the heart may turn in its hour of sorrow and pour out
its inmost and saddest thoughts. The cold and selfish mortal who passes
year after year without experiencing the delightful concord of sentiment
to be found in a kindred soul, is indeed the most miserable of his
species. Even his joys are robbed of half their delight, because
unshared by another, by one to whom he is allied by love and friendship.
Wretched indeed is the isolated individual who, mingling with the
multitude, can single out no destiny identified with his—no faithful
and devoted heart, the breath of whose existence seems bound up with
his. Nature has denied to such a being the holiest impulses that warm
and agitate the human breast. Even the birds are mated, and without a
ministering angel “a sweet companion,” the first born was lonely and
desolate in the garden of Eden. So it must ever be with the frail and
feeble things of mortal existence. If Paradise could not be appreciated
and enjoyed alone, how can man reconcile loneliness to his fallen
condition? The desire of the heart is for sweet companionship—the
inward craving of the spirit is for a being to love. Can we wonder then
that in this country, where early marriage is taught to be desirable, so
many should choose rashly?

We remember Annette Delisle as a being of yesterday. She sang well—she
danced well—and in many respects she was a beauty. Not one of our
beauties at the time, for her form was too slight and sylph-like,—her
joy was too gushing—her spirits too redundant. She dressed from early
childhood with taste and elegance, and wore her dark hair in long
ringlets over her shoulders. She had many friends, and even at sixteen
her admirers were liberal in number and profuse in flattery. Her mother,
a weak and vain woman, was proud of her daughter—proud of the attention
that daughter received, and eager to display her on every occasion. Thus
she not only frequently accompanied her to public balls, which were then
more fashionable and somewhat more select than at present, but she
permitted her to accept of numerous invitations to parties, and to
mingle almost nightly during the winter season in the gay scenes of our
metropolis. The father, good-natured man, was a manufacturer, and was so
wedded to business, that he could not spare time even for the proper
care of his favorite child. Alas! this good nature in fathers! It
sometimes degenerates into a sad vice, and is the source of much misery
in after life. The man who lacks the energy to control his own
household,—who is either too negligent, or too weak to point out the
true path and to direct the footsteps of his offspring therein, is
guilty of much that is unpardonable.

But such a father was Mr. Delisle, while the mother, worse if possible,
gave the reins almost wholly into the hands of her daughter, and was but
too fond of the hollow and unmeaning admiration which the practiced in
art and in compliment among the sterner sex are so apt to bestow upon
the vain and empty, whether old or young.

The result of this course upon Annette Delisle may well be imagined.
While she sparkled in the ball room, and glittered in the giddy throng,
her heart, her mind, and her morals were neglected. The mazes of the
world, its quicksands and its hypocrisy were unknown to her. She
flirted, laughed and trifled with the many, caught one hour by a fine
form, another by a rich voice, and a third by a dashing exterior. And
yet, in the depths of that young girl’s breast, were rich and true
affections. Properly trained, she would have graced any circle. Her mind
was good by nature—her spirit was benevolent and cheerful—and many of
the lights of beauty flashed and brightened around her. Despite her
artificial manner, and her air of coquetry, her feelings were deep and
strong. Her being was one of impulse, and her attachments, even to her
school companions, were animated by truth and fidelity. Thus it was when
Annette discovered that the society of Howard Leroy possessed an unusual
charm for her—that she saw him approach with pleasure—that she
listened with more than her wonted attention to his remarks—that she
felt the blood mount to her cheek at his compliments—that she found her
eyes following as he wandered through the ball room—that she lisped his
name even in her dreams.

Never can I forget the dashing Leroy. He was what is usually denominated
“a handsome fellow”—one of the butterflies of society—a ladies’ man,
in the general acceptation, and a favorite also with his own sex. He
rode well, talked well, and sang an excellent song. This latter
qualification was in some respects a fatal gift, for it introduced him
into many a gay circle from which he otherwise would have been
excluded—made him sought for, and vain of his voice, and thus won him
away from the more useful pursuits of life. Leroy, moreover, was fond of
poetry—was able to quote glowing passages, and had, withal, a touch of
romance in his character, which served not a little to enhance him in
the estimation of some of his female acquaintance. He assumed a
remarkable degree of independence—was rather bold and reckless in his
manner and language, and possessed the faculty of talking for hours in
relation to the prominent beauties of Moore, Byron and Bulwer. These
were the traits of character which won upon the mind and heart of
Annette Delisle. Her education and mode of life had fitted her for the
arts of such a man. She fancied him something superior to the ordinary
fop—to the mere merchant or shopkeeper. Leroy became her ardent and
enthusiastic admirer. The fact soon reached the ears of her father. He
roused himself for the moment, and proceeded to investigate the
realities of the case. Leroy he ascertained to be an idle, dissolute
pretender, and dependent, he feared, upon the gaming-table for his means
of subsistence. He was of good family, and had received a fair
education. But he had gone astray from the path of rectitude in early
life, and now contrived to appear on the principal promenades as a
fashionable lounger—but the world wondered how!

The manufacturer was terrified at the prospect for his daughter, whom he
really loved, but it was too late. Leroy saw the storm coming, and
prevailed upon Annette, by falsehood and misrepresentation, to consent
to a secret marriage. Fondly and long she clung to the delusion that her
husband had been slandered—that one who could _talk_ so well, and
_profess_ so much, could not be a villain. He _was_ not one, perhaps, in
the usual interpretation; but we can conceive of no more heartless
wretch than the man who deliberately deceives and betrays a fond and
confiding woman. Leroy never loved Annette with a true and exalted
affection. He felt himself bankrupt in fortune, and nearly so in
character, and he was base enough to become the husband of an
unsuspecting girl, in the hope of a dependency upon the bounty of her
father. Deceived in this, for the old manufacturer would have nothing to
do with him, he soon threw off the mask. At first cold and indifferent,
he speedily grew harsh and unkind. True, there were moments when his
better nature prevailed, and he would endeavor, by apparent contrition
and well turned promises, to atone for his conduct. But, they were few
and far between, and diminished in number as time rolled on. Strange,
despite the giddy character of Annette—despite the little care which
had been bestowed upon her principles, she clung to him with the true
fidelity of woman. She loved him with her whole soul, and while the
pride of her woman nature repelled the idea of any public exposure of
her situation, and while she even concealed from her parents much of the
unworthy conduct of Leroy, she still cherished a belief of his ultimate
reform. Night after night she sat in her quiet chamber, or gazed
earnestly from the window, in the hope that the form of her husband
might appear before the midnight hour. Who may paint the agony of her
mind at such moments—the jealous fears that shot like daggers through
her breast, as to his haunts and his society—the apprehension of danger
and of death—the terrible fancies which mingled him in some dreadful
scene at the gaming table—and, worse than all, the oft repelled, but
still returning conviction, that the wine cup was too familiar with his
lips!

God, in pity look down upon and impart moral courage to the lonely wives
of the world—the dejected ones to whom home is desolate, whose hearts
are breaking slowly, secretly, string by string—who live only for their
little ones, and because they know it wrong to plunge unbidden into
eternity! Beings who have ventured their all of earthly happiness, and
have lost all—who have been deceived, betrayed, and are now deserted!
Pity and console them, Great Creator, for the misery of unrequited love,
of wounded pride, of crushed affection, of hopeless despair throughout
this life, can only be soothed and softened by a heavenly influence!

Poor Annette! Step by step her husband plunged on in the downward path.
Ray after ray departed from the light of her beauty. Wider and wider
became the gulf between the manufacturer and his son-in-law. But, horror
of horrors! the crisis soon came! The resource of gambling failed at
last with Leroy, and _then_—he resorted to forgery!—ay! he forged the
name of George Delisle, the father of his wife, and fled the country in
order to escape the penalty of his crime!

                 *        *        *        *        *

But a few days have gone by since we saw Annette. Only five years have
elapsed since her marriage. What a change! The lily has supplanted the
rose—the eye has lost its fire—the step its buoyancy—the form its
grace. She is a doomed and broken hearted woman. Disease has “marked her
for his own.” Loss of sleep—mental anxiety—the disgrace—the
shame—the ignominy of her husband’s career, are hurrying her rapidly to
a premature grave!

Mothers, be warned! Virtue, Integrity and Religion are the only safe
companions for your budding and beautiful daughters!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      TO THE NIGHT-WIND IN AUTUMN.


                      BY THE AUTHOR OF “TECUMSEH.”


      Whence art thou, spirit wind?
    Soothing with thy low voice the ear of Night,
      And breathing o’er the wakeful, pensive mind
    An influence of pleased yet sad delight.

      Thou tell’st not of thy birth,
    O viewless wanderer from land to land:
      But gathering all the secrets of the earth
    Where’er, unseen, thy airy wings expand,

      At this hushed, holy hour,
    When time seems part of vast eternity,
      Thou dost reveal them with a magic power,
    Saddening the soul with thy weird minstrelsy.

      All nature seems to hear,
    The woods, the waters, and each silent star;
      What, that can thus enchain their earnest ear,
    Bring’st thou of untold tidings from afar?

      Is it of new, fair lands,
    Of fresh-lit worlds that in the welkin burn!
      Do new oäses gem Zahara’s sands,
    Or the lost Pleiad to the skies return?

      Nay! ’tis a voice of grief,
    Of grief subdued, but deepened through long years,
      The soul of Sorrow, seeking not relief,
    Still gathering bitter knowledge without tears.

      For thou, since earth was young
    And rose green Eden purpled with the morn,
      Its solemn wastes and homes of men among,
    Circling all zones, thy mourning flight hast borne.

      Empires have risen in might,
    And peopled cities through the outspread earth,
      And thou hast passed them at the hour of night
    Listing the sounds of revelry and mirth.

      Again thou hast gone by—
    City and empire were alike o’erthrown,
      Temple and palace, fall’n confusedly,
    In marble ruin on the desert strown.

      In time-long solitudes,
    Where dark, old mountains pierced the silent air,
      Bright rivers roamed, and stretched untraversed woods,
    Thou joy’dst to hope that these were changeless there.

      Lo! as the ages passed,
    Thou found’st them struck with alteration dire,
      The streams new-channeled, forests earthward cast,
    The crumbling mountains scathed with storm and fire.

      Gone but a few short hours,
    Beauty and bloom beguiled thy wanderings,
      And thou mad’st love unto the virgin flowers,
    Sighing through green trees and by mossy springs.

      Now on the earth’s cold bed,
    Fallen and faded, waste their forms away,
      And all around the withered leaves are shed,
    Mementos mute of Nature’s wide decay.

      Vain is the breath of morn;
    Vainly the night-dews on their couches weep;
      In vain thou call’st them at thy soft return,
    No more awaking from their gloomy sleep.

            .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .

      Oh hush! Oh hush! sweet wind!
    Thou melancholy soul! be still, I pray,
      Nor pierce this heart so long in grief resigned,
    With ’plainings for the loved but lifeless clay.

      Ah! now by thee I hear
    The earnest, gentle voices, as of old:
      They speak—in accents tremulously clear—
    The young, the beautiful, the noble-souled.

      The beautiful, the young,
    The form of light, the wise and honored head—
      Thou bring’st the music of a lyre unstrung!—
    Oh cease!—with tears I ask it—they are _dead_!

            .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .

      While mortal joys depart,
    While loved ones lie beneath the grave’s green sod,
      May we not fail to hear, with trembling heart,
    In thy low tone the “still small voice of God.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Natural History of New York: By Authority. Albany, Thurlow
    Weed, Printer to the State. New York, Wiley & Putnam, and D.
    Appleton & Co._

We are among those who believe that, as characterizing the present age,
the cultivation of purely mechanical and natural science has been
carried much too far, or rather, has been made too exclusive and
absorbing. It is not the _highest_ science—for it concerns only that
which is around us—which is altogether outward. Man is always greater
than the world of nature in which he lives, and just as clearly must the
_science_ of man, the philosophy of his moral and intellectual being,
rank far above that of the soulless creation which was made to minister
to his wants. When, therefore, this lower science so draws to itself the
life of any age, as to disparage and shut out the higher, it works a
positive injury to the well-being of that age. Still it is only thus in
comparison with a nobler and more lofty study that we would venture to
cast the faintest reproach upon that natural science which in no slight
degree absorbs the intellectual effort of the present generation.
Regarded as related to, and a part of, a complete system of education,
it becomes most important and necessary; and its cultivation, even to
apparent excess, a cause of rejoicing and a source of the highest hope.

We need scarcely say, then, that we look upon the explorations which
have been made “by authority” into the Geology and general Natural
History of several of the most important States in the Union, as among
the proudest achievements of the present day. Most of them, it is true,
grew out of designs not the highest on the part of those by whom they
were originated. The development of resources, the discovery of mineral
wealth, or other elements of power, formed in most cases the principal
aim of those at whose instance these surveys were undertaken. But this
is of little importance. The results are, on this account, none the less
valuable to the cause of natural science, nor is our joy at their
successful prosecution the less ardent or sincere. In all the States in
which they have been undertaken, they have been fruitful of the best
results; and the facts thus brought together will be found of priceless
value to students and inquirers for ages to come.

The State of New York has just completed her survey, which has been
conducted on a scale commensurate with her wealth and enterprise. The
different departments of the survey were, in 1836, assigned to eight
gentlemen well qualified for the task, and from that time until their
completion, the explorations were conducted with energy and enthusiasm.
The reports are to be published in ten magnificent quarto volumes, of
which the first is now before us. A more splendid monument of
intelligent enterprise in the cause of science, has seldom been erected
by any State. The first volume contains only a portion of the first
report on Zoology, by Mr. James E. DeKay, to whom this department was
committed. Governor Seward has written an introduction to the work,
which occupies nearly two hundred pages. It is valuable as a historical
record of the progress of the arts, the sciences, and the various
branches of enterprise and industry in the State, though as a literary
performance it can claim no especial merit. It is, indeed, little more
than a compendium of the history of the State, and of its general
statistics, of which the different portions have been contributed by
different persons. The portion of the Zoological Report which this
volume contains—relating merely to the Mammalia of the State—is highly
valuable, and, to the naturalist, exceedingly interesting. Previous to
this survey, no complete Zoology of the State had been attempted. In
1813, Samuel L. Mitchell commenced an account of the fishes of New York,
which was the first work on the subject ever undertaken; and the impulse
given to the science by his labors in fact laid the foundation for
whatever has been effected in the same department since. Several other
branches of Zoology had received some slight attention before the
commencement of the State survey. Bachman, a well known naturalist of
South Carolina, had made interesting discoveries in the families of
smaller quadrupeds, and much valuable information concerning the
ornithology of the State had been collected by Wilson, Audubon, Cooper,
Bonaparte and DeKay. Barnes had classified the Unionidæ of the lakes and
rivers, and the Mollusca of the sea coast had been well studied by Dr.
Gay, of New York city. But the report of Mr. DeKay in this department
presents by far a more full and comprehensive account of the Zoology of
New York than had ever before been made. The State was divided into four
Zoological districts: first, the western district, embracing all the
western portion of the State, as far east as the sources of the Mohawk;
second, the northern, comprising all that portion of the State lying
north of the Mohawk valley; third, the valley of the Hudson, including
all the counties watered by that river and its tributaries; and fourth,
the Atlantic district, embracing Long Island. In regard to its natural
history, the northern district is by far the most important. Strange as
it may seem to those who are accustomed to hear only of the wealth, the
refinement, and the advanced civilization of the “Empire State,” there
is embraced in this northern district a great tract of a thousand square
miles, lying in loneliness, fresh as it came from the hand of God,
untouched, and almost unvisited by man. It is clad with forests of great
and majestic beauty, echoing only the sigh of the tempest, the screams
of the untamed dwellers in its wilds, and now and then the rifle of the
hunter, who there finds game, such as in long gone times the red men
loved to chase. It is thickly overspread with lakes, embosomed in
mountains, now lying calmly and smilingly beneath the sun, and the next
hour lashed into frowns, when

    “The tempest shooteth, from the steep,
       The shadow of its coming.”

Travelers who would wander through it, must provide themselves with
guides, and trust to hunting and chance for food and lodging. No one
_lives_ there—the whole is one vast, solitary wilderness, untouched by
man—lying in its own majesty—unconscious even that the foot of the
adventurous Genoese has been set upon the continent.

    “Still this great solitude is quick with life;
    Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
    They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
    And birds that scarce have learned the fear of man,
    Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
    Startlingly beautiful.”

This vast wild region is inhabited by many animals that are rarely found
in any other portion of the State. The bear, the moose, the panther, the
deer, and most fur-bearing animals, make their homes among its
mountains. Arctic birds, too, that are never known farther south, are
seen in abundance. The whole district covers an area of about six
thousand square miles. The western district is eminent for its fertility
and beauty, and has also a high degree of zoological interest.

The number of quadrupeds enumerated in the report, as found within the
State, is something more than one hundred. Each of these is
scientifically and fully described. Included in the volume are a great
number of illustrations, taken with the greatest care from the living
animals or the best specimens that could be found. The real colors are
preserved, and in every case the relative size is indicated. The
outlines, for the purpose of accuracy, were always taken with a camera
lucida, and the illustrations, drawn by Hill, were lithographed by
Endicott.

The whole style of the work is eminently worthy the enterprise, results
of which it contains, and the State which undertook its fulfilment. We
look for the forthcoming volumes with no little interest. The botanical
department has been under the charge of John Toney; the mineralogical
and chemical were assigned to Lewis C. Beck; the geological to W. W.
Mather, Ebenezer Emmons, James Hall, and Leonard Vanuxem, and the
palæontological to Timothy A. Conrad. Beside these reports, the results
of the survey appear in eight several collections of specimens of the
animals, plants, soils, minerals, rocks and fossils, found within the
State—one of which collections constitutes a museum of natural history
at the capital of the State, and the others are distributed among
collegiate institutions. We rejoice at the completion of this great
survey, and hope soon to see a similar exploration effected in every
State of the Union. The cause of science will receive from it an aid of
which scientific men alone can rightly estimate the value.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Holy War, made by Shaddai upon Diabolus, for the Regaining
    of the Metropolis of the World. By John Bunyan. Philadelphia,
    American Sunday School Union._

The celebrated Dr. Owen was occasionally one of the hearers of Bunyan,
when he preached in London; and being asked by Charles the Second how a
learned man, like him, could listen to the prating of an illiterate
tinker, he is said to have replied, “May it please your Majesty, could I
possess that tinker’s abilities for preaching, I would gladly relinquish
all my scholarship.” His genius as an author was even greater than he
exhibited in the pulpit. Southey, Macauley, and other eminent critics,
regard him as one of the “immortal authors of England.” The Pilgrim’s
Progress has been the most popular of his sixty or seventy works.
Probably no book by an uninspired writer has been more universally read.
The Holy War was written ten years after the appearance of that
beautiful creation, and if not equal to it in all respects, is certainly
one of the most ingenious allegories in the language, as well as one of
the most _useful_ exhibitions of practical Christianity. The edition
before us is superior to any other printed in America, in its typography
and illustrations.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Little Gift_; _Useful Stories_; _Poems for Little Folks_.
    _Three small volumes._

Mr. Colman, of New York, in the autumn of every year, publishes numerous
miniature gift books for children, with fine engravings, instructive
tales and poems, etc., of which the above are specimens.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Thulia: A Poem: By J. C. Palmer, M. D., U. S. N. Illustrated
    with Twelve Original Designs, by A. Agate, Artist of the late
    Exploring Expedition. One volume, octavo. New York, Samuel
    Colman._

This beautifully printed and illustrated volume resembles very much, in
its appearance, the elegant edition of Gray’s “Elegy,” published several
years since in London. We can say no more in praise of its typography
and embellishments. The poem itself possesses considerable merit. Doctor
Palmer was attached to the Exploring Expedition which returned to this
country last summer from the southern seas, and “Thulia” is founded on
incidents which occurred on the war-ship Peacock, and the schooner
Flying Fish, while in the Antarctic ocean. The verse is free and
melodious, and the ideas and illustrations generally appropriate and
poetical. We quote a lyric that will convey to the reader a just idea of
the poet’s style.

      ANTARCTIC MARINER’S SONG.

    Sweetly, from the land of roses,
      Sighing comes the northern breeze;
    And the smile of dawn reposes,
      All in blushes, on the seas.
    Now within the sleeping sail,
    Murmurs soft the gentle gale.
    Ease the sheet, and keep away:
    Glory guides us South to-day!

    Yonder, see! the icy portal
      Opens for us to the Pole;
    And, where never entered mortal,
      Thither speed we to the goal.
    Hopes before and doubts behind,
    On we fly before the wind.
    Steady, so—now let it blow!
    Glory guides, and South we go.

    Vainly do these gloomy borders,
      All their frightful forms oppose;
    Vainly frown these frozen warders,
      Mailed in sleet, and helmed in snow.
    Though, beneath the ghastly skies,
    Curdled all the ocean lies,
    Lash we up its foam anew—
    Dash we all its terrors through!

    Circled by these columns hoary,
      All the field of fame is ours;
    Here to carve a name in story,
      Or a tomb beneath these towers.
    Southward still our way we trace,
    Winding through an icy maze.
    Luff her to—there she goes through!
    Glory leads, and we pursue.

The notes appended to the poem contain the most interesting account of
the expedition that has yet been given to the public.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Scenes in the Holy Land: one volume square duodecimo.
    Philadelphia, American Sunday School Union._

This work is founded on, or rather is a free translation of, the “Scènes
Evangéliques” of Napoleon Roussel, published a year or two since in
Paris. It contains an account of the principal incidents in the lives of
the Savior and of the great apostle of the Gentiles, written with
singular simplicity and perspicuity, and illustrated with numerous
etchings by a clever French artist. It is published, we believe, as a
juvenile gift book for the holiday season.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Ladies’ Annual Register for 1843. New York, S. Colman._

The Ladies’ Annual Register is a neat little annuary, edited for several
years by Mrs. Gilman, of Charleston. It embraces, beside the usual
contents of the almanacs, many useful recipes for the housewife, with
anecdotes, poems, etc.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Biblical and Prophetical Works of Rev. George Bush, D. D.,
    author of “The Life of Mohammed,” etc., and Professor of Hebrew
    in the New York City University. New York, Dayton & Newman._

Professor Bush is one of the most profound and ingenious scholars and
critics of the present age, and we perceive with pleasure that he is
rapidly multiplying the fruits of his industrious pen. To all the lovers
of sound biblical exposition it must be gratifying to know that the
Hebrew Scriptures are in a fair way to develop their riches to the
English reader more fully than ever before. Professor Bush’s
commentaries on the Old Testament, now extending to six volumes, embrace
all the works of the Pentateuch but the last two, and these, we learn,
he proposes shortly to enter upon. His careful study, his scrupulous
fidelity in eliciting the exact meaning of the original, and his
peculiar tact in explaining it, have made his Notes everywhere popular,
so that before the completion of the series, the first volume has
reached a sixth edition, the second a fifth, etc. In all of them will be
found discussions on the most important points of biblical science,
extending far beyond the ordinary dimensions of expository notes, and
amounting in fact to elaborate dissertations of great value. Among the
subjects thus extensively treated are, in Genesis, the temptation and
the fall, the dispersion from Babel, the prophecies of Noah, the
character of Melchizedec, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the
history of Joseph, and the prophetical benedictions of Jacob; in Exodus,
the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart, the miracles of the magicians, the
pillar of cloud as the seat of the Shekinah, the decalogue, the Hebrew
theocracy, the tabernacle, the cherubim, the candle-stick, the shew
bread, the altar, &c.; in Leviticus, a clear and minute specification of
the different sacrifices, the law of marriage, including the case of
marriage with a deceased wife’s sister, very largely considered, and a
full account of the Jewish festivals. The sixth volume, including Joshua
and Judges, contains an ample and erudite exposition of the Song of
Deborah, and an extended discussion on the subject of Jeptha’s vow, with
a view to determine whether the Jewish warrior really sacrificed his
daughter. The Professor gives an array of very strong reasons in favor
of the negative.

In his celebrated “Treatise on the Millennium,” which merely as a
literary performance has received the highest commendations of the
critics, our author has assumed the position that the millennium,
_strictly so called_, is past. But by the millennium he does not
understand the golden age of the church, which he, in common with nearly
all good men, regards as a future era. He contends that as the memorable
period of the thousand years of the apocalypse is distinguished mainly
by the binding of the symbolical dragon, we must first determine by the
legitimate canons of interpretation what is shadowed forth by this
mystic personage, before we can assure ourselves of the true character
of the millennial age. But the dragon, he supposes, is the grand
hieroglyphic of Paganism—the “binding of the dragon,” but a figurative
phrase for the suppression of Paganism within the limits of the Roman
empire, a fulfilment which he contends commenced in the reign of
Constantine, and was consummated in that of Theodosius, his successor.
Professor Bush draws largely on the pages of Gibbon in support of his
theory, assuming all along the great foundation principle that _the
apocalypse of John is but a series of pictured emblems, shadowing forth
the ecclesiastical and civil history of the world_. From a cursory
examination of his Treatise, we are inclined to adopt the opinion of one
of the first theologians of our country, that if his premises be
admitted, his conclusion is irresistible; and that _he_ did not know how
to gainsay the premises.

In the Hierophant, a monthly publication of which he is editor, he
enters elaborately into the nature of the prophetic symbols, and in the
last number brings out some grand results as to the physical destiny of
the globe. He assumes that a fair construction of the language of the
prophets is far from countenancing the idle dreams of Miller and his
school respecting the literal conflagration of the heavens and the
earth, and does not even teach that such a catastrophe is _ever_ to take
place. He denies not that this _may_ possibly be the finale which awaits
our planet and the solar system, but if so, it is to be gathered rather
from astronomy than revelation—from the apocalypse of Newton, Laplace
and Herschell, than from that of John.

In general literature, in science and in art, America has furnished some
of the best names in the world of letters; but it is in theology and
religious philosophy that our countrymen have made the greatest
advances. We need but allude to Edwards, Dwight, Emmons, Marsh, Beecher,
Alexander, Stuart, McIlvaine, and Bush in proof of this. Perhaps we may
add to the list Orestes Brownson, who, however erratic and peculiar, is
a man of singular genius and sincerity. In our endeavors to keep the
readers of this magazine advised of the condition of our literature, we
should fail of our intent if at times we did not notice books and
authors of a grave character. The useful and the true is in every thing
the national aim. The writings of which we have spoken particularly in
this brief notice, are distinguished for remarkable directness of
language and logical clearness, as much as for profound scholarship, and
they are among the most original works of their class brought out in our
times.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Songs, Odes, and other Poems, on National Subjects: Compiled
    from Various Sources: by William McCarty. Three volumes
    duodecimo. Philadelphia, W. McCarty._

Mr. McCarty is a bookseller, of the long established house of McCarty &
Davis, in Market street. He is an antiquary also, and has in his
chambers one of the best collections of books relating to our history
and antiquities to be found in this country. Several years ago he
“formed the plan of gathering together our national songs and ballads,
deeming the task, however humble,” he says, “one of which the result
would be acceptable to his countrymen.” He has since gleaned from all
the files of magazines, newspapers and other periodicals, in the public
libraries and in his own possession, published since Braddock’s defeat
at DuQuesne, every scrap of verse, “good, bad, or indifferent,” relating
to men, manners and events in America, and had them printed in three
neat volumes, the first of which contains the “patriotic,” the second
the “military,” and the third the “naval.” It is certainly a very
curious collection. Some of the pieces, indeed, were written by
foreigners, and have as little relation to any thing in America as to
the quackeries of Græfenberg; and others are not decidedly poetical; but
by far the greater number belong to one or another of the divisions in
which the compiler has placed them, and, as he well remarks, “the
present and future generations of Americans will hardly disdain those
strains, however homely, which cheered and animated our citizen soldiers
and seamen, ‘in the times that tried men’s souls,’ at the camp-fire or
on the forecastle.” We perceive that Mr. McCarty has copied from our
Magazine for October most of the pieces included in the article on “The
Minstrelsy of the Revolution.” We have many others not embraced in his
volumes, of which we intend to present a few additional specimens to our
readers, in connection, perhaps, with some of the most curious verses in
the books he has given us.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Wing-and-Wing, or Le Feu-Follet. By the author of “The Red
    Rover,” “The Pilot,” “The Path Finder,” etc. Two volumes,
    duodecimo. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard._

We received this novel too recently to be able to do it justice in our
present number. It is a story of the sea, and from a cursory examination
we are inclined to believe it equal to Mr. Cooper’s most celebrated
naval romances. The scene is in the Mediterranean, in the memorable
years 1798 and 1799. Le Feu-Follet is a French privateer, commanded by
Raoul Yvard, a skilful, bold and chivalrous sailor, and the interest of
the tale turns principally upon the manœuvres by which he preserves her
from capture by the English frigate Prosperine. The character second in
importance on board the republican privateer is Ithule Bolt, a shrewd
Yankee, who, impressed into the British navy, had shared in the dangers
of Nelson’s victory, and now added to a patriotic hatred of the English,
some slight ill will created by what he deemed unjustifiable appliances
of the lash during his service on board the Prosperine. Blended with the
main narrative is a history of the loves of the commander of Le
Feu-Follet and a beautiful Italian girl, Ghita Giuntotardi, one of our
author’s most admirably drawn heroines. Those who would know more of the
plot we refer to the book itself, or to the Yankee lieutenant, who in
due time returned to the United Slates, married a widow, and “settled in
life” somewhere in the Granite State. He is said at the present moment
to be an active abolitionist, a patron of the temperance cause, and a
terror to evil doers, under the appellation of Deacon Bolt. We are
pleased to learn that the publishers have fixed the price of
Wing-and-Wing at half a dollar—lower by fifty per cent. at least than
an American novel was ever sold for before. For this reason, as well as
on account of its remarkable merit, we predict for it a sale equal to
that of “The Spy,” or “The Red Rover.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poets and Poetry of America: with a Historical
    Introduction. By Rufus W. Griswold. Third edition. With
    Illustrations by the First Artists._

Messrs. Carey & Hart have just issued a new edition of this work, with
beautiful illustrations from paintings by Leslie, Inman, Creswick,
Sully, Thompson, Verbryck, Hoyt, and Harding, engraved by Cheney,
Cushman, Dodson, and Forrest. We believe that no other book of so
expensive a character has passed to a second edition in the United
States during the year. The fact that this has reached a _third_ edition
in six months seems to indicate that our poetical literature is properly
appreciated, in our own country, at least. The price of the third
edition has very properly been reduced to two dollars and a half.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Little Boys’ and Girls’ Library: Edited by Mrs. Sarah J.
    Hale. Six books, small quarto. New York, Edward Dunigan._

The stories in these little volumes are written with taste and
simplicity. Though Mrs. Hale’s incidents are generally pleasing, we do
not in all cases approve their tendency. With deference for her better
judgment, we think the boy who, in “The Way to Save,” bought the glass
box, was much wiser than he who bought the draught board.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Youth’s Keepsake: A Christmas and New Year’s Gift for Young
    People._ _The Annualette: A Christmas and New Year’s Gift for
    Children. Philadelphia, Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co._

Two very beautiful and interesting annuals, of the character of which
the titles are sufficiently descriptive.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Sporting Scenes and Sundry Sketches: being the Miscellaneous
    Writings of J. Cypress, jr. Edited by Frank Forester. In Two
    vols., 12mo. New York, Gould, Banks & Co., 1842._

“J. Cypress, jr.” was the late William P. Hawes, of the city of New
York; and “Frank Forester” is the name by which one of the finest
scholars, critics, and writers, whose productions have ever given a
charm to our periodical literature—Henry William Herbert, the author of
“Cromwell,” and numerous tales and other compositions in this
Magazine—is known in the “sporting world.” Mr. Hawes was educated for
the bar; his writings were generally on political or sporting topics, in
the daily gazettes, or the magazines. The admirable series of papers,
entitled “Fire Island Ana,” was written for the American Monthly, while
that work was under Mr. Herbert; and most of his later compositions
appeared in the “Turf Register.” We have not room to do them justice.
They have never been excelled in this country, in richness of humor,
freshness, or originality. Mr. Hawes had the modesty of genius. He lived
in the quiet enjoyment of the life and the scenes he so felicitously
delineated, and was unknown as a writer beyond the limited circle of his
intimate friends until they and the world were deprived of his presence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Task, and other Poems: By William Cowper. One volume,
    duodecimo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._

Among the poets who have written in the English language on religious
themes, Cowper unquestionably ranks next to Milton in genius, and before
him as a teacher. The Presbyterian poet is admired for his sublime
conceptions and his unequaled mastery of language and the intricacies of
rhythm; but the bard of Olney is loved by the good and the true as a
friend. The new edition of the Task is one of the most beautiful
specimens of typography produced in this country, and the etchings, by
Cheney, which illustrate it, are of course admirably executed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Way of Life: By Charles Hodge, Professor in the Theological
    Seminary of Princeton, New Jersey. One volume duodecimo, pp.
    348. Philadelphia, American Sunday School Union._

Among the many very excellent works published by the American Sunday
School Union, we know of none written with more ability, or calculated
to do more good than this admirable treatise. The plenary inspiration of
the Scriptures, the great practical doctrines they teach, and the
influence which these doctrines should exert upon the heart and life,
are set forth by the learned author with candor, simplicity and
eloquence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Books for Youth: Heroines of Sacred History, by Mrs. Steele;
    Philip and his Garden, by Charlotte Elizabeth; Rocky Island, by
    Samuel Wilberforce; Alice Benden, by Charlotte Elizabeth;
    Clementine Cuvier, by John Angell James; The Simple Flower, by
    Charlotte Elizabeth; The Flower of Innocence, by Charlotte
    Elizabeth; and Moral Tales, by Robert Merry. New York, John S.
    Taylor & Co._

The eight volumes, of which we have given the titles above, are bound in
a uniform style, and constitute a very neat and excellent library for
juvenile readers. We know of no books that can be more appropriately
presented to the young in the approaching holidays than those of
Archdeacon Wilberforce, John Angell James, and Charlotte Elizabeth.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


Miss Barrett.—In this number will be found a series of sonnets by Miss
Elizabeth B. Barrett, among the first of her contributions to any
American periodical. They were originally intended for “Arcturus,” to
which magazine they were sent; but arriving after the discontinuance of
that periodical, its editors placed them at our disposal, “thinking the
good company into which they would be introduced in ‘Graham,’ would be
every way agreeable to the fair authoress.”

Miss Barrett’s productions are unique in this age of lady authors. They
have the “touch of nature” in common with the best; they have, too,
sentiment, passion and fancy in the highest degree, without reminding us
of Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. Norton, or L. E. L. Her excellence is her own; her
mind is colored by what it feeds on; the fine tissue of her flowing
style comes to us from the loom of Grecian thought. She is the learned
poetess of the day, familiar with Homer and Æschylus and Sophocles, and
to the musings of Tempe she has added the inspiration of Christianity,
“above all Greek, all Roman fame.” She has translated the Prometheus to
the delight of scholars, and has lately contributed a series of very
remarkable prose papers to the London Athenæum. Her reading Greek
recalls to us Roger Ascham’s anecdote of Lady Jane Grey; but Lady Jane
Grey has left us no such verses.

A striking characteristic of Miss Barrett’s prose, is its prevailing
seriousness, approaching to solemnity—a garb borrowed from the
“sceptred pale” of her favorite Greek drama of fate. She loses much with
the general reader by a dim mysticism; but many of her later poems are
free from any such defect. The great writers whom she loves will teach
her the plain, simple, universal language of poetry.

Her dreams and abstractions, though “caviare to the generale,” have
their admirers, who will ever find in pure and elevated philosophy
expressed in the words of enthusiasm the living presence of poetry. On
Parnassus there are many groves: far from the dust of the highway,
embosomed in twilight woods that seem to symbol Reverence and Faith
trusting on the unseen, we may hear in the whispering of the trees, the
wavering breath of insect life, the accompaniment of our poet’s strain.
Despise not dreams and reveries. With Cowley, Miss Barrett vindicates
herself. “The father of poets tells us, even dreams, too, are from God.”

We cannot here do justice to Miss Barrett’s volume of the Seraphim, or
to her other poems. We cannot here illustrate as we would the lofty tone
of her conceptions, which in grandeur and human interest belong to the
highest and most enduring of lyrical strains. She has thrown aside
sentimentality, the fluency without thought, the cheap eloquence that
marks a certain school of lady poets, for the genuine language of
emotion, the fire-new currency of speech forged in the secret chambers
of the heart. From two volumes of her poetry before us, (unfamiliar as
yet to American readers—they cannot be so long,) we quote one poem,
perhaps not the most brilliant of all, but inferior to none of the rest
in the pathos, the tenderness, the deep Christian sympathy with human
life, which dwell in the soul of this rare poetess.

             THE SLEEP.

    “He giveth His beloved sleep.”—_Psalm cxxvii. 2._

    Of all the thoughts of God that are
    Borne inward unto souls afar,
    Along the Psalmist’s music deep—
    Now tell me if that any is,
    For gift or grace surpassing this—
    “He giveth his beloved sleep?”

    What would we give to our beloved?
    The hero’s heart, to be unmoved—
    The poet’s star-tuned harp, to sweep—
    The senate’s shout to patriot vows—
    The monarch’s crown, to light the brows?—
    “He giveth _His_ beloved sleep.”

    What do we give to our beloved?
    A little faith, all undisproved—
    A little dust, to overweep—
    And bitter memories, to make
    The whole earth blasted for our sake!
    “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

    “Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say,
    But have no tune to charm away
    Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:
    But never doleful dream again
    Shall break the happy slumber, when
    “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

    O earth, so full of dreary noises!
    O men, with wailing in your voices!
    O delved gold, the wailers heap!
    O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!
    God makes a silence through you all,
    And “giveth His beloved sleep!”

    His dew drops mutely on the hill;
    His cloud above it saileth still,
    Though on its slope men toil and reap!
    More softly than the dew is shed,
    Or cloud is floated overhead,
    “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

    Ha! men may wonder while they scan
    A living, thinking, feeling man,
    In such a rest his heart to keep;
    But angels say—and through the word
    I ween their blessed smile is _heard_—
    “He giveth His beloved sleep!”

    For me my heart that erst did go,
    Most like a tired child at a show,
    That sees through tears the juggler’s leap,—
    Would now its wearied vision close,
    Would childlike on _His_ love repose,
    Who “giveth His beloved sleep!”

    And friends!—dear friends!—when it shall be
    That this low breath is gone from me,
    And round my bier ye come to weep—
    Let me, most loving of you all,
    Say, not a tear must o’er her fall—
    “He giveth His beloved sleep!”

Stars that Have Set in MDCCCXLII.—Among the dead of the year now
drawing to a close, America laments her Marsh and Channing, and Europe,
Sismondi and some less brilliant luminaries.

The Rev. James Marsh, D.D. was, at the time of his death, the third day
of July, Professor of Moral and Intellectual Philosophy in the
University of Vermont. He was a calm, chaste scholar, an earnest and
profound thinker, and a powerful and eloquent advocate of the highest
principles of religion and philosophy, with the perfect simplicity and
grandeur of whose life were blended the rarest virtues that adorn
humanity. His principal published writings, excepting a few articles in
the leading reviews, and some translations from the German, are devoted
to those high and spiritual principles of philosophy, of which Coleridge
and Kant were the most celebrated European exponents. We are pleased to
learn that Professor Torrey, one of the dearest friends of the departed,
is now superintending the publication of a complete edition of his
works.

The name of William Ellery Channing has been long familiar to the
readers of America and Great Britain. He was equally popular in both
countries, and in both was regarded as one of the greatest authors of
the age. The first edition of his collected writings we believe was
published some five or six years since in Glasgow, and the last, in six
octavo volumes, in Boston, in the winter of 1840. We presume his later
productions, unprinted sermons, etc.—sufficient to fill several
additional volumes—will soon be published, with his memoirs. Doctor
Channing was for a long period the leading divine of the Unitarian
belief, and though an ardent controvertist, was regarded by all men with
love and reverence. The purity of his life, his high aims, his candor,
and the dignity and beauty of his diction, won for him a reputation that
will endure when most of the names now prominent in the world of letters
are forgotten. He died in Bennington, in Vermont, on his return way from
an excursion among the Green Mountains in search of health, on the
second day of October.

John Charles Leonard de Sismondi was one of the most celebrated
historical, political and æsthetical writers of the time. He died near
Geneva, on the twenty-fifth of June, in his sixty-ninth year. He was the
author of New Principles of Political Economy, A History of the Italian
Republics, A History of the Literature of Southern Europe, A History of
France, Julia Severn, a romance, and several other works, making in the
aggregate about one hundred and fifty volumes, in the French editions.
As a historian he has rarely been surpassed, and in every department of
letters he exercised a powerful influence for nearly half a century.

Mr. James Grahame, author of the excellent History of the United Slates
which bears his name; Sir Robert Kerr Porter, the traveler; Theodore E.
Hook, the novelist, biographer, and dramatic writer; and Robert Mudie,
author of several works on natural history, etc. were better known in
this country than any of the other literary characters who have died in
Europe during the present year.

                 *        *        *        *        *

New Books.—We received several new works too late to be noticed
properly in our present number, of which we have space to mention
particularly only Mr. Norman’s “Rambles in Yucatan,” and Mr. Lester’s
observations on “The Condition and Fate of England,” both from the press
of Messrs. Langley, of New York. The first is an exceedingly interesting
work, and the last quite as good as the same author’s “Glory and Shame
of England.” We shall endeavor to do them full justice in our Magazine
for January.

The End of the Year.—With the present number we bring to a close
another year of the publication of Graham’s Magazine. The many
improvements which since our last anniversary have been effected in the
work, and the extraordinary accessions to our subscription list—between
twenty and thirty thousand in twelve months!—impart to us a
satisfaction which we trust is shared in some degree by our million
readers.

Since the commencement of the present year, Rufus W. Griswold has become
associated with the proprietor in the editorship of the Magazine; and to
our corps of contributors have been added William C. Bryant and Richard
H. Dana, the first American poets, and the equals of any now living in
the world; James Fenimore Cooper, the greatest of living novelists;
Charles F. Hoffman, one of the most admired poets and prose writers of
our country; Elizabeth B. Barrett, the truest female poet who has
written in the English language; J. H. Mancur, the author of “Henri
Quatre;” George H. Colton, the author of “Tecumseh;” H. T. Tuckerman,
the author of “Isabelle, or Sicily,” etc.; the author of “A New Home”
and “Forest Life,” who, under the name of “_Mary Clavers_,” has won a
reputation second to that of none of the writers of her sex in America;
Mrs. E. F. Ellet, the well known author of “The Characters of Schiller,”
etc.; Mrs. Seba Smith, whose elegant and truthful compositions are as
universally admired as they are read; and several others, whom we have
not now space to mention. All these, with our favorite old writers,
Professor Longfellow, George Hill, Edgar A. Poe, Mrs. Embury, Mrs.
Stephens, and others, we shall retain for our succeeding volumes.

We shall likewise receive regular contributions during the ensuing year,
from N. P. Willis, whose many admirable qualities as a writer have made
his name familiar wherever English literature is read; T. C. Grattan,
the popular author of “Highways and Byways,” “The Heiress of Bruges,”
etc.; “_Maria del Occidente_,” the author of “Zophiel,” and many others,
whose names will from month to month grace our pages.

Let our Past speak for our Future. The improvements made in Graham’s
Magazine, in 1842, will be surpassed by those that we shall introduce in
1843. In all the departments of our work we shall remain in advance of
every other candidate for the public favor.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Author of the Sketch Book.—In a notice of the Miscellanies of Sir
Walter Scott, in the number of this Magazine for September, we made
allusion to reviews of various publications of Mr. Washington Irving,
which we had good reason for believing were written by that gentleman
himself. We learn with pleasure, from one who speaks on the subject by
authority, that Mr. Irving is guiltless of the imputed self laudation.
He did indeed write the article in the London Quarterly on his
“Chronicles of Grenada,” and received for it the sum we mentioned; but,
like so many of the modern “reviews,” it had very little relation to the
work which gave it a title, or to its author.

                 *        *        *        *        *

H. Hastings Weld.—We notice that this talented and agreeable writer,
formerly editor of the Brother Jonathan, has taken the editorial charge
of the United States Saturday Post, a family newspaper of the largest
class and circulation. We feel assured that the humor and vivacity of
Mr. Weld’s pen will tend to make the paper still more popular, and to
add greatly to the already enormous subscription list. This paper
already circulates more copies weekly than any other family newspaper in
the Union.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

In the story _Malina Gray_, this concluding installment had two parts
titled Chapter III. The second Chapter III has been corrected to Chapter
IV.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 6, December 1842_, George R.
Graham, Editor]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68027 ***