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THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
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THE 
 
 ATLANTIC SOUVENIR, 
 
 itb Ql^h3tIJ)J ^Usant portraits on StttI, from (Sn'flinal ^uturts. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 DEEBY & JACKSOi^, 119 NASSAU STREET. 
 
 1859. 
 

 W. II. TIVSON, STKREOTYPER, 
 
 acuRQE Ryssni-L a IM., nU.VTERS, 
 
 (I BMkmu SlTMU 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The Atlantic Souvenir is a compilation of several of tlie 
 contributions to the Knickerbocker Gallery, a work intended 
 as a graceful and appropriate tribute to the editor of the 
 Knickerbocker Magazine, by his friends and correspondents. 
 It was believed that the larger book would realize from its 
 sale, a sufficient sum to purchase a cottage for the veteran 
 editor, but owing to the great expense incurred in getting it 
 up, of engraving and letter-press, although the sale was large, 
 yet the proceeds were sufficient only to cover the expenses of 
 publication. The present volume, embracing some of the best 
 and most popular features of the Gallery, is intended to aid in 
 effecting the object originally contemplated. Its price places 
 it within the reach of persons of moderate means, while its 
 fine engravings are such as are far beyond the illustrations 
 usually exhibited, except in the most costly editions of gift 
 books. Perhaps a better idea of the intention of this new 
 edition will be given by quoting the language of the original 
 preface. 
 
 "The popular actor on the stage receives from the public 
 substantial ' benefits,' and the painter or sculptor whose pro- 
 ductions have been more celebrated than profitable, not unfre- 
 quently collects them in an exhibition which the lovers of art 
 
 M168104 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 gladly support for liis sake as well as for its attractive merits ; 
 but the editor has no such resort, as a test of the popular good- 
 will for liini, nor any extraordinary means of making up the 
 deficits of a season in which what the world owes him has been 
 withheld. 
 
 " It seemed appropriate, in the case of Mr. Louis Gatlord 
 Clakk, to disregard precedents of neglect, and to offer him a 
 testimonial of the esteem in which he is held by his coUabora- 
 Uurs that should be both pleasing as a compliment and valuable 
 as a contribution to his means of happiness. It was proposed 
 that the surviving writers for the Knickerbocker should each 
 furnish, gratuitously, an article, and that the collection should 
 be issued in a volume of tasteful elegance, of which the entire 
 avails should be appropriated in building, on the margin of 
 the Hudson, a cottage, suitable for the home of a man of 
 letters, who, like Mr. Clakk, is also a lover of nature and of 
 rural life. 
 
 " Tlie editorial preparation of this volume was undertaken 
 by John W. Francis, Georgp: P. Morris, Kufus W. Griswold, 
 EicHARD B. Kimball, and Frederick W. Siieltox ; their circu- 
 lar to the old contributors of the Magazine was met, in all cases, 
 by a ready and generous response ; and they submit the result 
 in confidence that a literary miscellany of its kind has rarely, 
 if ever, been published of which the contents are more various 
 or uniformly excellent." 
 
 New .York, 1859. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAoa 
 THE BRIDE OF THE ICE-KING. By Donald G. Mitchell, . . n 
 
 THE SNOW SHOWER. By William Cullen Bryant, .... 81 
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. By Washington Irving, ... 33 
 
 A VISION OF THE HOUSATONIC. By Oliver Wendell Holmes, . 41 
 
 EIGHTEEN YEARS: A REMINISCENCE OF KENTUCKY. By Samuel 
 
 Osgood 45 
 
 ANTIQUE DIRGE. By Richard Henry Stoddard, ;. . • . . .55 
 
 A SERENADE. By Richard Henry Stoddard, 66 
 
 ON LAKE PEPIN. By Epes Sargent, 57 
 
 A DAY AT ST. HELENA. By Bayard Taylor, Y5 
 
 A TROPICAL VOYAGE. By Park Benjamin, 87 
 
 GENTLE DOVE: AN INDIAN LEGEND. By Frederick W. Shelton, 91 
 
 THE DEATH OF ULRIC. By Theodore S. Fay, 109 
 
 CAPT. BELGRAVE. By Frederick S. Cozzens, II7 
 
 THE WEDDING-TRIP OF JARL ALVAR RAFN. By Charles G. 
 
 Leland, 141 
 
 PISECO: A SKETCH. By George W. Bethune, 147 
 
 POETICAL EPISTLE TO LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK, ESQ. By Fitz- 
 
 Greene Halleck, 161 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER COLLES. By John W. Francis, 165 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. By George D. Prentice 185 
 
 ANTEROS: A LIFE WITH ONE PASSION. By Donald MacLeod, . 187 
 THE BURIAL AT MARSHFIELD. By R. S. Chilton, . . . .197 
 
Viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PASS 
 
 LITERARY MARTYRDOM. By Charles F. Briggs, . . . .199 
 
 TREES. Br Alfred B. Street, 211 
 
 DIRGE, AT THE GRAVE OF LITTLE FREDDY. By U. W. Rockwell, 219 
 THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. By Samuel S. Cox,. . . .221 
 JEANNIE MARSH OF CHERRY VALLEY. By George P. Morris, . 243 
 THE SUN-DIAL OF ISELLA. By Richard B. Kimball, . . .245 
 THE EMTEROR'S BIRD'S NEST. By Henry Wapsworth Longfellow, 255 
 
 TRADITIONS OF THE NATCHEZ. By T. B. Thorpe 257 
 
 I'M GROWING OLD. By John G. Saxe, 263 
 
 EDMUND KEAN. By Henry Theodore Tcckerman 265 
 
 BARNET. By Charles G. Eastman, 278 
 
 A DUTCH BELLE. By P. Hamilton Myers, 277 
 
LIST OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 PAoa 
 
 Donald G. Mitchell. (Ik Marvel,) 11 
 
 William Cullen Bryant, 31 
 
 Washington Irting. From a bust by Ball Hughes, .... 33 
 
 Oliter Wendell Holmes, 41 
 
 Bayard Taylor, 76 
 
 Frederick William Shelton, 91 
 
 Theodore S. Fay, 109 
 
 Frederick S. Cozzens. (Richard Haywarde,) 117 
 
 Fitz-Greene Halleck, 161 
 
 George D. Prentice, 185 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 255 
 
 John G. Saxe, 263 
 
' ' '-'-u^ 
 
 ^2W^<^^/^-^&i^ 
 
f (re Itik 0f i\t |a-f ittg. 
 
 BY DONALD O. MITCHKLU 
 
 There is not a prettier valley in Switzerland than that of Lauter 
 brunnen. Whoever has seen it upon a fine day of summer, when the 
 meadows were green, the streams full, and the sun shining upon the 
 crystal glaciers which lie, from the beginning to the end of the year, 
 at the head of the valley, can never forget it. 
 
 I do not think it can be more than a half-mile broad ; and in man}' 
 places, I am sure, it is much less. On one side, the rocks, brown and 
 jagged, and tufted with straggling shrubs, rise almost perpendicu- 
 larly ; and a stream of water which comes from higher slopes, far out 
 of sight, leaps over the edge of the precipice. At first, it is a solid 
 column of water ; then it breaks and spreads and wavers with the 
 wind ; and finally, in a rich white veil of spray, reaches the surface of 
 the vale of Lauterbrunnen, a thousand feet below. They call it the 
 Dust-Fall. 
 
 The opposite side of the valley does not change so suddenly into 
 mountain. There are slopes, green or yellow, as the seasons may be, 
 with the little harvests which the mountain-people raise ; there are 
 cliffs with wide niches in them, where you may see kids or sheep 
 cropping the short herbage which grows in the shadow of the rocks ; 
 and there is a path, zig-zagging up from the road below, I scarce know 
 how. It would be very tiresome, were it not for the views it gives 
 you at every turning. Sometimes, from under a thicket of trees, you 
 look sheer down upon the little bridge you have traversed in the bot- 
 tom of the valley ; seeming so near, that you could toss your Alpin- 
 stock into the brook. Sometimes the green of the meadow, and the 
 
12 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 si>arkle of its stream are shut out ; and you look straight across upon 
 the Dust-Fall, where it leaps from the clifT abreast of you; and see it 
 shiver, and grow white, and hear it afterward go murmuring away 
 through its valley-bed. 
 
 At other times, as you pass farther up, the waterfall seems only a 
 bit of gauze, which is lost over the edge of the cliff; and the heights 
 above, from which the stream comes, break into sight and tower 
 aloft in a way that quite dwarfs the poor valley beneath, and makes 
 it seem a mere nook in the hills. 
 
 But by far the grandest sight of all those which belong to this 
 mountain neighborhood, is that of the glacier which shuts up the head 
 of the valley. It is not, indeed, larger or whiter than many others of 
 Switzerland ; but like the crown of a monarch, its green, lustrous 
 crystals rise over the forehead of Lauterbrunnen, and charm you by 
 such contrast of the fierce glory of winter, with the soft smile of sum- 
 mer, as can be seen nowhere else. 
 
 My first visit to this spot, many years ago, was on a midsummer's 
 afternoon. The mountains were clear of clouds ; and their snow-tops, 
 and the green spurs of the glacier in the distance, seemed to wear the 
 same warm glow of sunlight which fell upon the slopes around me, 
 and upon the meadows beneath. I could see the brook ti'aliing white 
 in the bed of the valley ; and the Dust-Fall gushing from the cliff into 
 feathery, cloud-like vapor ; and the peasants in the meadows, gather- 
 ing their July crop of hay — yet so far below me, that no murmur of 
 their toil came to my ear ; but, in place of it, a mountain girl, from 
 a cottage upon the heights, was singing, in the hope of a few pennies, 
 a plaintive Swiss song, which floated pleasantly on the air, and 
 mingled gracefully with the tinkle of the scattered bells, which the 
 kids wore upon the cliffs above. Except these sounds, a silence 
 haunted the whole region. As I lay under the shadow of a broad- 
 liinbcd walnut, whose leaves scarce stirred in the summer air, the 
 song, and the tinkle of the bells, and the glow of light upon the dis 
 tant snow-cliffs, and the delicious haze that lingered over the Arcadian 
 valley beneath me, seemed to belong earli to each, and to make up 
 a scene in which a life-time might be dreamed away, without a 
 thought of labor or of duty. 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE ICE-KING. 13 
 
 It was different when I went there last. It was not in summer, 
 but in autumn. The green of the meadows had given place to the 
 brown tint which betokens the coming-on of winter. The trees on the 
 slopes, as I toiled up the ascent toward the Wengern-Alp, were 
 stripped of half their leaves ; and the yellow and tattered remnants 
 were sighing in a cool wind of October. The clouds hung low, and 
 dashed fitfully across the heights. From hour to hour, great frag 
 ments of the glacier, loosened by the heavy rains of the previous 
 night, fell thundering into distant mountain abysses. No sunlight 
 rested upon the valley or upon the ice. 
 
 It hardly seemed to me the same spot of country which had so 
 caught my fancy, and bewildered me with its quiet beauty years 
 before. And yet there was a sublimity hanging about the landscape 
 and the sky of which I had no sense on the former visit. At that 
 time, the mountains, and the air, and even the lustrous glacier were 
 subdued into quiet harmony with the valley and the valley-brook 
 below. Even the song of the cottage-girl was an according sym- 
 phony with the tone of nature. 
 
 Now, however, the gray landscape, unlighted by any ray of sun- 
 light, wore a sober and solemn hue, that lifted even the meadow into 
 grand companionship with the mountains and the glaciers ; and the 
 crash of falling icebergs quickened and gave force to the impressions 
 of awe, which crept over me like a chill. 
 
 I began to understand, for the first time, that strange and savage 
 reverence which the peasants feel for their mountains. And as the 
 thunder of the falling glaciers echoed among the peaks, I grew insensi- 
 bly into a fear of the great Power which lived and reigned in those 
 regions of ice. It seemed to me that darkness would be only needed 
 to drive away all rational estimate of the strange sounds which 
 crashed, and the silence which brooded among the sombre cliffs. I 
 entertained, with a willingness that almost frighted me, the old stories 
 of ice-gods ruling and thundering among the glaciers. 
 
 The active, practical, reasoning world, with its throngs and talk, 
 was far below. Greater things were around me, and challenged my 
 fancy. 
 
 All the forces which man boasts of were little, compared with 
 
14 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 those which made their voice heard among the difls. It seemed not 
 only possible, but probable, that some great special Intelligence 
 reigned over the giant forces which stirred around me. The old 
 lecends of ice-gods took shadow and form. I strode on to the little 
 shelter-place, which lies under the Jungfrau, with the fearful step of 
 one encroaching upon the domain of some august and splendid 
 monarch. I did not once seek to combat the imaginative humors 
 which lent a tone and a consistency to this feeling. I would not, if I 
 could, have resisted the weird impressions of the place. 
 
 A terrific storm burst over the mountains, shortly after I had 
 gained shelter in the little chalet of the Obcr-Alp. The only company 
 I found was the host, and a flax-haired German student. This last 
 abandoned his pipe as the storm rose, and listened with me silently, 
 and, I thought, with the same measure of awe, to the crash of the ava- 
 lanches which were loosened by the falling torrents of rain. 
 
 " The Ice-King is angry to-night," said our host. 
 
 I could not smile at the superstition of the man ; a sense of awe 
 was too strong upon me ; there was a feeling born of the mountain 
 presence, and of the terrific crash of the glaciers, which forbade my 
 smiling — a feeling as if an Ice-King might be really there to avenge a 
 slight. 
 
 Presently there was a louder shock than usual, and the echoes of 
 the report thundered for several minutes among the clifTs, The 
 mountain host went to the door, which looked out toward the Jung- 
 frau ; and soon he called us hurriedly to sec, as he called it, the Maid 
 of the Glacier. 
 
 The bald wall of rock we could sec looming dark through the tem- 
 pest, and the immense caps of glacier, which lay at the top. The host 
 directed our attention to a white speck halfway up the face of the pre- 
 cipice which appeared to rise slowly in a wavy line, and presently to 
 disappear over the edge of the glacier. 
 
 "You saw her?" said the host excitedly; "you never see her, 
 except after some terrible avalanche." 
 
 "What is it?" said 1. 
 
 "Wo call her the Bride of the Ice-King," said our host ; and ho 
 appealed to the German stud«;nt, who, I found, had bi-cn fixujiieiitly in 
 
THE BRIDK OF THE ICE-KING. 15 
 
 the Alps, and was familiar with all the legends. And when we were 
 seated again around the fire, which the host had replenished with a 
 fagot of crackling fire- wood, the German re-lighted his pipe, and told 
 us this story of the Bride of the Ice-King. If it should appear tame 
 in the reading, beside a Christmas blaze, it must be remembered, that 
 I listened to it first in a storm at midnight, upon the wild heights of 
 the Scheideck. 
 
 Many, many years ago, (it was thus his story began,) there lived 
 upon the edge of the valley of Lauterbrunnen a peasant, who had a 
 beautiful daughter, by the name of Clothilde. Her hair was golden, 
 and flowed in ringlets upon a neck which would have rivalled that of 
 the fairest statue of antiquity. Her eye was hazel and bright, but 
 with a pensive air, which, if the young herdsmen of the valley looked 
 on only once, they never forgot in their lives. 
 
 The mother of Clothilde, who had died when she was young, came, 
 it was said, from some foreign land ; none knew of her lineage ; and 
 the people of the valley had learned only that the peasant, whose wife 
 she became, had found her lost upon the mountains. 
 
 The peasant was an honest man, and mourned for the mother of 
 Clothilde, because she had shared his labors, and had lighted plear 
 santly the solitary path of his life. But Clothilde, though the mother 
 died when she was young, clung ever tenderly to her memory, and 
 persisted always that she would find her again where her father had 
 found her — upon the mountains. It was in vain they showed her the 
 grave where her mother lay buried, in the village church-yard. 
 
 " No, no," she would say, " my mother is not there ;" and her 
 eyes lifted to the mountains. 
 
 Yet no one thought Clothilde was crazed ; not a maiden of all the 
 village of Lauterbrunnen performed better her household cares than 
 the beautiful Clothilde. Not one could so swiftly ply the distaff; not 
 one who could show such store of white cloth, woven from the moun- 
 tain flax. She planted flowers by the door of her father's cottage ; 
 she watched over all his comforts ; she joined with the rest in the vil 
 
16 THE ATLAKTIC 80UTENIB. 
 
 'age balls ; but, unlike all the maidens of the village, she would accept 
 no lover. 
 
 There were those who said that her smiles were all cold smiles, 
 and that her heart was icy. But these were disappointed ones ; and 
 had never known of the tears she shed when she thought of her mother, 
 who was gone. 
 
 The father, plain peasant that he was, mourned in his heart when 
 he thought how Clothilde was the only maiden of the village who had 
 no lover ; and he feared greatly, as the years flow swiftly over him, 
 for the days that were to come, when Clothilde would have none to 
 watch over her, and none to share her cottage home. 
 
 But the pensive-eyed Clothilde put on gaiety when she found this 
 mood creeping over her father's thought, and cheered him with the 
 light songs she had learned from the village girls. 
 
 Yet her heart was not in the light songs ; for she loved to revel in 
 the wild and mysterious tales belonging to the mountain life. Deeper 
 'things, and things more dread than came near to the talk or to the 
 thought of the fellow-villagers, wakened the fancy of the pensive-eyed 
 Clothilde. Whether it was some dreamy memory of the lost mother, 
 or daily companionship with the mountains and the glaciers, which 
 she saw from her father's door, certain it was, that her thought went 
 farther and wider than the thoughts of those around her. 
 
 Even the doctrines she learned from the humble cur6 of the vil- 
 lage, blended with the wilder action of her fancy ; and though she 
 kneeled, as did the father and the good cur6, before the image at the 
 altar of the village church, she seemed to see IIim plainer in the 
 mountains : and there was a sacredness in the pine woods upon the 
 slope of the hill, and in the voice of the avalanches which fell in the 
 time of spring, which called to her mind a quicker sense of the Divhie 
 presence and pcjwer, than the church chalices or the rosary. 
 
 Now, the father of Clothilde had large flocks, for a village peasant. 
 Fifty of his kids fed upon the herbage which grew on the mountain 
 ledges ; and half a score of dun cows came every night to his chalet, 
 from the pasture-grounds which were watered by the spray of the 
 Dust-Fall. 
 
 Many of the young villagers would have gladly won Clothilde to 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE ICE-KING. 17 
 
 some token of love ; but ever her quiet, pale face, as she knelt in the 
 village church, awed them to silence ; and ever her gentle manner, as 
 she clung to the arm of the old herdsman, her father, made them vow 
 new vows to capture the village beauty. 
 
 In times of danger, or in times when sickness came to the chalets 
 of the valley, Clothilde passed hither and thither on errands of mercy ; 
 and when storms threatened those who watched the kids upon the 
 mountain slopes, she sent them food and wine, and fresh store of 
 blankets. 
 
 So the years passed; and the maidens said that Clothilde was 
 losing the freshness that belonged to her young days ; but these were 
 jealous ones, and, like other maidens than Swiss maidens, knew not 
 how to forgive her who bore away the palm of goodness and of 
 beauty. 
 
 And the father, growing always older, grew sadder at thought of 
 the desolate condition which would soon belong to his daughter Clo- 
 thilde. 
 
 "Who," said the old man, "will take care of the flocks, my 
 daughter 1 who will look after the dun cows ? who will bring the win- 
 ter's store of fir-wood from the mountains ?" 
 
 Now, Clothilde could answer for these things ; for even the cure 
 of the village would not see the pretty and the pious Clothilde left 
 destitute. But it pained her heart to witness the care that lay upon 
 her father's thought, and she was willing to bestow quiet upon his 
 parting years. Therefore, on a day when she came back with the old 
 herdsman from a village-wedding, she told him that she, too, if he 
 wished, would become a bride. 
 
 "And whom will you marry, Clothilde?" said the old man. 
 
 " Whom you choose," said Clothilde ; but she added, " he must be 
 good, else how can I be good 1 And he must be brave, for the dan- 
 gers of the mountain life are many." 
 
 So the father and the village cure consulted together, while Clo- 
 thilde sang as before at her household cares ; and lingered, as was her 
 wont at evening, by the chapel of Our Lady of the Snow, in view of 
 the glaciers which rose in the front of the valley. 
 
 But the fether and the cure could decide upon none who wa." 
 
[S THE ATLANTIC SOCVEKIB. 
 
 wholly worthy to be the bridegroom of Clothildc. The people of the 
 valley were honest, and not a young villager of them all but would 
 have made for her a watchful husband, and cared well for the flocks 
 which belonged to her father's fold. 
 
 In that day, as now, village fetes were held in every time of 
 spring, at which the young mountaineers contended with each other in 
 wrestling, and in the cast of heavy boulder-stones, and in other moun- 
 tain sports, which tried their manliness, and which called down the 
 plaudits of all the village dames. The spring and the spring fetes 
 were now approaching, and it was agreed between the father and the 
 cure, that where all were so brave and honest, the victor in the vil- 
 lage games should receive, for reward, the hand of Clothilde. 
 
 The villagers were all eager for the day which was to decide the 
 f<>rtuncs of their valley heiress. Clothilde herself wore no cloud upon 
 her brow ; but ever, with the same serene look, she busied her hands 
 with her old house-cares, and sang the songs which cheered her old 
 father's heart. 
 
 The youth of the village — they were mostly the weaker ones — 
 eyed her askance, and said, " She can have no heart worth the win- 
 ning, who is won only by a stout arm." And others said still, " She 
 is icy cold, and can have no heart at all." 
 
 But the good cure said, " Nay ;" and many a one from sick-beds 
 called down blessings on her. 
 
 There were mothers, too, of the village, thinking, perhaps, as 
 mothers will, of the fifty kids and of the half-score of dun cows, which 
 would make her dowry, who said, with a wise shake of the head, 
 " She who is so good a daughter will make also a good wife." 
 
 Among those who would gladly, long ago, have sought Clothilde 
 in marriage, was a young villager of Lauterbrunnen, whose name was 
 Conrad Friedland. 
 
 lie was a hunter as well as a herdsman, and he knew the haunts 
 of the chamois upon the upper heights as well as he knew the pastur- 
 age-ground whore fed the kids which l)clonged to the father of Clo- 
 thilde. lie had nut-brown hair, and dark blue eyes ; and there wa* 
 not a iiiai.lcd of the valley, save only the pensive Clothilde, but 
 watched admiringly the proud stop of the hunter Friedland. 
 
THE BRIDE Oi)' THE ICE-KING. 19 
 
 Many a time her flither had spoken of the daring deeds of Con- 
 rad, and had told to Clothilde, with an old man's ardor, the tale of the 
 wild mountain-hunts which Conrad could reckon up ; and how, once 
 upon a time, when a child was lost, they had lowered the young 
 huntsman with ropes into the deep crevasses of the glacier ; and how, 
 in the depths of the icy cavern, he had bound the young child to his 
 shoulder, and been dragged, bruised and half-dead, to the light again. 
 
 To all this Clothilde had listened with a sparkle in her eye ; yet 
 she felt not her heart warming toward Conrad, as the heart of a 
 maiden should warm toward an accepted lover. 
 
 Many and many a time Conrad had gazed on Clothilde as she 
 kneeled in the village church. Many and many a time he had watched 
 her crimson kirtle, as she disappeared among the walnut-trees that 
 grew by her father's door. Many and many a time he had looked 
 longingly upon the ten dun cows which made up her father's flock, 
 and upon the green pasturage ground, where his kids counted by 
 
 fifty. 
 
 Brave enough he was to climb the crags, even when the ice was 
 smooth on the narrow foot-way, and a slip would hurl him to destruc- 
 tion ; he had no fear of the crevasses which gape frightfully on the 
 paths that lead over the glaciers ; he did not shudder at the thunders 
 which the avalanches sent howling among the heights around him ; 
 and yet Conrad had never dared to approach, as a lover might 
 approach, the pensive-eyed Clothilde. 
 
 With other maidens of the village he danced ana sang, even as the 
 other young herdsmen, who were his mates in the village games, 
 danced and sang. Once or twice, indeed, he had borne a gift — a 
 hunter's gift of tender chamois-flesh — to the old man, her father. 
 And Clothilde, with her own low voice, had said, " My father thanks 
 you, Conrad." 
 
 And the brave hunter, in her presence, was like a sparrow within 
 the swoop of a falcon ! 
 
 If she sang, he listened — as though he dreamed that leaves were 
 fluttering, and birds were singing over him. If she was silent, he 
 gazed on her — as he had gazed on cool mountain-pools when the sun 
 smote fiercely. 
 
20 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 The idle raillery of the village he could not talk to her ; of love 
 she would not listen ; of things higher, with his peasant's voice and 
 mind, he knew not how to talk. And the mother of Conrad Fried- 
 land, a lone widow, living only in the love of her son, upon the first 
 lift of the hills, chid him for his silence, and said, "He who has no 
 tongue to tell of love, can have no heart to win it !" 
 
 Yet Conrad, for very lack of speech, felt his slumberous passion 
 grow strong. The mountain springs which are locked longest with 
 ice, run fiercest in summer. 
 
 And Conrad rejoiced in the trial that was to come, where he could 
 speak his love in his own mountain way, and conquer the heart of 
 Clothilde with his good right arm. 
 
 Howbeit, there was many another herdsman of the valle}' who 
 prepared himself joyously for a strife, where the winner should 
 receive the fifty kids, and the ten dun cows, and the hand of the beau- 
 tiful Clothilde. Many a mother, whose eye had rested lovingly ou 
 these, one and all, bade their sons " Be ready !" 
 
 Clothilde alone seemed careless of those, who, on the festal day, 
 were to become her champions; and ever she passed undisturbed 
 through her daily round of cares, kneeling in the village church, sing- 
 ing the songs that gladdened her father's heart, and lingering at the 
 5unset hour, by the chapel of Our Lady of the Snow, whence she saw 
 the glaciers and the riountain-tops glowing with the rich red light 
 from the west. 
 
 Upon the night which was before the day of the village fete, it 
 happened that she met the brave young hunter, Conrad, returning 
 from the hills, with a chamois upon his shoulder. He saluted her, as 
 was his wont, and would have followed at respectful distance ; but 
 Clothilde beckoned his approach. 
 
 " Conrad," said she, " you will contend with the others at the fete 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
 " I will be there," said Conrad ; " and, please the blessed Virgin, 
 I will win such prize as was never won before!" 
 
 "Conrad Fricdiand, I know that you are brave, and that you are 
 strong. Will you not be generous also? Swear to me that if 
 you are the winner in to-morrow's sports, you will not claim the 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE ICE-KING. 21 
 
 reward which my father has promised to the bravest, for a year and 
 a day." 
 
 " You ask what is hard," said Conrad. " When the chamois is 
 near, I draw my bow ; and when my arrow is on the string, how can I 
 stay the shaft f 
 
 " It is well for your mountain prizes, Conrad ; but bethink you 
 the heart of a virgin is to be won like a gazelle of the mountains ?" 
 
 " Clothilde will deny me, then 1" said Conrad reproachfully. 
 
 "Until a year and a day are passed, I must deny," said the 
 maiden. " But when the snows of another spring are melted, and the 
 fete has returned again, if you, Conrad Friedland, are of the same 
 heart and will, I promise to be yours." 
 
 And Conrad touched his lips to the hand she lent him, and swore, 
 " by Our Lady of the Snow," that, for a year and a day, he would 
 make no claim to the hand of Clothilde, though he were twice the 
 winner. 
 
 The morning was beautiful which ushered in the day of the t'&tes. 
 The maidens of the village were arrayed in their gayest dresses, and 
 the young herdsmen of the valley had put on their choicest finery. 
 The sports were held upon a soft bit of meadow-land at the foot of 
 the great glacier which rises in the front of Lauterbrunnen. A bar- 
 rier of earth and rocks, clothed with fir-trees, separated the green mea- 
 dow from the crystal moimtain which gleamed above. And ever, 
 when the sun smote hotly, the glacier streams, which murmured upon 
 either side* of the meadow, made cool the air. 
 
 All the people of the village were assembled, and many a young 
 hunter or herdsman beside, from the plains of Interlacken, or from 
 the borders of the Brienzer-See, or from the farther vale of Grindel 
 wald. 
 
 But Conrad had no fear of these ; for already on many a day of 
 fete, he had measured forces with them, and had borne oflT the prizes, 
 whether in wrestling or in the cast of the granite boulders. This day 
 he had given great care to his dress ; a jerkin of neatly tanned cha- 
 mois-leather set off his muscular figure, and it was dressed upon the 
 throat and upon the front with those rare furs of the mountains, which 
 betokened his huntsman's craft. 
 
22 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEKIR. 
 
 Many a village maiden wished that day she held the place of Clo- 
 tnilde, and that she, too, might have such champion as the brown- 
 haired Conrad. 
 
 A rich cap of lace, worked by the village hands, was ronnd the 
 forehead of Clothilde ; and, to humor the pride of the old man, her 
 father, she had added the fairest flowers which grew by the cottage- 
 door. But, fair as the flowers were, the face of Clothilde was fairer. 
 
 She sat between the old herdsman and the cure, upon one of the 
 rustic benches which circled the plateau of green, where the village 
 sports were held. Tall poles of hemlock or of fir, dressed with gar- 
 lands of mountain laurel, stood at the end of the little arena, where 
 the valley champions were to contend. Among these were some 
 whose strong arms and lithe figures promised a hard struggle to the 
 hopeful Conrad ; and there were jealous ones who would have been 
 glad to humble the pretensions of one so favored by the village maid- 
 ens, as the blue-eyed hunter, Friedland. 
 
 Many looks turned curiously toward the bench, where sat the vil- 
 lage belle, whose fortunes seemed to hang upon the ftite of the day ; 
 but her brow was calm ; and there, as ever, she was watchful of the 
 comfort of the old man, her father. 
 
 Half of the games had passed over, indeed, before she turned a 
 curious look upon the strife. Conrad, though second in some of the 
 lesser sports, had generally kept the first rank ; and the mere vigor- 
 ous trials to come would test his rivals more seriously, and would, it 
 was thought, give him a more decided triumph. 
 
 When the wrestlers were called, there appeared a stout herdsman 
 from the valley of Grindelwald, who was the pride of his village, and 
 who challenged boldly the hunter, Conrad. He was taller and seemed 
 far stronger than Conrad ; and there Avere those — the old herdsman 
 among them — who feared greatly that a stranger would carry off* the 
 prize. 
 
 But the heart of the brave hunter was fired l)y the sight of Clo- 
 thilde, now bending an eager look upon the sports. He accepted the 
 challenge of the stout herdsman, and they grappled each other in the 
 mountain way. The stranger was the stronger; but Conrad, the 
 more active. For a long time they struggled vainly, and the vil- 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE ICE-KING. 23 
 
 lagers were doubting how the strife might end, when the foot of Con- 
 rad, striking a soft bit of turf, failed him, and he fell. There was a 
 low murmur of disappointment; but in an instant, Conrad, by a 
 vigorous effort, freed himself from his rival and was again upon his 
 feet. 
 
 They grappled once more, but the heavy herdsman was weary ; 
 Conrad pressed him closely ; and soon the valley rang with shouts, 
 and the champion of Grindelwald was fairly vanquished. 
 
 After this came the cast of the boulders. One after another, the 
 younger men made their trial, and the limit of each cast was marked 
 by a willow wand, and in the cleft of each wand was a fragment of 
 ribbon, bestowed by well-wishing maidens. 
 
 Conrad, taking breath after his wrestling-match, advanced com- 
 posedly to his place at the head of the arena, where stood the fir-sap- 
 lings with the laurel wreaths. He lifted the boulder with ease, and, 
 giving it a vigorous cast, retired unconcerned. The little blue strip 
 of ribbon which presently marked its fall, was far in advance of the 
 rest. 
 
 Again there was a joyous shout. But the men of Grindelwald 
 cried out loudly to their champion, and he came forward ; but his arm 
 was tired, and his cast was scarce even with the second of the men of 
 Lauterbrunnen. 
 
 Again the shout rose louder than before, and Conrad Friedlaud 
 was declared by the village umpires of the fete to be the victor, 
 and, by will of the old herdsman, to be the accepted lover of the 
 beautiful Clothilde. They led him forward to the stand where sat the 
 cure, between the old herdsman and the herdsman's daughter. 
 
 Clothilde grew suddenly pale. Would Conrad keep his oath 1 
 
 Fear may have confused him, or fatigue may have forbid his utter- 
 ance ; but he reached forth his hand for the guerdon of the day, and 
 the token of betrothal. 
 
 Just then an Alpine horn sounded long and clear, and the echoes 
 lingered among the cliffs and in the spray of the Dust-Fall. It was 
 the call of a new challenger. By the laws of the fete, the games were 
 open until sunset, and the new-comer could not be denied. 
 
 None had seen him before. His frame was slight, but firmly 
 
•24 THE ATLANTIC SOCVEMR. 
 
 knit ; his habit was of the finest white wool, closed at the throat with 
 rich white furs, and caught together with latchets of silver. His hair 
 and beard were of a light flaxen color, and his chamois boots were 
 clamped and spiked with polished steel, as if he had crossed the gla- 
 cier. It wiis said by those near whom he passed, that a cold current 
 of air followed him, and that his breath was frosted on his beard, even 
 under the mild sun of May. 
 
 lie said no word to any ; but, advancing with a stately air to the 
 little plateau where the fu- spars stood crowned with their laurel gar- 
 lands, he seized upon a boulder larger than any had yet thrown, and 
 cast it far beyond the mark where the blue pennant of Conrad still 
 fluttered in the wind. 
 
 There was a stifled cry of amazement, and the wonder grew greater 
 still, when the stranger, in place of putting a willow wand to mark his 
 throw, seized upon one of the fa' saplings, and hurled it through the 
 air with such precision and force, that it fixed itself in the sod within 
 a foot of the half-embedded boulder, and rested quivering with its 
 laurel wreath waving from the top. 
 
 The victor waited for no conductor ; but, marching straight to the 
 benches where sat the bewildered maiden, and her wonder-stricken 
 father, bespoke them thus : 
 
 " Fair lady, the prize is won ; but if, within a year and a day, 
 Conrad Friedland can do better than this, I will yield him the palm ; 
 until then I go to my home in the mountains." 
 
 The villagers looked on amazed; Clothilde alone was calm, Init 
 silent. None had before scon the stranger; none had noticed his 
 approach, and his departure was as secret as his coming. 
 
 The cure muttered his prayers ; the village maidens recalled l>y 
 timid whispers his fine figure, and the rich furs that he wore. And 
 Conrad, recovering from his stupor, said never a word ; but paced 
 back and forth musingly, the length of the boulder-cast which the 
 white-clad stranger had made. 
 
 The old man swore it was some spirit, and bade Clothilde accept 
 Conrad at once as a protector against the temptations of the Evil One. 
 But the maiden, more than ever wedded to her visionary life by this 
 strange apparition, dwelt upon the words of the stranger, and repeat- 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE ICE-KING. 25 
 
 ing them, said to her father, " Let Conrad wait for a twelvemonth, 
 and if he passes the throw of the" Unknown, I will be his bride." 
 
 The sun sank beyond the hills of the Ober-Alp, and with the twi- 
 light came a mystic awe over the minds of the villagers. The 
 thoughtful Clothilde fancied the stranger some spiritual guardian: 
 most of all, when she recalled the vow which Conrad had made and 
 had broken. She remarked, moreover, as they went toward their 
 home, that an eagle of the Alps, long after its wonted time of day, 
 hovered over their path, and only when the cottage-door was closed, 
 soared away to the cliffs that lifted above the glaciers of Lauterbrun- 
 nen. 
 
 The old herdsman began now to regard his daughter with a 
 strange kind of awe. He consulted long and anxiously with the good 
 cure of the village. Could it be that the maid, so near to his heart, 
 was leagued with the spirit-world 1 He recalled the time when he 
 had met first her mother, wandering upon the mountains. Whence 
 had she come 1 And was the stranger of the festal day, of some far 
 kindred, who now sought his own? It was remembered how the 
 mother had loved her child, and had borne her in her arms often to 
 the very edge of the glacier, and lulled Clothilde to sleep with the 
 murmur of the deep falls of water, which, in the heats of summer, 
 make mysterious music in the heart of the ice-mo"untains. 
 
 It was remembered how, in girlhood, Clothilde had often wandered 
 thither to pluck Alpine roses, and was heedless always of the icy 
 breath which came from the blue glacier-caverns. Always, too, she 
 hung her votive garlands on the altar of " Our Lady of the Snow," and 
 prayed for t^e pilgrims, who, in winter, traversed the rude passes of 
 the Ober-Alp. Did the mother belong to the Genius of the Moun- 
 tain 1 and was the daughter pledged to the Ice-King again 1 
 
 The poor old herdsman bowed his head in prayer ; the good cure 
 whispered words of comfort ; Clothilde sang as she had sung in the 
 days that were gone, but the old man trembled at her low tones, 
 which thrilled now in his car like the syren sounds, which they say 
 in the Alps, go always before the roar of some great avalanche. 
 
 Yet the father's heart twined more and more round the strange 
 spirit-being of Clothilde. It seemed to him, more and more, that the 
 
26 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 mother's image was before him, and that the mother's soul looked out 
 from the pensive eyes of Clothildc. He said now no word of mar^ 
 riage, but waited with resignation fjr the dread twelvemonth to pass 
 away. And he looked with pity upon the strong-hearted Conrad, 
 who, fiercer and more daring than before — as if some quick despair 
 had given courage — scaled the steepest cliffs, and brought back stores 
 of chamois-flesh, of which he laid always a portion at the door of the 
 father of Clothilde. 
 
 It was said, too, that the young huntsman was heard at night, cast- 
 ing boulder-stones in the valley, and nerving his arm for the trial of 
 the twelvemonth to come. 
 
 The maidens of the village eyed askance the tripping figure of the 
 valley belle ; the mothers of the young herdsmen spoke less often of 
 the ten dun cows which fed upon her father's pasture-grounds, and 
 counted less often the fifty kids which trooped at night into her 
 father's folds upon the mountain. 
 
 Yet ever Clothilde made her sunset walks to the chapel of Our 
 Lady of the Snow, and ever, in her place in the village church, she 
 prayed, as reverently as before, for Heaven to bless the years of the 
 life of the old man, her father. 
 
 If she lived in a spirit-world, it seemed a good spirit-world ; and 
 the crystal glory of t*he glacier, where no foot could go, and where her 
 gaze loved to linger, imaged to her thought the stainless purity of 
 angels. If the cure talked with Clothilde of the heaven where her 
 mother had gone, and where all the good will follow, Clothilde — 
 pointed to the mountains. 
 
 Did he talk of Avorship and the anthems which men ^ang iu the 
 cathedrals of cities ? 
 
 Clothildc said, " Hark to the avalanche !" 
 
 Did he talk of a good spirit, which hovers always near the faith- 
 ful? 
 
 Clothildc pointed upward, where an eagle soared over the glacier, 
 a speck upon the sky. 
 
 As the year passed away, mysterious rumors were spread among 
 the villagers ; and there were those who said they had seen at oven- 
 tide, Clothilde Uilking with a stranger in white, who was like the chal- 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE ICE-KING. 27 
 
 lenger of the year before. And when the whiter had covered the 
 lower hills with white, it was said that traces of strange feet were seen 
 about the little chapel of Our Lady of the Snow. 
 
 Howbeit, Clothilde neglected not one of the duties which belonged 
 to her in the household of her father, and her willing heart and hand 
 forbade that either the kind old herdsman or the cure should speak 
 aught ill to her, or forbid her the mountain rambles. 
 
 The old mother of Conrad grew frighted, indeed, by the stories of 
 the villagers, and prayed her son to give up all thought of the strange 
 Clothilde, and to marry a maiden whose heart was of warmer blood, 
 and who kept no league with the Evil One. But Conrad only the 
 more resolutely followed the bent of his will, and schooled himself for 
 the coming trial. If they talked to him of the stranger, he vowed 
 with a fearful oath, that, be he who he might, he would dare him to 
 sharper conflict than that of the year before. 
 
 So, at length, the month and the day drew near again. It was 
 early spring-time. The wasting snows still whitened the edges of the 
 fields which hung upon the slopes of the mountain. The meadow of 
 the fete had lost the last traces of winter, and a fresh green sod, with 
 sprinkled daisies, glittered under the dew and the sunlight. 
 
 Clothilde again was robed with care, and when the old herdsman 
 looked on her, under the wreath she had woven out by his cottage 
 flowers, he forgave her all he had thought of her tie to the spirit- 
 world, and clasped her to his heart — "his own, his good Clothilde !" 
 
 On the day before the fete, there had been heavy rain ; and the 
 herdsmen from the heights reported that the winter snows were loos- 
 ening, and would soon come down, after which would be broad sum- 
 mer and the ripening of the crops. 
 
 Scarce a villager was away from the wrestling-ground ; for all had 
 heard of Clothilde, and of the new and strange comer who had chal- 
 lenged the pride of the valley, and had disappeared — none knew whi- 
 ther. 
 
 Was Conrad Friedland to lose again his guerdon ? 
 
 The games went on, with the old man, the father of Clothilde, 
 looking on timidly, and the good cure holding his accustomed place 
 beside him. There were young herdsmen who appeared this year, 
 
2a TUE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 for the first time, among the wrestlers, and whom the past twelve- 
 month had ripened into sturdy manhood. But the firm and the tried 
 sinews of the hunter Conrad placed him before all these, as he was 
 before all the others. Not so many, however, as on the year before, 
 envied him his spirit-bride. Yet none could gainsay her beauty ; for 
 this day her face was radiant with a rich glow, and her clear com- 
 plexion, relieved by the green garland she wore, made her seem a 
 princess. 
 
 As the day's sports went on, a cool, damp wind blew up the val- 
 ley, and clouds drifted over the summits of the mountains. Conrad 
 had made himself the victor in every trial. To make his triumph still 
 more brilliant, he had even surpassed the throw of his unkno^^•n rival 
 of the year before. At sight of this, the villagers raised one loud 
 shout of greeting, which echoed from end to end of the valley. And 
 the brave huntsman, flushed with victory, dared boldly the strangei 
 of the white jerkin and the silver latchets to appear and maintain his 
 claims to the queen of the valley — the beautiful Clothilde. 
 
 Tliere was a momentary hush, broken only by the distant niur 
 murof the Dust-Fall. The thickening clouds drifted fast athwart the 
 mountains. 
 
 Clothilde grew suddenly pale, though the old herdsman, her father, 
 was wild with joy. The cure watched the growing paleness of Clo- 
 thilde, and saw her eye lift toward the head of the glacier. 
 
 " Bear away my father !" said she, in a quick tone of authority. 
 In a moment the reason was apparent. A roar, as of thunder, filled 
 the valley ; a vast mass of the glacier above had given way, and its 
 crash upon the first range of clifls now reached the ear. The frag- 
 ments of ice and rock were moving with frightful volume down 
 toward the plateau. 
 
 The villagers fled screaming ; the father of Clothilde was borne 
 away by the cur6 ; Clothilde herself was, for the time, lost sight of. 
 The eye of Conrad was keen, and his judgment rare. lie saw the 
 avalanche approaching, but he did not fly like the others. An upper 
 plateau and a thicket of pine-trees were in the path of the avalanche : 
 he trusted to these to avert or to stay the ruin. 
 
 As he watched, while others shouted him a warning, he caught 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE ICE-KING. 29 
 
 sight of the figure of Clothilde, in the arms of a stranger flying 
 toward the face of the mountain. He rushed wildly after. 
 
 A fearful crash succeeded ; the avalanche had crossed the plateau, 
 and swept down the fir-trees; the trunks splintered before it, like 
 summer brambles ; the detached rocks were hurled down in showers ; 
 immense masses of ice followed quickly after, roaring over the debris 
 of the forest, and, with a crash that shook the whole valley, reached 
 the meadow below. Swift as lightning, whole acres of the green sod 
 were torn up by the wreck of the forest-trees and rocks, and huge, 
 gleaming masses of ice ; and then, more slowly, with a low murmur, 
 like a requiem, came the flow of lesser snowy fragments, covering the 
 great ruin with a mantle of white. 
 
 Poor Conrad Friedland was buried beneath ! 
 
 The villagers had all fled in safety ; but the green meadow of the 
 fetes was a meadow no longer. 
 
 Those who were hindermost in the flight said they saw the stranger 
 in white bearing Clothilde, in her white robes, up the face of the 
 mountain. It is certain that she was never seen in the valley again ; 
 and the poor old herdsman, her father, died shortly after, leaving his 
 stock of dun cows and his fifty kids to the village cure, to buy masses 
 for the rest of his daughter's soul. 
 
 " This," said the German, " is the story of the Bride of the Ice- 
 Ring ;" and he re-lighted his pipe. 
 
 The storm had now passed over, and the stars were out. Before 
 us was the giant wall of the Jungfrau, with a little rattle of glacier 
 artillery occasionally breaking the silence of the night. To the left 
 was the tall peak of the Wetterhorn, gleaming white in the starlight ; 
 and, far away to the right, we could see the shining glaciers at the 
 head of the Lauterbrunnen valley. 
 
 If I ever pass that way again, I shall ask the guides to show me 
 the avalanche under which poor Conrad, the hunter, lies buried. 
 
'ZaU^ 
 
 OOvyi^ 
 
 5 
 
%\t Simto ^Ir0kr. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRTAKT 
 
 Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, 
 On the lake below thy gentle eyes ; 
 
 The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, 
 And dark and silent the water lies ; 
 
 And out of that frozen mist the snow 
 
 In wavering flakes begins to flow ; 
 Flake after flake. 
 
 They sink in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 See how in a living swarm they come 
 
 From the chambers beyond that misty veiL 
 
 Some hover awhile in air, and some 
 
 Rush prone from the sky Hke summer hail. 
 
 All, dropping swiftly or settUng slow, 
 
 Meet and are still in the depth below ; 
 Flake after flake. 
 
 Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Here dehcate snow-stars, out of the cloud 
 Come floating downward in airy play, 
 
 Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd 
 That whiten by night the milky way ; 
 
 There broader and burlier masses fall ; 
 
 The sullen water buries them all ; 
 Flake after flake, 
 
 AU drowned in the dark and silent lake. 
 
32 TUE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 And some, as on tender wings they glide 
 From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, 
 
 Arc joined in their fall, and, side by side, 
 Come clinging along their unsteady way ; 
 
 As friend with friend or husband with wife 
 
 Makes hand in hand the passage of life ; 
 Each mated flako 
 
 Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Lo I while we are gazing, in swifter haste 
 Stream down the snows, till the air is white, 
 
 As, myriads by myriads madly chased, 
 They fling themselves from their shadowy height 
 
 The fair frail creatures of middle sky, 
 
 "What speed they make with their grave so nigh ; 
 Flake after flake, 
 
 To he in the dark and silent lake I 
 
 I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 
 
 They turn to me in sorrowful thought ; 
 Thou tliinkest of friends, the good and dear, 
 
 Who were for a time and now are not ; 
 Like these fair children of cloud and frost, 
 That glisten a moment, and then are lost, 
 
 Flako after flake. 
 All lost in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Yet look again, for the clouds divide ; 
 
 A gleam of blue on the water lies ; 
 And far away, on the mountain side, 
 
 A fiunbcam falls from the opening skies. 
 But the hurrying host that flow between 
 The cloud and the water no more is seen ; 
 
 Flako after flako. 
 At rest in the dark and silent lake. 
 
fROM ROUGH NOTES IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK. 
 
 BT THE AITTHOB OF THE SKETOH'BOOK. 
 
 Paris, April 25, 1821. — Made a call with a friend, this morning, 
 to be introduced to Talma, the great French tragedian. He has a 
 suite of apartments in a hotel in the Eue Des Petites Augustines, 
 but is about to build a town residence. He has also a country- 
 retreat a few miles from Paris, of which he is extremely fond, and 
 is continually altering and improving it. He had just arrived from 
 the country, and his apartment was rather in confusion, the furniture 
 out of place, and books lying about. In a conspicuous part of the 
 saloon was a colored engraving of John Philip Kemble, for whom 
 he expresses great admiration and regard. 
 
 Talma is about five feet seven or eight inches, English, in height, 
 and somewhat robust. There is no very tragic or poetic expression 
 in his* countenance ; his eyes are of a bluish gray, with, at times, a 
 peculiar cast ; his face is rather fleshy, yet flexible ; and he has a short 
 thick neck. His manners are open, animated, and natural. He 
 speaks English well, and is prompt, unreserved, and copious in con- 
 versation.. 
 
 He received me in a very cordial manner, and asked if this was 
 my first visit to Paris. I told him I had been here once before, about 
 fourteen years since. 
 
 " Ah ! that was the time of the Emperor !" cried he, with a sudden 
 gleam of the eye. 
 
 " Yes — ^just aftei his corouttion as King of Italy. 
 
34 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 " Ah ! those were the heroic days of Paris — every day some new 
 victory ! The real chivalry of France rallied round the Emperor; the 
 youth, and talent, and bravery of the nation. Now you sec the courts 
 of the Tuilcrics crowded by priests, and an old, worn-out nobility 
 brought back by foreign bayonets." 
 
 He consoled himself by observing, that the national character had 
 improved under its reverses. Its checks and humiliations had made 
 the nation more thoughtful. " Look at the young men from the col- 
 leges," said he, " how serious they are in their demeanor. Tliey walk 
 together in the public promenades, conversing always on political sub- 
 jects, but discussing politics philosophically and scientifically. In fact, 
 the nation is becoming as grave as the English," 
 
 lie thinks, too, that there is likely to be a great change in the 
 French drama. " The public," said he, " feel greater interest in 
 scenes that come home to common life, and in the fortunes of every 
 day people, than in the distresses of the heroic personages of classic 
 antiquity. Hence, they never come to the Theatre Franfais, except- 
 ing to see a few great actors, while they crowd to the minor theatres 
 to witness representations of scenes in ordinary life. The revolu 
 lion," added he, " has caused such vivid and affecting scenes to pass 
 before their eyes, that they can no longer be charmed by fine periods 
 and declamation. They require character, incident, passion, life." 
 
 lie seems to apprehend another revolution, and that it will be a 
 bloody one. " The nation," said he, " that is to say, the younger 
 part of it, the children of the revolution^ have such a hatred of the 
 priests and the nohlesse, that they would fly upon thom like wolves 
 upon sheep." 
 
 On coming away, he accompanied us to the door. In passing 
 .hrough the ante-eliamber, I pointed to children's swords and soldiers' 
 caps lying on a table. " Ah !" cried he, with animation, " the amuse- 
 ments of the children now-a-days are all military. They will have 
 nothing to play with but swords, guns, drums, and trumpets," 
 
 Such are the few brief notes of my first interview with Talma, 
 Some time afterward I dined in company with him at Boauvillier's 
 restaurant. ITi^ was in fine spirits: gay and earnest by turns, and 
 always perfectly natural and unreserved. 
 
CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 35 
 
 He spoke with pleasure of his residence in England. He liked 
 the English. They were a noble people ; but he thought the French 
 more amiable and agreeable to live among. " The intelligent and 
 cultivated English," he said, "are disposed to do generous actions, 
 but the common people are not so liberal as the same class among 
 the French : they have bitter national prejudices. If a French pri- 
 soner escaped in England, the common people would be against him. 
 In France it was otherwise. " When the fight was going on around 
 Paris," said he, " and Austrian and other prisoners were brought in 
 wounded, and conducted along the Boulevards, the Parisian populace 
 showed great compassion for them, and gave them money, bread, and 
 wine." 
 
 Of the liberality of the cultivated class of English he gave an anec- 
 dote. Two French prisoners had escaped from confinement, and 
 made their way to a sea-port, intending to get over in a boat to France. 
 All their money, however, was exhausted, and they had not where- 
 withal to hire a boat. Seeing a banker's name on a door, they went 
 in, stated their case frankly, and asked for pecuniary assistance, pro- 
 mising to repay it faithfully. The banker at once gave them one hun- 
 dred pounds. They offered a bill, or receipt, but he declined it. " If 
 you are not men of honor," said he " such paper would be of no value; 
 and if you are men of honor, there is no need of it." This circum- 
 stance was related to Talma by one of the parties thus obliged. 
 
 In the course of conversation, we talked of the theatre. Talma had 
 been a close observer of the British stage, and was alive to many of 
 its merits. He spoke of his efforts to introduce into French acting 
 the familiar style occasionally used by the best English tragedians; 
 and of the difficulties he encountered in the stately declamation and 
 constantly-recurring rhymes of French tragedy. Still he found, he 
 said, every familiar touch of nature immediately appreciated and 
 applauded by the French audiences. Of Shakspeare he expressed the 
 most exalted opinion, and said he should like to attempt some of his 
 principal characters in English, could he be sure of being able to ren- 
 der the text without a foreign accent. He had represented his charac- 
 ter of Hamlet, translated into French, in the Theatre Franfais with 
 (Zreat success ; but he felt how much more powerful it would bo if 
 
3G THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 given as Shakspearc had written it, lie spoke with admiration of the 
 individuality of Shakspeare's characters, and the varied play of his 
 language, giving such a scope for familiar touches of pathos and ten 
 derness and natural outbreaks of emotion and passion. "All this," 
 he observed, " requires quite a different style of acting from the well- 
 balanced verse, flowing periods, and recurring rhymes of the French 
 drama ; and it would, doubtless, require much study and practice to 
 catch the spirit of it ; and after all," added he, laughing, "I should 
 probably fail. Each stage has its own peculiarities which belong to 
 the nation, and can not be thoroughly caught, nor perhaps thoroughly 
 appreciated by strangers." 
 
 [To the foregoing scanty notes were appended some desultory 
 observations made at the time, and suggested by my conversations 
 with Talma. They were intended to form the basis of some spccula- 
 lations on the French literature of the day, which were never carried 
 out. They are now given very much in the rough style in which they 
 were jotted down, with some omissions and abbreviations, but no 
 heightenings nor additions,] 
 
 The success of a translation of Hamlet in the Thedtre Franyais 
 appears to me an era in the French drama. It is true, the play has 
 been sadly mutilated and stripped of some of its most characteristic 
 beauties in the attempt to reduce it to the naked statelincss of the 
 pseudo-classic drama; but it retains enough of the wild magnificence of 
 Shakspeare's imagination to give it an individual character on the 
 French stage. Though the ghost of Hamlet's father does not actiially 
 tread the boards, yet it is supposed to hover about his son, unseen by 
 other eyes ; and the admirable acting of Talma conveys to the audience 
 a more awful and mysterious idea of this portentous visitation than 
 could bo produced by any visible spectre. I have seen a lady carried 
 fainting from the boxes, overcome by its effect upon her imagination. 
 
CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 31 
 
 111 this translation and modification of the original play, Hamlet's 
 mother stabs herself before the audience, a catastrophe hitherto 
 unknown on the grand theatre, and repugnant to the French idea of 
 classic rule. 
 
 The popularity of this play is astonishing. On the evenings of its 
 representation the doors of the theatre are besieged at an early hour. 
 Long before the curtain rises, the house is crowded to overflowing ; 
 and throughout the performance the audience passes from intervals of. 
 breathless attention to bursts of ungovernable applause. 
 
 The success of this tragedy may be considered one of the triumphs 
 of what is denominated the romantic school ; and another has been fur- 
 nished by the overwhelming reception of Marie Stuart, a modification 
 of the German tragedy of Schiller. The critics of the old school are 
 sadly alarmed at these foreign innovations, and tremble for the ancient 
 decorum and pompous proprieties of their stage. It is true, both 
 Hamlet and Marie Stuart have been put in the strait waistcoat of 
 Aristotle ; yet they are terribly afraid they will do mischief^ and set 
 others madding. They exclaim against the apostasy of their country- 
 men in bowing to foreign idols, and against the degeneracy of their 
 taste, after being accustomed from infimcy to the touching beauties 
 and harmonious numbers of Athalie, Polyeucte, and Merope, in relish 
 ing these English and German monstrosities, and that through the 
 medium of translation. All in vain ! The nightly receipts at the doors 
 outweigh, with managers, all the invectives of the critics, and Hamlec 
 and Marie Stuart maintain triumphant possession of the boards. 
 
 TaMa assures me that it begins to be quite the fashion in France 
 to admire Shakspeare ; and those who can not read him in English 
 enjoy him diluted in French translations. 
 
 It may at first create a smile of incredulity that foreigners should 
 pretend to feel and appreciate the merits of an author, so recondite at 
 times as to require commentaries and explanations, even to his own 
 countrymen ; yet it is precisely writers like Shakspeare, so full of 
 thought, of character, and passion, that are most likely to be relished, 
 even when but partially understood. Authors whose popularity arises 
 from beauty of diction and harmony of numbers are ruined by trans 
 lation ; a beautiful turn of expression, a happy combination of word? 
 
38 THE ATLANTIC SOUVE.VIR. 
 
 and phrases, and all the graces of perfect euphony, are limited to the 
 language in which they arc written. Style can not be translated. 
 The most that can be done is to furnish a parallel, and render grace 
 for grace. "Who can form an idea of the exquisite beauties of Racine, 
 when translated into a foreign tongue ? But Shakspearo triumphs over 
 translation. Ilis scenes are so exuberant in original and striking 
 thoughts, and masterly strokes of nature, that he can afford to be 
 stripped of all the magic of his style. His volumes are like the ma 
 gician's cave in Aladdin, so full of jewels and precious things, that he 
 who does but penetrate for a moment may bring away enough to 
 enrich himself 
 
 The relish for Shakspeare, however, which, according to Talma, is 
 daily increasing in France, is, I apprehend, but one indication of a 
 general revolution which is taking place in the national taste. The 
 French character, as Talma well observes, has materially changed 
 during the last thirty years. The present generation, (the " children 
 of the revolution," as Talma terms them,) who are just growing into 
 the full exercise of talent, are a different people from the French of the 
 old regime. They have grown up in rougher times, and among mort 
 adventurous and romantic habitudes. They are less delicate in tact, 
 but stronger in their feelings, and require more stimulating aliment. 
 The Frenchman of the camp, who has bivouacked on the Danube and 
 the Volga ; who has brought back into peaceful life the habits of the 
 soldier ; who wears fierce moustaches, swaggers in his gait, and smokes 
 tobacco, is, of course, a different being in his literary tastes from the 
 Frenchman of former times, who was refined, but finical in dress and 
 manners, wore powder, and delighted in perfumes and polisned ver 
 sification. 
 
 The whole nation, in fact, has been accustomed for years to the glit- 
 ter of arms and the parade of soldiery ; to tales of battles, sieges, and 
 victories. The feverish drama of the revolution, and the rise and fall 
 of Napoleon, have passed before their eyes like a tale of Arabian 
 enchantment. Though these realities have passed away, the remem- 
 brances of them remain, with a craving for the strong emotions which 
 they excited. 
 
 Tliis may account in some measure for that taste for the romantic 
 
CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 39 
 
 which is growing upon the French nation — a taste vehemently but 
 vainly reprobated by their critics. You see evidence of it in every 
 thing : in their paintings ; in the engravings which fill their print-shops ; 
 in their songs, their spectacles, and their works of fiction. For seve- 
 ral years it has been making its advances without exciting the jealousy 
 of the critics ; its advances being apparently confined to the lower 
 regions of literature and the arts. The circulating libraries have 
 been filled with translations of English and German romances, 
 and tales of ghosts and robbers, and the theatres of the Boule- 
 vards occupied by representations of melo-dramas. Still the higher 
 regions of literature remained unaffected, and the national theatre 
 retained its classic stateliness and severity. The critics consoled 
 themselves with the idea that the romances were only read by 
 women and children, and the melo-dramas admired by the igno- 
 rant and vulgar. But the children have grown up to be men and 
 women ; and the tinge given to their imaginations in early life is now 
 to have an effect on the forthcoming literature of the country. As 
 yet, they depend for their romantic aliment upon the literature of 
 other nations, especially the English and Germans ; and it is astonish- 
 ing with what promptness the Scottish novels, notwithstanding their 
 dialects, are translated into French, and how universally and eagerly 
 they are sought after. 
 
 In poetry, Lord Byron is the vogue : his verses are translated into 
 a kind of stilted prose, and devoured with ecstasy, they are si sombre! 
 His likeness is in every print-shop. The Parisians envelop him 
 with melancholy and mystery, and believe him to be the hero of his 
 own poems, or something of the vampyre order. A French poem 
 has lately appeared in imitation of him,* the author of which has 
 caught, in a great degree, his glowing style, and deep and troubled 
 emotions. The great success of this production insures an inundation 
 of the same kmd of poetry from inferior hands. In a little while we 
 shall see the petty poets of France, like those of England, affecting 
 to be moody and melancholy, each wrapping himself in a little 
 mantle of mystery and misanthropy, vaguely accusing himself of 
 heinous crimes, and affecting to despise the world. 
 
 * The Missennlenes. 
 
40 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 That this taste for the romantic •will have its way, aud give a 
 decided tone to French literature, I am strongly inclined to believe. 
 The human mind delights in variety, and abhors monotony even in 
 excellence. Nations, like individuals, grow sated with artificial refine- 
 ments, and their pampered palates require a change of diet, even though 
 it be for the worse. I should not be surprised, therefore, to see the 
 French breaking away from rigid rule; from polished verse, easy 
 narrative, the classic drama, and all the ancient delights of elegant lite- 
 rature, and rioting in direful romances, melo-dramatic plays, turgid 
 prose, and glowing rough-written poetry. 
 
 Paeib, 
 
(yA^€-^^ /y^^s^^v^^^^^a:^ y 
 
 ^y- 
 
gl D'i5i0it 0f tilt j0U5:itonif. 
 
 EPILOGUE 10 A LECTURE ON WORDS AVOETH. 
 
 BY OLIVKK ■WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 Come, spread your wings as I spread mine, 
 And leave the crowded hall 
 
 For where the eyes of twilight shine 
 O'er evening's western wall. 
 
 These are the pleasant Berkshire hills, 
 
 Each with its leafy crown ; 
 Hark I from their sides a thousand rUls 
 
 Come singing sweetly down. 
 
 A thousand rills ; they leap and shine, 
 Strained through the mossy nooks, 
 
 Till, clasped in many a gathering twine, 
 They swell a hundi'ed brooks. 
 
 A hundred brooks ; and still they run 
 "With ripple, shade, and gleam, 
 
 Till, clustering all their braids in one, 
 They flow a single stream. 
 
 A bracelet, spun from mountahi mist, 
 
 A silvery sash unwound. 
 With OS-bow curve and sinuous twist. 
 
 It writhes to reach the Sound. 
 
 This is my bark ; a pigmy's ship ; 
 
 Beneath a child it rolls ; 
 Fear not ; one body makes it dip. 
 
 But not a thousand souls. 
 
THE ATLANTIC SODVEXIR. 
 
 Float we the grassy banks between ; 
 
 "Without an oar we gUde ; 
 The meadows, sheets of living green, 
 
 Unroll on either side. 
 
 Come, take the book we love so well. 
 
 And let us read and dream 
 "We see whate'er its pages tell, 
 
 And sail an English stream. 
 
 Up to the clouds the lark has sprung, 
 
 Still trilling as he flies ; 
 The linnet sings as there he sung ; 
 
 The unseen cuckoo cries : 
 
 And daisies strew the banks along, 
 And yellow kingcups shine, 
 
 "With cowslips, and a prirarosfi throng, 
 And humble celandine. 
 
 Ah foolish dream I when Nature nursed 
 
 Her daughter in the West, 
 Europe had drained one fountain first; 
 
 She bared her other breast. 
 
 On the young planet's orient shore 
 ller morning hand she tried, 
 
 Then turned the broad medallion o'er 
 And stamped the sunset side. 
 
 Take what she gives; her pine's tall stem; 
 
 Uer elm with drooping spray; 
 She wears her mountain diadem 
 
 Still in her own proud way. 
 
 Look on the forest's ancient kings, 
 The hemlock's towering pride ; 
 
 Yon trunk had thrice a hundred rings. 
 And fell before it died. 
 
A VISION OF THE IIOUSATONIC. ^^ 
 
 Nor tliiuk that Nature saves her bloom 
 
 And sHghts her new domain; 
 For us she wears her court costume; 
 
 Look on its queenly train ! 
 
 The lily with the sprinkled dots, , 
 
 Erands of the noontide beam ; 
 The cardinal, and the blood-red spots, 
 
 Its double in the stream. 
 
 As if some wounded eagle's breast, 
 
 Slow throbbing o'er the plain, 
 Had left its airy path impressed 
 
 In drops of scarlet rain. 
 
 And harkl and hark! the woodland rings; 
 
 There thirilled the thrush's soul ; 
 And look ! and look I those lightning wings — 
 
 The fire-plumed oriole 1 
 
 Above, the hen-hawk s^^ims and swoops, 
 
 Flung from the bright blue sky ; 
 Below, the robin hops and whoops 
 
 His little Indian cry. 
 
 The beetle on the wave has brought 
 
 A pattern all his own, 
 Shaped like the razor-breasted yacht 
 
 To England not unknown ! 
 
 Beauty runs virgin in the woods. 
 
 Robed in her rustic green. 
 And oft a longing thought intrades, 
 
 As if we might have seen 
 
 Her every finger's every joint 
 
 Ringed with some golden line ; 
 Poet whom Nature did anoint I 
 
 Had our young home been thine. 
 
44 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Yet think not so; old England's blood 
 Runs warm in English veins, 
 
 But wafled o'er the icy flood 
 Its better life remains; 
 
 Our children know each wJd-woovl smell, 
 Tiie bayberry and the fern, 
 
 The man who does not know them well 
 Is all too old to leam, 
 
 Be patient; Love has long been grown; 
 
 Ambition waxes strong, 
 And Heaven is asking time alone 
 
 To mould a child of song. 
 
 When Fate draws forth the mystic lot 
 The chosen bard that calls, 
 
 Xo e)'c will be upon the spot 
 Where the bright token fells. 
 
 Perchance the blue Atlantic's brink, 
 The broad Ohio's gleam. 
 
 Or where the panther stoops to drink 
 Of wild Missouri's stream : 
 
 "Wlicre winter clasps with glittering ice 
 Katahdin's silver chains. 
 
 Or Georgia's flowery paradise 
 Unfolds its blushing plains: 
 
 But know that none of ancient earth 
 Can bring the sacred fire ; 
 
 He drinks tlie wave of Western birtu 
 That rules the Western lyre I 
 
A REMINISCENCE OF KENTUCKY. 
 
 • 
 
 BY EEV. 8AMTJEL OBOOOD. 
 
 Every profession or business has its own peculiar experiences, 
 and it has often seemed to nae that the world of readers would be 
 wiser, and they who make books for them would be far more inter- 
 esting and instructive, if every writer would describe things from his 
 own actual point of view, trying honestly to hold the mirror up to 
 nature and life with his own hand from his own position. The genu 
 ine diary of a physician, or lawyer, or clergyman, or merchant, or 
 banker, if recording his own impressions during his years of activity, 
 would be as interesting as any fictitious sketches, and far more 
 instructive, whether to the old who are always glad to fight their bat- 
 tles over again, or to the young whose battles have not yet begun. I 
 do not make this remark by way of preface to any ambitious portrait- 
 ures of professional scenes and labors, but merely to introduce a few 
 slight sketches of professional travel that seem quite as well fitted for 
 the present purpose as any more elaboi>ate essay. 
 
 I have just returned from a visit to Kentucky after an absence of 
 
 seventeen years. I was at the city of L at various times in the 
 
 years 1836-37, and have never forgotten the impression left by the 
 place and the people. The first years of a minister's professional life 
 arc far more significant than those of any other profession ; for usually 
 he takes upon himself the full burden of his cares, and in most cases 
 he has as much labor and anxiety at twenty -five as at fifly. In one 
 respect, indeed, he has more care at the outset of his career ; for he is 
 
IC THE ATLAXTIC SOl'VENIR. 
 
 obliged to depend each week upon the fresh coinage of his own brain, 
 instead of falling back upon the large literary capital accumulated by 
 a veteran sermon-writer. The consequence is that the first two or 
 three years of a preacher's life are quite likely to decide his destiny, 
 and if he does not break down within this period after his settlement, 
 he is pretty well seasoned and stocked for subsequent needs. It is 
 advisable, therefore, on many accounts, that he should take what the 
 Germans call his " Wandcrjahre," and travel a year or two before 
 pitching his tent for permanence. Travel merely fur pleasure, or for 
 general information, is dangerous to a young man's habits of study 
 and sobriety of purpose, whilst travel with professional aims, for 
 periods of service for a few weeks or months in different places, gives 
 him a wide field of observation, and prepares him for his parish duties 
 alike as a man of practical experience and of literary resources. I 
 remember very well the events of the two years passed in this way, 
 and have been inclined to ascribe the good health and constant labor 
 of the long time since to the influence of those years of wandering. 1 
 visited, in some way, almost every State in the Union, and in various 
 cities and towns remained several weeks, and in a few cases several 
 months. No place lingers more fondly in memory than the city of 
 
 L , Kentucky. 
 
 Contrast is one of the laws of sympathy, and there is something 
 in the electric beat of the Southern pulse quite fascinating to a young 
 man educated under the sedate discipline of New-England, and taught 
 to depend upon cool reasoning as the only sure path to the convic- 
 tions of his audience. Most of our young theological students of the 
 more ambitious kind, put study and thought enough into their first 
 sermon to expand into a whole volume, forgetful of the fact that it 
 is the emotional life that gives the sermon its power, and that, witlv 
 out this, the gun " ecclesiastic," however crammed with kills or shot, 
 has no powder, and can not be fired. A Southern audience is sure to 
 teach a young man this fact, and, whilst fond of clear reasoning, it is 
 so greedy for fervor in feeling and utterance, as to have little patience 
 with the speaker wlio does not meet this want. The tone of social 
 life is somewhat in the same spirit, and nothing can more successfully 
 f-\^f the stiflncss out of the manners and conversation of our Nurtb 
 
EIGHTEEN TEARS. 41 
 
 ern scholastics than a few months' sojourn in hearty Southern society. 
 I remember very well the first impression of Kentucky life. Faults 
 there were in abundance to note, deficiencies of culture, radical errors 
 in the political and domestic order, yet the sternest censor could not 
 but be captivated by the cordiality of the people, and even soften his 
 censure into sympathy, when he found that they were quite as ready 
 to perceive and lament their failings as he could be. From the first 
 hearty shake of the hand from a Kentuckian on the crowded landing 
 to the hearty fixrewells that speeded the parting guest upon his home- 
 ward way months afterward, the same genial pulse seemed to beat. 
 It would be quite as wrong to regard this impulsive warmth of manner 
 as mere affectation of generosity, as it would be wrong to regard the 
 colder temper of Northern men as proof of habitual selfishness. The 
 climate has much to do with the temperament, and it is undoubtedly 
 the union of Southern impulsiveness with the daring self-reliance 
 incident to a border life that has given the Kentuckian his peculiar 
 air and tone. 
 
 So far as I could see, the same electric temper appeared in every 
 sphere of life, certainly in the serious as well as in the festive sphere. 
 If in the conduct of business, especially of agricultural business, there 
 were some tokens of the easy gait so characteristic of people accus- 
 tomed to be served by slaves, no trace of languor showed itself when- 
 ever men met together upon any interesting occasion, whether grave 
 or gay. A revival preacher, or a stump orator, could have no occa- 
 sion to complain of dull listeners. The chat of an evening party had 
 none of the stately reserve so affected by English mannerists nearer 
 home, but seemed downright earnest, as if society were a genuine 
 business, and very pleasant business, too. I remember the perfect 
 furore that prevailed during one of those semi-barbarous races which 
 are a kind of relic of the ancient tournament, with this difference, that 
 the man is but a spectator, and leaves the honors and the pains of the 
 struggle to his horse. The whole city was in commotion, and the 
 rage of betting infected the servants and slaves. The little fellow 
 that brushed our clothes at the boarding-house, swelled into the conse- 
 quence of a gentleman of the turf, as he staked his half dollar with a 
 comrade of like hue and stature, whilst the august head of Henry 
 
43 THE ATLANTIC SOn'EMR. 
 
 Clay, then in his prime, towered up among the sporting magnates on 
 the stand erected for the judges of the course. All Kentucky and all 
 Tennessee seemed to be embodied in those rival racers, and every 
 Kentuckian felt an inch taller when his own pet came in the winner. 
 Absurd as this excitement seemed to a Northern man, so cruel to the 
 horses, and so little profitable to the spectators, it was not difficult to 
 read it as a text from the old book of human nature. From the very 
 beginning, the rivalries of men and nations have turned more upon 
 the pride of conquest than the prize contested, and whether for an 
 oaken crown or a silver cup, whether upon the race-course or the bat- 
 tle-field, it is the name more than the game that is played for. He 
 that would moralize largely and wisely about a horse-race would 
 come to some very sweeping conclusions regarding the whole system 
 of competition that rules over society, and strike hard at the habits 
 of many very grave people. 
 
 The social elements that presented themselves to a stranger's 
 observation in various circles, were in many respects of the most 
 heterogeneous kind, yet seemed all pervaded by the same stirring 
 leaven. The Ncw-Englander and the Englishman, with their cool 
 temperament, caught much of the prevailing tone of geniality, without 
 losing their characteristic calculation. One of the most delightful and 
 hearty men in the social walk was an English gentleman who had 
 come out to seek his fortune with a young wife and slender patri- 
 mony in that then far country. The brother of one of our most ideal 
 and gifted poets, he did not lose sight of the ideal world in the pro- 
 saic business of a lumber-merchant. lie was always ready for a lite- 
 rary conversation, and took delight, at any time, in turning from his 
 ledger to his liljrary, and from numbers arithmetical to numbers 
 poetical. I never meet with the portrait of John Keats now, without 
 tracing in his features and expression a memento of this emigrant bro- 
 ther, who never ceased to prove that he was of kindred blood to the 
 author of "Endymion" and "The p]ve of St. Agnes." Tie is not liv- 
 ing now, but his image stands in my memory among the cherished 
 forms that can not be forgotten. I might add many other names to 
 the list of notables, but it is enough to specify one person more whoso 
 acquaintance enlarged my knowledge of human character. 
 
EIGHTEEN YEARS. 49 
 
 Judge S was a noble specimen of a gentleman of the old 
 
 school — of the most transparent simplicity, thorough honesty in deed 
 and word, and unswerving independence. I remember well the first 
 time of meeting him. His quaint old carriage drove up to the door 
 of our lodgings, and the vehicle and the occupant looked like speci- 
 mens of the good old days gone by. It was worth a thousand miles' 
 travel to receive such a shake of the hand, and such an invitation to 
 visit him at his plantation. His eye had an almost feminine mild- 
 ness, yet in its affectionate expression there was a latent manliness as 
 in the mild blue sky, above whose transparent depths the Sun-God has 
 his throne, and can thence at will launch his arrows at their mark. 
 It was quite a new phase of life that the days spent on his plantation 
 disclosed. Never have I seen more affection between the various 
 members of a family ; never a more earnest purpose to be just and 
 kind in every social relation. The Judge was no admirer of slavery, 
 and if the counsels of such men as he had prevailed, the curse of bond- 
 age would, ere this, have been erased from the statute-book of Ken- 
 tucky. He aimed, so far as the laws allowed him, to abolish slavery 
 in his own domain, by exchanging servitude for service, and treating 
 his dependents as servants to be protected. They looked upon him 
 with great affection, and could honestly pray that he might live a 
 thousand years. When an absent son returned, it was a rare sight to 
 see the welcome of him by the slaves the morning after his arrival. 
 They seemed all to claim kindred with him, and their cordial greeting 
 to Master Josh was a better commentary than any antiquarian notes 
 upon the redeeming features of the old patriarchal times. In becom- 
 ing acquainted with the slaves, one marks quite as wide differences of 
 character as among their prouder lords. I found in the two who took 
 charge of the horses, genuine representatives of characters that have 
 stamjjcd their mark upon the world's history. The coachman was a 
 thorough-going mystic, a believer in visions and trances, which he 
 interpreted to auditors, who listened with open ears and distended 
 eyes. He was a preacher, as he and his admirers thought, of heaven's 
 own ordaining ; and, although occasionally somewhat given to excess- 
 ive potations, his hearers, with an aeuteness equal to that of many 
 
 pious white people under similar circumstances, carefully distin- 
 
 4 
 
ifO THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 guished between the infirmities of the man and the inspirations of the 
 saint. The hostler, Cato, was of sterner school, and not at all addicted 
 to mysticism, or any kind of fixith or devotion. He was the skeptic 
 of the plantation, and might have astonished the author of the "Vesti- 
 ges of Creation" by his constant reference of remarkable phenomena 
 to natural causes. When Morocco, the coachman, Avould discourse of 
 the foiling stars as sure signs that the world was coming to an end, 
 Cato would contemptuously shrug his shoulders, and say that it was 
 " nothing but the brimstone in the air." The mystic seemed to have 
 more followers than the skeptic, and when the Judge tried to enter- 
 tain his guests by excavating an Indian mound upon his plantation, 
 and evening shut in before the close of the labor, the sable excavators 
 evidently inclined to ^Morocco's opinion that the wizard-hour had 
 come, when the spirits of the dead Indians haunted their graves, and 
 it was time to stop working there. 
 
 Many scenes stand associated with that kindly home. One fairy 
 little form that graced the house and garden walks I can never forget ; 
 the bright child who cheered us by her naive prattle and her sylph 
 like dance. Her form lingered like a benediction upon the memory ; 
 and when word of her death came to me, years afterward, it was as if 
 one of the lights of our own household had been quenched. When, 
 in the March of 1837, I left Kentucky, and parted with so many 
 cherished friends, of the whole circle none gave more brightness to the 
 hope of a return, ere long, than the kindly group who dwelt under the 
 tall trees of that plantation, and day by day received the good judge's 
 blessing. My course was homeward to New-England by the circuit- 
 ous Southern route ; and in the five days after the departure, every 
 variety of climate between winter and summer presented itself, until 
 in New-Orleans I found fruits and flowers in abundance, under a sky 
 as sultry as when our dog-star rages. In due season I returned to 
 New-England to find its forests leafless, its gardens still waitnig the 
 footsteps of the golden summer that I had left at the South. Years 
 passed, and with them passed many schemes for visiting old friends at 
 the West and South. Only after seventeen years' absence the oj)por- 
 tunity came, and I have just returned from Kentucky and the kindly 
 city of L , which I saw for the first time eightec years ago. 
 
EIGHTEEN YEARS. 51 
 
 Every man who has any sort of affection or sentiment is glad to 
 re-visit familiar scenes ; yet, there is something startling in the return 
 after long absence. We think of all that we have done and endured 
 during the interval, and our own daily life, with its constant yet 
 almost unnoticed changes, rises up before us in its united experience ; 
 so that a man sometimes needs to go away from home to see himself 
 as he is and has been in his own home. There are few men who can 
 look upon the form and feature of a score of years thus consolidated 
 by distance without some grave thoughts upon life and its changes. 
 We tremble, moreover, as we draw near the places and friends so 
 long unvisited. We fear that we have been shaping an ideal world 
 out of the materials stored up by our memory, and that things and 
 persons will seem wholly strange to us. We fear that more friends 
 than we have heard of have passed away, and that they who remain 
 will not remember us as we remember them. 
 
 When our steamer drew near the city of L , the spires of some 
 
 of the churches were familiar to my eye, and the whole face of the 
 country seemed to answer the absentee's grateful recognition. The 
 city had more than doubled its population, and stretched itself out on 
 either side of its domain ; yet it had only grown in stature, without 
 having essentially changed its features. The landing was crowded by 
 the same motley throng as, of old, and it is only when the stranger 
 sees the new squares of stately houses in the remoter streets that he 
 appreciates the growth and prosperity of the place. But what avails 
 a familiar scene if there is no welcome from a femiliar friend 1 It 
 was somewhat remarkable that the first face that I recognized was that 
 of the son of my kind host of former years, the good Judge ; and it 
 was cheering to learn, from our ready and mutual recognition, that 
 Father Time had not so set his marks upon our features as to hide 
 the familiar lineaments. In a half-hour, the hearty welcome from his 
 sisters, two of whom kept house together in the city, was ample assur- 
 ance that the light of other days had not died out, and that the father's 
 kind heart still animated the children, even as when he was with them 
 in the body. The welcome was not limited to the parlor, but came also 
 from the tenants of the kitchen. The old farm-servants were not indeed 
 there, and Morocco and Cato, with many of their associates, had gone 
 
52 THE ATLANTIC SOL'VEMR. 
 
 to the land where the law of color and caste does not rule, but the 
 omart serving-maid, who had grown from a child to a stout woman 
 during the interval, seemed to have some remembrance of the ancient 
 guest at the old ])lantation ; and the little boy, Bob, who presided at 
 the brush, grinned with all his might when I talked to him of his Uncle 
 Morocco, as if we were friends and kindred at once by that tie of 
 association. 
 
 Our stay in the city was a succession of delightful recognitions, 
 deepened yet not wholly saddened by remembrances of those who 
 had passed aNVay. Our religious services renewed all the best asso- 
 ciations of former years, and for five days the hours were too few for 
 the discourses, devotions, and discussions which engaged the confer- 
 ence of worshippers, met together from so many States. It is not the 
 place to describe the theological aspects of the occasion, and I will only 
 give a description or two of social experiences. 
 
 An observing man could write a good treatise upon the chrono- 
 logy of the human features or the traces of time left upon the human 
 countenance by various periods of years. This visit has given a far 
 milder idea of the ravages of this ruthless power. My friends who 
 were in early manhood eighteen years ago arc now in their prime ; 
 their look is the same as then, nay, even more decidedly pronounced, 
 and, like Pat's portrait, " more like than the original." They who 
 were in the meridian then are now of more venerable mien, yet not 
 one such face had any trait that did not seem familiar and agreeable. 
 The feminine complexion is indeed a more delicate chronicle of times 
 and experiences ; yet the many buxom mothers in whom I recognized 
 the sprightly girls of eighteen years ago were but the same flowers in 
 fuller bloom ; and I more than once, in view ©fa worthy mother with 
 a group of a half-dozen children about her, was reminded of the favor- 
 ite theory, that even personal beauty is more a moral than a physical 
 attribute, and ripens, instead of dying, with years of faithful service to 
 life's true ideal. What Dante said of Beatrice in Paradise is true of 
 every •woman who does her work nobly and keeps hor soul unspotted 
 from the world. There is a " second beauty," even fairer than the 
 first — a beauty radiating from a life beyond that of youthful bloom. 
 
EIGHTEEN YEARS. 53 
 
 The angels are calling on every fair woman in this world, as upon 
 Beatrice in the spiritual -world : 
 
 " ' Turn, Beatrice !' was their song : ' Oh I turn 
 Thy saintly sight on this thy faithful one. 
 Gracious at our prayer, vouchsafe 
 Unveil to him thy cheeks; that he may mark 
 Thy second beauty, now concealed.' " 
 
 Setting all merely poetic sentiment aside, is it not true that the 
 beauty that most transforms the character, and refines and softens the 
 husband and subdues and educates the child, is that which beams from 
 a face in which girlish bloom has ripened into womanly fidelity and 
 benignity? Whilst contesting thus the boasted empire of Time over 
 the countenance," it must be confessed that, in one respect, his trans- 
 forming power was most startling. In seventeen years, the infant of 
 the cradle grows to full stature, and the absentee felt, on his return, 
 somewhat of a Nestor in age as he was greeted by two fair girls who 
 were babies at his previous visit, and who, for their honored and 
 lamented flither's sake, were ready to receive him with something of 
 filial deference. 
 
 One scene more only can be noted — a re-visit to the plantation 
 of our old friend already so affectionately named. We rode out — a 
 goodly company of guests — to that house so memorable for its 
 unstinted hospitality. The Judge was not there to welcome us with 
 his hearty grasp and benign eye. His daughter, however, fitly honored 
 her name and breeding as she welcomed her father's friends. Many 
 changes had taken place in the grounds on account of the division of 
 the property and the encroachments of the city upon the country ; but 
 the house, with its lofty rooms, was the same, and the gateway and 
 broad green-sward of the great avenue were as of old. The most con- 
 spicuous change was presented by the family burial-place, now inclosed 
 by a massive wall. We all went reverently to that hallowed ground. 
 I stood over the grave of the noble father and the dear child, the pet 
 of the former visit, who gave such light to that home, and blessed God 
 for the treasure of such a remembrance and such a hope. The myrtle 
 covered those graves with its rich and aromatic growth, and birds of 
 
54 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 many hues and notes sang in the branches of the trees. A vcncraVdf 
 clergyman, who had known and honored the good Judge, spoke words 
 of consolation to the large company of children, grand-children and 
 friends, and, loaning upon his staff, lifted his voice in prayer. But 
 even this touching ministration added little to the pathos of that scene. 
 The place, with those tomb-stones, was enough and more than enough. 
 I could hardly listen to language touching and spiritual as that which 
 sought so fitly to consecrate that sun-set hour among the dead. Those 
 buried ones spoke to me with a living voice that rose above the sad 
 dirges chanted by the shades of all those intervening years. From 
 the midst of that garden of graves, where blooming life sprang from 
 the decaying dust, a voice from the unseen world repeated the great 
 prophet's saying : 
 
 " The grass withereth, tho flower fadeth : 
 But the word of our God shall stand for ever." 
 
 The years that had gone since meeting those cherished friends seemed 
 to rise before me, and to chant a requiem which mingled the solem- 
 nity of memory with the cheerfulness of hope. 
 
Jitttiqiu girge. 
 
 T O D D A B ^ , 
 
 We are bent with age and cares, 
 In the last of our gray hairs, 
 And we lean upon our staffs, 
 Looking for the epitaphs ; 
 For we are the last, ihe last, 
 In the ruins of the Past 1 
 
 When our youth was in its prime, 
 
 Then it was a merry time ; 
 
 Suns were golden, stars were bright^ 
 
 And the moon was a dehght ! 
 
 And we wandered in its beams, 
 
 In the sweetest, sweetest dreams ! 
 
 Noiv our dreams are fled, 
 
 For the happy Past is dead, 
 
 And we feel it lived in vain, 
 
 And will never come again ! 
 
 No ! 't is gone 1 and gone each trace 
 
 Of its once familiar face : 
 
 Even the dust to which we yearn 
 
 Lost, and lost its very urn ! 
 
 Nothing remains except its tomb ; 
 
 (The earth, and neaven so draped with clouds!) 
 And we who wander in its gloom. 
 
 And soon wiU need our shrouds, 
 So pale are we, and so aghast. 
 At the absence of the Past 1 
 
66 THE ATI-AXTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 We had firiends when wo were young, 
 
 And wo shared their smiles and tears 
 But they are for ever flown ; 
 "We can only weep alono 
 
 In the shadow of tho years I 
 Roses come again with sprhig; 
 (We are standing on the tomb, 
 But beneath our feet they bloom !) 
 And tho summer birds do sing I 
 But tho dead, who loved tliem so, 
 They are in tho winter snow ; 
 /ar from birds, and far from flowers, 
 And this weary life of ours I 
 All is over I Naught remains, 
 Save the memoiy of our pams. 
 And the years tliat bear us fast 
 To the silence of the Pastl 
 
 31 ^er^nah. 
 
 There 's a door in your chamber, lady mine; 
 
 1, the king, have the key ; 
 There 's a walk in our garden's deepest shades 
 
 For you, sweet, and me I 
 
 Wo are royal and distant by day, 
 When the world is in sight ; 
 
 But at night wo havo hearts, and we love, 
 And are happy at night I 
 
 Not a lamp now remains, lady mine I 
 
 All is still : let us rise : 
 I can track you by tho beat of your heart, 
 
 And the light of your oyos I 
 
 rhrough tho dusk of tho lindens we '11 glide 
 
 To that alley of ours. 
 And walk in tho light of tho moon, 
 
 And tho odor of flowers 1 
 
^n f ;ilie |tgin. 
 
 A B O K » T 
 
 The excursion of June, 1854, up the Northern Mississippi, in honor 
 of the completion of the Rock-Island and Chicago Railroad, and bv 
 invitation of the contractors of that road, was on a scale quite unpar- 
 alleled in the history of similar celebrations. Some seven hundred 
 guests, chiefly from the Atlantic States, were freely transported an 
 immense distance to view the last railroad link between the Atlantic 
 and the Mississippi, and to enjoy an excursion by steamboat from the 
 point of termination on the river up to the new and wondrous city of 
 St. Paul, in Minnesota, and thence to Fort Snelling, and by land to 
 the Falls of St. Anthony. 
 
 The river trip was accomplished between Monday evening and the 
 next Saturday morning ; the boats stopping at Galena and Dubuque 
 on the upward passage. Above Dubuque the scenery begins to open 
 upon the voyager in forms of singular beauty. The bluffs grow higher 
 and more precipitous ; and the remarkable sand-stone protrusions, so 
 characteristic of the banks of the Upper Mississippi, begin to appear. 
 
 At one point it requires no exaggeration of fancy to trace the out- 
 lines of a ruined castle ; while, at another, you see a solitary tower, 
 and then the serrated embrasures of a deserted battlement. The boat 
 glides on, and now from the steep slope of a bluff, clothed in richest 
 verdure, as if it had been kept under careful cultivation, you see the 
 sand-stone bare in a single central spot, and taking the form of an 
 ancient cenotaph, as if there reposed the ashes of some ante-diluvian 
 monarch. A mile or two farther on, and the broken entablature of a 
 Grecian temple, with architrave, frieze, and cornice, and resting on 
 
5S THF ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 two or three dismembered columns, seems set in a wall of verdure, 
 as if it were a piece of subterranean architecture, exposed by the 
 washing away of the earth, which had then been sloped and terraced 
 about it by the hand <^art, and planted with the finest grasses, while 
 the trees were so distributed as to impart the most picturesque effect. 
 Indeed, the orchard-like appearance of these slopes, sweeping in curves 
 of enchanting beauty to the water's edge, is the most surprising fea- 
 ture in the landscape. For scores of miles you may see no sign of 
 population, and yet many of these hills appear like the outskirts of a 
 nobleman's park, carefiflly kept free from under-brush and matted 
 vegetation, and rounded by some landscape gardener to gratify the 
 eye of taste. Here and there a sort of dimple is scooped in the hill ; 
 or you see two noble hills nearly meet at their bases, leaving a hol- 
 low betweenfl^e a lap, to receive the treasures of fertility which the 
 land is ready to pour down. The charm of vegetation, which a luxu- 
 riant soil imparts, is spread like a mantle over these bluffs. You 
 look in vain for a bleak or barren point. When the bluffs sink on 
 one side of the river, they reappear on the other; and this peculiarity 
 continues, with a few exceptions, (as at Lake Pepin,) till you roach 
 the pine region above the mouth of the St. Croix. 
 
 A hundred miles from the Falls of St. Anthony, you pass through 
 Lake Pepin, which is merely an expansion of the Mississippi, about 
 twenty-four miles long, and from two to four miles wide. It is 
 rightly named a lake, however ; as the characteristics of the river are 
 here greatly modified. There is no perceptible current. The low 
 islands, covered with rank vegetation, and annually overflowed and 
 abraded by the brimming river, here entirely disappear. There is 
 not an island in Lake Pepin. There are bluffs on both sides, which 
 slope down cleanly to the water's edge, leaving a narrow rim of sand, 
 but no marshy bottom-land between. 
 
 At one point, on the Wisconsin shore, the bluffs recede, and a 
 beautiful platform of land extends before them, dotted with trees. 
 On the Minnesota shore the line of bluffs is at one ])lac'o tlirown back 
 to make way for a prairie, on the back-ground of which Nature has 
 lavished all that can bo imagined of the picturesque in the scenery of 
 hill and dale. IIltc and tlu-ri' along tin- sununit-line of majestic 
 
ON LAKE PEPIN. 59 
 
 bluffs you see a single row of trees at a distance of several feet from 
 one another, like warriors in Indian file. 
 
 The amenity of the landscape lends to it an indescribable charm. 
 On Lake George you see bold and beautiful hills, wooded to the 
 water's edge, and interspersed with rocks and rugged declivities that 
 contrast with the pervading verdure. But on Lake Pepin you see 
 grandeur putting on all forms of beauty, and wearing, under all 
 aspects, a smile. Even its ravines are so hollowed and smoothed 
 that every rugged feature has been softened down. Its charming hill- 
 sides are such as the imagination of Watteau used to select for the 
 pastoral pic-nics and concerts he delighted to paint. The charm of 
 variety is not wanting to these slopes. The curves and undulations 
 of verdure assume every fanciful and delightful form ; now sweeping 
 so as to create a regular amphitheatre between two high bluffs ; now 
 sinking into basins; now sparsely dotted with trees; now entirely 
 bare of trees, and richly carpeted with grass ; now crowned with 
 noble forests ; and now rising into a perpendicular and precipitous 
 wall of sand-stone. 
 
 On our northward trip, we passed through Lake Pepin in the 
 night-time ; so that we could not see much of its scenery. Three of 
 our boats were lashed together, and thus proceeded along the whole 
 length of the lake, exhibiting to any stray occupant of the shore a 
 startling and fiery spectacle. On our return we were more fortunate. 
 We entered upon Lake Pepin at the dawn of a beautiful day. 
 Toward the southern extremity of the lake we saw the high bluff, with 
 its sand-stone pinnacle, known as the Maiden's Rock. It was my 
 fortune to be standing on the hurricane-deck, with my foot upon a 
 life-preserving stool, and my elbow leaned upon my knee, when some 
 of my lady acquaintances of the excursion broke in upon my contem- 
 plations. 
 
 " We have come to you," said one, " for the authentic version of 
 the legend which gives to that rock its name. Please to sit down, 
 and tell it like a faithful chronicler." 
 
 "Authorities differ," said another, "as to whether the maiden, 
 who threw herself from the rock, had a lover ; now I insist upon it 
 that she had." 
 
60 THE ATLAXTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 " Please to be seated, ladies, and you shall hear the whole story ; 
 although it is many years since I received it from a Sister of Charity 
 at Montreal." 
 
 '• But I insist upon it that a lover must be introduced," said lady 
 number two. 
 
 " We can not promise," said I ; " for the story will come to my 
 recollection only by degrees, as I go along. What shall we call it?'^ 
 
 " Call it," said the first lady, hesitatingly, " call it 
 
 "22l£-no-na's ^loch." 
 
 " We-no-na's Rock it shall be." 
 
 Know, then, that many years ago, shortly before the indefatigable 
 Jesuit missionaries had penetrated this country, or given to this beau- 
 tiful lake the name of that old king of the Franks, which it bears, the 
 Dahcotahs or Sioux Indians occupied the region now partly included 
 within the limits of Minnesota and Wisconsin. 
 
 The Dahcotahs were confederated bands, sub-divided into clans, 
 and they differed from the Indians east of the Mississippi in relying 
 more exclusively for their support upon hunting the bison. They 
 were a fierce, aggressive people, and so improvident, that periods ot 
 famine among them were quite common. On such occasions they 
 would suddenly break up their settlements and move to distant 
 hunting-grounds, leaving their infirm old men, who were unable to 
 travel, behind to perish. 
 
 On a cold day in January, on the edge of the clump of trees which 
 you see a short distance back from the Maiden's Rock, an old Indian 
 mi"ht have been seen cowering about a fire. Ish-te-nah had been left 
 to die. Ilis people, driven by hunger, had gone west in search of the 
 bison. A small pile of wood, some morsels of food, a hatchet, a bircheu 
 vessel, filled with water, and a bow and arrows, were by his side ; and 
 a few stakes, covered with deer-skins, disposed in a cone-like shape, 
 formed the wigwam for his shelter and repose. The ground was 
 covered with snow, and the wind blew keenly from the north-west. 
 
 " Go, my children," the old man had said, when some seemed to 
 hesitate in their act of desertion ; " go where you can got food. Leave 
 me to the Great Spirit's care. At the best I have but a brief while 
 
ON LAKE PEPIN. 61 
 
 to live. I should be a burthen and a delay to you if you attempted 
 to take me with you. Your women and young people must be pro- 
 vided for. Go !" 
 
 And Ish-te-nah was left alone. Although he had made a virtue 
 of necessity, and exhibited the characteristic stoicism of his race, in 
 insisting upon thus being deserted, he could not repress the bitter 
 thoughts that visited him as the last lingerers disappeared from his 
 feeble gaze. He recalled the times when he had rallied his people to 
 a victorious onset, or saved them from a well-laid ambush, or brought 
 them off safely fl-om the assault of superior numbers. He recalled 
 his achievements in the chase, and the occasions when, by foresight 
 and energy, he had averted calamities like the present. And after 
 all his benefits to his tribe, here was his reward. 
 
 As he was indulging in these repining retrospections, he was 
 startled by the sound of crackling snow, and the next moment an 
 Indian girl stood panting before him. 
 
 " We-no-na ! What brings you here V said the old man. " Do 
 not linger, or you will miss your people's track. Already the drift- 
 ing snow may have covered it." 
 
 " I do not care. T stay here," said "We-no-na, throwing some dry 
 boughs on the fire. 
 
 " V/ould the young fawn perish like the old, disabled buck 1 
 What moves We-no-na to this desperate resolve 1" 
 
 " Father, they would wed me to the chief Ha-o-kah ; and I detest 
 him." 
 
 " In other words, you love some younger man of the tribe." 
 
 " I love no man, young or old ; unless it be you, fiither, from 
 whom I have always had kindness." 
 
 " Go, foolish fawn ! Ha-o-kah is as good as most husbands." 
 
 " I would sooner die than have a husband, if all are like those of 
 the Dahcotahs," exclaimed We-no-na energetically. "How much 
 better is a wife treated than a dog 1 Look at my mother ! See her 
 staggering under heavy burthens, while her husband carries no more 
 than will keep him warm. ' The wife must cut the tree, peel the bark, 
 build the hut, sew the skins, paddle the canoe, and cook the food. 
 She must do every menial thing, while the husband looks on in idle 
 
62 THE ATLANTIC SOUVE.VIR. 
 
 ness. All this I could bear, if she had good treatment after it. But 
 then, when her drudgery is over, she must be beaten, or have a stick 
 of wood thrown at her head. Yesterday my mother was beaten for 
 not beating me hard enough, because I said I would die sooner than 
 marry, and so I would !" 
 
 " Tlie Indian's is a bad life," said the old man. " What you say 
 is true. Indian women arc slaves ; and Indian old men arc aban- 
 doned, as I am, to die." 
 
 "Father, you shall not die if I can help it. I will build your fire, 
 peel bark to improve your shelter, and break holes in the ice to catch 
 fish." 
 
 For a moment the old man's Indian apathy was melted, and a 
 estrange, unwonted feeling, which, a little more indulged, would have 
 brought tears to his eyes, stole through his breast. 
 
 " We-no-na deserves a better husband than any Dahcotah would 
 make," said the old man. " It is hard to speak against one's own 
 nation ; but what I have seen, I have seen. We-no-na does not 
 desire to be a slave, and so she will go unwedded." 
 
 "Father, I would willingly toil like a slave, if there were loving 
 words and looks to repay me ; but the angry threat, the blow, the 
 contempt of a man is more than I can submit to. I think the Great 
 Spirit has made me different from other Dahcotah women." 
 
 Saying this, We-no-na seized the hatchet, and treading lightly and 
 fleetly over the snow toward that grove of oak which you see in 
 the direction of the north-west, cut a bundle of dry boughs, and 
 brought them to the fire. The old man and maiden then partook of 
 a frugal meal of dried venison ; and when the night came on, one 
 of them watched the fire while the other slept. 
 
 The next morning We-no-na crossed the lake on the ice to tkat 
 bluff with the bowl-like hollow on its front, to reconnoitre. What 
 was her joy on discovering traces of deer! She had brought the 
 old man's bow and arrows with her, and she resolved to lie in wait for 
 the game on which not only her own life, but another's, seemed now to 
 depend. Her vigilance was soon repaid. A noble deer came bt)und- 
 ing by toward an oak opening which lies just back of the bluff. With 
 beating heart We-no-na fixed the arrow in the string, and without 
 
ON LAKE PEPIN. 63 
 
 pausing, shot it at the animal. Leaping high in the air, he fell, and 
 crimsoned the snow with his life-blood. " Surely," thought We-no- 
 na, " the good spirit who dwells in svoods has befriended me ;" for 
 this was the first deer she had ever killed. With great labor she 
 dragged the carcase to the edge of the bluff, and rolled it dovni over 
 the icy crust to the frozen lake. It would have been hard work for a 
 strong man to pull it over the ice, and up to the little encampment 
 back of We-no-na's rock. But this she did, greatly fearing the 
 while lest the wolves should interrupt her in the task. 
 
 Old Ish-te-nah's eyes sparkled when he saw what the maiden had 
 accomplished. 
 
 " Here is enough," he said, " to keep you from starving till the 
 spring." 
 
 " To keep us both, father," rejoined We-no-na. 
 
 The old man shook his head, but said nothing. 
 
 " What would my fither say V asked We-no-na, after a long pause. 
 
 " Should I leave jou, my child, trust in the Great Spirit, and be 
 brave. Wait here through the winter as long as 3'ou can get food 
 and warmth ; but do not tarry after you have plucked the first ripe 
 strawberry in the summer. Remember." 
 We-no-na promised obedience. 
 
 "And go east, beyond the great lakes, to the country of the 
 Algonquins, where you will find the pale-faces of whom you have 
 heard, and who will teach you much that will do your people good, 
 should you ever return to them." 
 
 We-no-na bowed her head in acknowledgment that she had stored 
 up in her memory all that the old man had enjoined. She then 
 cooked some venison, but he partook sparingly, and bade her sleep, 
 while he watched. The command was not unwelcome ; for she had 
 been much fiitigued by her day's work. She slept profoundly for 
 some hours, then started up suddenly, waked by the cold, and found 
 that the fire was decaying fast. She heaped upon it some more 
 wood, then turning to Ish-te-nah, said: " Father, you shall now take 
 your turn to sleep." No answer came from him. We-no-na seized 
 him by the arm : it was cold and stiff. The soul of the old warrior 
 had departed. 
 
Gt THE ATLAXTIC SOUVEXIK. 
 
 The maiden sat in mute, overpowering affliction for many hours. 
 The anguish of utter bereavement and desolation seemed to deprive 
 her even of the relief of tears. At length she recalled her promises 
 to the old man. She found a place under a high snow-drift, where 
 the ground was yet unfrozen; and here she dug a grave, and deposited 
 his mortal body. And it was not Jill all this was done, and the snow 
 had been replaced over the spot of interment, and the fire had been 
 heaped anew with wood, that tears and lamentations found vent with 
 We-no-na. 
 
 But the grief of the young and healthy is like a flesh-wound that 
 befalls them: it soon heals. Left entirely to her own resources, 
 "We-no-na found hourly occupation for her hands and thoughts, and at 
 ni"ht slept so profoundly that, on waking, she often could not remem- 
 ber that she had even dreamed. She enlarged the little wigwam so 
 as to make quite a neat apartment, well roofed, and with a floor of 
 bark, on which was spread the skin of a bison. By laying large strips 
 of bark sloping against the trees to which her wigwam was bound, she 
 made a safe place for the deposit of the venison and other provisions. 
 She constructed a canoe in anticipation of the river's melting in the 
 spring ; and out of the deer-skin she made moccasins and belts. And 
 then a good part of the day was occupied in cutting and bringing in 
 wood ; so that We-no-na had little time for idle or desponding f-iu- 
 cies.^ Occasionally, -vi-lien the wind howled, and the snow whirled in 
 wild eddies over the bluff", she would sit and fee^ the fire for hours, 
 and then strange thoughts would visit her ; and the consciousness of 
 her lonely situation would press upon her heavily. But she was 
 naturally cheerful and hopeful; and her day-dreams were oftener 
 bright tli;in gloomy. She was saddest when she thought of a little 
 sister, who had died the winter before. But one night she dreamed 
 that little We-liar-ka cmne to her lonely wigwam, and promised to 
 lead her in good time to a land more beautiful than any she had yet 
 seen, where there were birds and fruits all the year round, and M'here 
 no violence was done, and no harsh M'ords were spoken. After this, 
 We-no-na was more content, and she loved to recall all the particu 
 lars of her dream. There were little brothers whom she had been 
 obliged to leave in deserting her people. And did not We-no-nu 
 
ON LAKE PEPIN. 65 
 
 grieve for them ? Alas ! like all Indian boys, they had been bred up 
 to treat their sisters with contempt and ignominy ; and the effects of 
 a vile education had been such as to blunt their natural affections, and 
 to make them regard the fraternal sentiment as a weakness which no 
 boy who hoped to become a great warrior ought to entertain. 
 
 The winter months had never seemed to We-no-na less tedious. 
 March, with its cold blasts, and April, with its torrents of rain, had 
 passed ; and the south wind unlocked the fettered Mississippi, and the 
 blue waters of Lake Pepin again sparkled in the sunshine, and the 
 verdure began to creep over bluff and prairie, and the delicate foliage 
 to fringe the trees, and bright flowers to open amid the springing grass 
 and by the border of the groves. We-no-na's winter experiences had 
 given her a feeling of independence and self reliance, which was in 
 itself a great source of happiness. Never before had she known the 
 true luxury of freedom. If heretofore she had roamed the prairie, oi 
 paddled the canoe, it was but to anticipate her degradation the mo- 
 ment she should enter the filthy hovels where her people were herded. 
 She had a womanly sense of neatness, which now she could indulge 
 unchecked. She delighted in nature, and her delight was now 
 unmarred by embittering associations. She grew in stature and in 
 beauty, and in strength and fleetness; and as she snuffed the pure 
 morning breeze, and saw the sun crimsoning the eastern clouds, or as 
 she looked up to the starry heavens, or to the coruscations of the 
 Aurora by night, she would exclaim: "Yes, the Great Spirit is 
 generous and good ; it is man only who is bad, and who spoils the 
 gifts that are lavished on his race !" 
 
 It was one of the last days of May, when, as "We-no-na was 
 descending to that beautiful prairie, where the little house now stands, 
 she saw a red strawberry amid the grass, and plucked it. She then 
 remembered Ish-te-nah's injunction, and walked musingly back to her 
 wigwam. It was almost with a pang of regret that she prepared to 
 leave this beautiful region. All the means of subsistence seemed so 
 abundant around her ; earth, air, and water seemed so kind in render- 
 ing up their stores ; and then, as summer came on, the whole land- 
 scape was clothed in such affluent beauty ; the verdant bluffs swept in 
 
 such graceful curves to the water's edge; and the distant prairie 
 
 5 
 
^6 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 began to heave its sparkling waves of green so luxuriantly t But 
 might there not be fair spots eastward of the lake ? She would go, as 
 Ish-te-nah had recommended ; but first she would collect, as a memo- 
 rial, some of the beautiful stones scattered along the shore. 
 
 These stones, as you are aware, arc agates and cornelians ; and 
 Lake Pepin has yielded them in abundance for many years. 
 
 We-no-na descended and ran along the shore as far as the point 
 we are now skirting. She would stop here and there to pick up a 
 handful of agates, and then, as she saw others more beautiful, she 
 would throw aside those she had gathered, and replace them with new 
 treasures. She was thus lured on to wander several miles ; and the 
 evening twilight was far advanced before she regained her wigwam. 
 It was now too late to start upon her pilgrimage. No matter ; she 
 would commence it early the next morning. 
 
 "When morning came, there were many preparations to make; 
 and the sun had been up a couple of hours before she had set forth on 
 her journey. She carried her canoe fastened by a strap to her back, 
 her hatchet and arrows in her belt, and provision for several days in 
 a pouch of deer-skin that hung at her side. What was her dismay, 
 after descending the hill and passing through yonder little belt of 
 woodland, on coming suddenly upon an Indian enc^impmcnt! She 
 paused, hoping to retreat unseen; but this was now impossible. 
 Several Indians started up and approached her, and a second glance 
 was not needed to assure her that among them she saw her father 
 and mother and her hated suitor, Ila-o-kah. This worthy chief had 
 made the lives of the old people somewhat uncomfortable from his 
 repeatedly twitting them with the fact that he had bought their 
 daughter of them twice over, and been cheated out of the purchase. 
 As Ila-o-kah had no small degree of influence in the tribe, the old 
 couple felt very uneasy at their daughter's dereliction, it having 
 placed them in the position of debtors to one who evidently, by 
 his frequent taunts and dunning, was not disposed to let them sleep 
 over the debt they had incurred. 
 
 There was, consequently, an exclamation of general surprise and 
 satisfaction at the appearance of We-no-na. Her first act was to 
 disencuraber herself of her canoe, and every thing that could impede 
 
ON LAKE PEPIN. 67 
 
 her flight. She then placed an arrow in the string of her bow, and, 
 retreating a few steps, called upon the approaching party to stop. 
 There was something so imperious in her tone that they instantly 
 obeyed. She then briefly told them that she had withdrawn from 
 her tribe ; that she looked to none of them for support ; and that 
 she wished to be alone. To this her father replied in violent lan- 
 guage, ordering her to come to him. She refused by a significant 
 gesture. He ran forward to meet her, but she soon doubled the 
 distance between them. With true Indian craft, he then changed 
 his policy, and asked We-no-na whiningly if she would not come 
 to her dear, affectionate parents'? At the same time, We-no-na 
 could see him threaten her mother with his hatchet, bidding her 
 to join in his entreaties and lamentations. This the old woman 
 readily did. But We-no-na was inexorable. Then the amiable 
 Ha-o-kah approached ; but as We-no-na aimed, or pretended to aim, 
 an arrow at him, he dodged behind a bush, and begged her to hear 
 him. This, she assured him, she would do if he would stay where he 
 was. Ha-o-kah then informed her that he had bought her in fail 
 trade of her parents, and that in common honesty she ought to come 
 and be his wife ; he told her that he had but three wives, all of whom 
 were happy women ; he had been very successful in hunting, and had 
 collected a good number of skins, beside a quantity of bear's-grease ; 
 he had also taken the scalp of a Pawnee, and stolen a horse ; in short, 
 there was not a young woman in the tribe who would not be proud 
 of the position he now offered to the disdainful We-no-na. 
 
 We-no-na, leaning scornfully on her bow, replied : " Thief of a 
 Dahcotah, your wife I will never be ! You say you have but three : 
 there was a fourth, who died of a blow from her husband. What a 
 brave he must be ! There is another, who is blind of an eye. How 
 did she lose it, O great warrior, with your one scalp, and that, I will 
 venture to say, a woman's ? Never will I be your wife ! never will I 
 be one of your people again ! Go vent your anger upon the poor 
 slaves who are left to you, and be content !" 
 
 By this time the rage of Ha-o-kah was at its heignt ; and, regard 
 less of danger, he rushed forth with a howl to seize her who had 
 dared to give utterance to such unwelcome truths. But We-no-na, 
 
68 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 vigilant as a wild-cat and swifter than the deer, gained an elevation 
 from which she again aimed an arrow at her pursuer. He threw 
 himself on the ground, and the arrow lodged in the trunk of a tree 
 some distance behind. With a yell, he rose to his feet, and strained 
 every sinew to overtake We-no-na; but, with the ease and grace of an 
 antelope, she outran him. All the young men of the encampment 
 were by this time in full chase ; for they knew that they need expect 
 no grace from Ha-o-kah unless they were officious in assisting him. 
 We-no-na ran to the top of the bluff, where her wigwam stood, and 
 threw herself panting upon a bed of dry, fragrant grass, that she had 
 prepared some days before. She had rested there hardly a minute, 
 when the sound of voices and footsteps roused her, and, springing to 
 her feet, she saw Ha-o-kah, with three or four followers, ascending the 
 hill-slope from the south, and but a few rods distant. In a frenzy of 
 indignation, she again set an arrow in the string, and exclaiming, 
 " This, Ila-o-kah, for the benefit of your three wives !" shot it at him 
 before he had time to turn aside. It lodged in his right arm above 
 the elbow, disabling it materially for the active purposes of chastising 
 his wives or scalping his foes. 
 
 The pursuers paused, quite confounded at this audacious shot ; 
 but Ha-o-kah, with a scream of mingled rage and pain, bade them 
 proceed, and they dashed on toward the summit of the bluff. As 
 they mounted it, they beheld We-no-na at the very edge of the 
 fearful precipice, looking back upon them with a determined 
 glance. " Brave woman-chasers !" she exclaimed, " let me see you 
 follow !" 
 
 And, with the words, she sprang from the cliff, some sixty feet far 
 out among the trees that slope from the base of the wall of rock 
 toward the water; and before her pursuers could reach the edge 
 of the precipice, she had swung herself from bough to bough into 
 the river. 
 
 There was an exclamation of horror and surprise from Ha-o-kah 
 and his young men as they witnessed this intrepid leap. No one 
 cared to risk his neck by imitating it. They separated, and ran 
 round each side of the bluff toward the base ; but to their amazement 
 could see no trace of We-no-na, Was it possible that she had leaped 
 
ON LAKE PEPIN. 69 
 
 SO far as to fall into the water ? Incredible as this seemed, it was the 
 conclusion to which they came. 
 
 Poor Ha-o-kah was a good deal crest-fallen, as, with his wounded 
 arm in a sling, he rejoined the encampment. His three wives at first 
 exhibited much concern on seeing him wounded, and approached him 
 with the servility he habitually exacted ; but, on discovering that his 
 arm was so shattered as to be unfit for any future service, the} 
 taunted him with his misfortune, and manifested a wonderful indif- 
 ference to his sufferings. He looked about for a hatchet to throw at 
 one of them, but a slight motion of his arm reminded him of his 
 impotence, and he changed his rough tone to a pleading treble. As 
 his influence with his tribe was derived chiefly from his physical 
 strength and skill, and not from his wisdom in council, he at once fell 
 into insignificance, and soon found himself restricted to a single wife, 
 whom he never spoke to but in terms of profound respect. 
 
 The pursuers all reported that We-no-na was drowned : it would 
 have been a poor compliment to their speed and sagacity to suppose 
 otherwise. Almost every version of the tradition of "We-no-na's 
 Rock" adopts their story. But it does not follow that, because they 
 could not find her, she was drowned. On the contrary, there is in 
 the very fact a presumption that she escaped. The truth is, that 
 We-no-na, who was a most adroit swimmer, did escape. Swimming 
 across the river, she concealed herself awhile, and then took u^) her 
 journey toward the east. She crossed the territory which now con- 
 stitutes the width of the State of Wisconsin, and arrived at Green 
 Bay early in August. Here, at the point where Fort La Baye was 
 subsequently erected, she found a French exploring party, under the 
 conduct of several Jesuit missionaries. She attached herself to it, 
 and soon made herself useful. 
 
 A young Parisian of education and refinement, and a devout 
 Catholic withal, named La Crosse, was seriously ill of a fever ; and 
 We-no-na was appointed to watch and nurse him. This she did 
 with so much patience and fidelity, that La Crosse was seriously 
 impressed ; and no sooner was he restored to health than he informed 
 Father Duhesme of his desire of espousing We-no-na. Tlie worthy 
 father said that this could not be done until the maiden was made a 
 
10 THE ATLANTIC SOLVrN'IR. 
 
 good Catholic; and they both forthwith applied themselves to her 
 conversion. This was a longer process than they anticipated. It 
 was some time before We-no-na acquired sufficient French to under- 
 stand their purpose ; and then she had so many posing questions to 
 ask, that the learned missionary frequently thought she must be 
 especially instigated by Satan in the unlooked-for difficulties she 
 raised. 
 
 At length the maiden's intelligence seemed to pierce to the pith 
 of the matter, relieved of all its bewildering husks, forms, and 
 wrappings. The beauty and holiness of Christian morality dawned 
 upon her benighted soul, and reconciled her fully and cordially to 
 the Christian religion. It was to her, in truth, a revelation, and 
 was received in earnestness and faith. She was baptized and mar- 
 ried. 
 
 The party returned soon after to Montreal. La Crosse became 
 the chief man of one of the beautiful villages on the St. Lawrence. 
 "We-no-na adapted herself eagerly to the habits and tastes of civilized 
 life. Sometimes, as the happy pair sat on their broad piazza amid 
 roses and honeysuckle, with their little half breeds playing before them, 
 La Crosse, to make his wife's eyes flash with their old barbariim fire, 
 would express a pretended preference for the freedom of savage-life, 
 and, sighing, wish that they were among the Dahcotahs; a wish which 
 never failed to call forth an indignant rebuke from "NVe-no-na. On 
 one occasion her husband, to please some wandering Iroquois, daubed 
 his face with ochre, grease, and charcoal, threw a blanket over his 
 shoulders, decorated his head with feathers, took a scalping-knife 
 in one hand and a tomahawk in the other, and, with genuine French 
 versatility, joined in a war-dance. But when he found that his dis- 
 guise disturbed We-no-na, so that she wept passionately, he threw it 
 aside, never to resume it. 
 
 A proud woman was she, when, with her two boys and a little girl, 
 La Crosse first drove her up, in a painted sledge, to the little Catholic 
 church where Sunday service was held. No wonder that the emotion 
 of gratitude surpassed all others as she knelt in prayer. A still 
 prouder woman was she, when her children could read and write, 
 and one of her boys attained such proficiency on the bass-viol that 
 
ON LAKE PEPIN. 71 
 
 he was employed by the priest to lead the choir in church. They 
 grew up a bright intelligent race, and We-no-na lived to see them all 
 happily settled upon adjoining farms. 
 And this is the end of "We-no-na's Rock." 
 
BRANCACCI CHAPEL, FLOHENCE. 
 
 BY JAME8 RUSSELL LOWTILL. 
 
 He came to Florence long ago, 
 
 And painted here these walls, •which shone 
 
 For Raphael and for Angelo 
 
 "With secrets deeper than his own ; 
 
 Then shrank into the dark again, 
 
 And died, we know not how or when. 
 
 The shadows deepened, and I turned 
 Half-sadly from the fresco grand ; 
 And is this, mused I, all ye earned. 
 High-vaunted brain and cunning hand, 
 That we who wonder here should know 
 This single word — Masaccio ? 
 
 And who were they, I mused, that wrought 
 Through pathless wilds, through hate and wrong, 
 The highways of our daily thought ? 
 Who buUt those towers of eldest song 
 That lift us o'er the world to peace, 
 Remote, 'mid starry, silences ? 
 
 Out clanged the Avo-Mart bells. 
 And to my heart this message came: 
 " Each clamorous throat among us tells 
 What strong-souled martyrs died in flame 
 To make it possible that thou 
 Shouldst here with brother-sinners bow. 
 
14^ THE ATLAyilC SOCVEXIR. 
 
 " Thoughts that great hearts once brake for, ye 
 Breathe painless now as common air; 
 The dust j-e trample heedlessly 
 Is that of saints and heroes rare 
 Who perished, opening for their race 
 Paths now so tame and common-place." 
 
 Hencefortli, when nngs the health to those 
 Who live in story and in song, 
 nameless dead, that now repose 
 Safu in Obhvion's chambers strong. 
 One cup of recognition true 
 Shall silently be drained to you I 
 
&t-- 
 
3i Sag at ^l f d^im. 
 
 FROM THE I06-B00K OP MY HOMEWAUD VOYAOE, 
 
 BY BATARD TAYLOE. 
 
 The three passengers on board of the clipper-ship Sea-Serpent, 
 bound from Whampoa to New- York, were greatly delighted to learn 
 from Capt, Rowland, on the day when they crossed the tropic of 
 Capricorn, that the water was gettmg short, and he had therefore 
 decided to touch at St. Helena for a fresh supply. We had already 
 been more than sixty days on board, and the sea, with all its wonder- 
 ful fascination, was growing monotonous. Here was an event which, 
 in addition to its positive interest, would give us at least five days of 
 anticipation and a week of active remembrance, virtually shortening 
 our voyage to that extent ; for at sea we measure time less by the 
 calendar than by our individual sense of its duration. I have spent 
 several months on shipboard, when, according to the almanac, barely 
 a fortnight had elapsed. 
 
 The trade-wind bore us slowly northward, and when I went on 
 deck at sunrise, four days afterward, St. Helena was in sight, about 
 twenty-five \ni\es distant. It was a dark-blue mass, filling about 
 twenty degrees of the horizon, and of nearly uniform elevation above 
 the sea, but gradually resolved itself into sharper and more broken 
 outlines as we approached. Except upon a lofty terrace on the 
 southern side, where there was a tinge of green and some traces of 
 fields, the coast presented a frightfully rocky and inhospitable appear- 
 ance. Nevertheless it displayed some grand eff*ects of coloring. The 
 walls of naked rock, several hundred feet high, which rose boldly 
 
76 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 I'roni the sea, in some places overhanging their base, were tinted 
 
 as by 
 
 "the deep-blue gloom 
 Of thunder-shower," 
 
 the hollow chasms between them being filled with gorgeous masses 
 of purple-black shadow, under the sultry clouds which hung over the 
 island. At the south-eastern extremity were two pointed, isolated 
 rocks, probably a hundred feet high. We stood around the opposite 
 extremity of the island, making for the port of Jamestown, which 
 faces the north-west. The coast on this side rises into two bold 
 heads, one of which projects outward like a gigantic capstan, while 
 the other runs slantingly up to a pointed top, which is crowned with 
 a signal station. The rock has a dark bluish-slate color, with streaks 
 of a warm reddish-brown, and the strata, burst apart in the centre, yet 
 slanting upward toward each other like the sides of a volcano, tell of 
 upheaval by some tremendous subterranean agency. The structure 
 of the island is purely volcanic, and, except the rock of Aden, on the 
 coast of Arabia, I never saw a more forbidding spot. 
 
 The breeze increased as we drew near the island, but when we 
 ran under the lee of the great cliffs, ftll away almost entirely, so that 
 we drifted lazily along within half a mile of them. At length a bat- 
 tery hove in sight, quarried in the face of the precipice, and anchored 
 vessels, one by one, came out behind the point. We stood off a little, 
 urged along by occasional flaws of wind, and in a short time the shal- 
 low bight which forms the roadstead of St. Helena lay before us. 
 There was another battery near at hand, at the foot of a deep, barren 
 glen, called Rupert's Valley, from which a road, notched in the rock, 
 leads around the intervening cliffs to the gorge, at the bottom of 
 which Jamestown is built. A sea-wall across the mouth of this gorge, 
 a row of ragged trees, weather-beaten by the gales of the Atlantic, 
 and the spire of a church, were all that appeared of the town. The 
 walls of the fort crowned the lofty cliff above, and high behind them 
 towered the signal station, on the top of a conical peak, the loftiest in 
 the island. The stone ladder which leads from the tower to the fort 
 was marked on the fjice of the cliff like a white ribbon unrolled from 
 its top. Inland, a summit coviTcd with dark pino-froos. from the 
 
A DAY AT ST. HELENA. 77 
 
 midst of which glimmered the white front of a country mansion, rose 
 above the naked heights of the shore. This was the only gleam of 
 fertility which enlivened the terrible sterility of the view. 
 
 Further in-shore a few gun-boats and water-boats lay at anchor, 
 and some fishing-skiffs were pulling about. As we forged slowly 
 along to a good anchoring ground, the American consul came off, fol- 
 lowed by a boarding-officer, and we at once received permission to go 
 ashore and make the most of our short stay. The consul's boat 
 speedily conveyed us to the landing-place, at the eastern extremity of 
 the town. Every thing had a dreary and deserted air. There were 
 half-a-dozen men and boys, with Portuguese features and uncertain 
 complexions, about the steps, a red-coated soldier at a sentry-box, and 
 two or three lonely-looking individuals under the weather-beaten 
 trees. Passing a row of mean houses built against the overhanging 
 rock, a draw-bridge over a narrow moat admitted us within the walls. 
 A second wall and gate, a short distance further, ushered us into the 
 public square of Jamestown. Even at its outlet, the valley is not 
 more than a hundred and fifty yards wide, and the little town is 
 crowded, or rather jammed, deep in its bottom, between nearly per- 
 pendicular cliffs, seven or eight hundred feet in height. At the top 
 of the square is the church, a plain yellowish structure, with a tall, 
 square, pointed spire, and beyond it Market street, the main tho- 
 roughfare of the little place, opens up the valley. 
 
 A carriage — almost the only one in Jamestown — was procured 
 
 for Mrs. H ; my fellow-passenger, P , provided himself 
 
 with a saddle-horse, and we set out for Longwood. We had a 
 mounted Portuguese postillion and rattled up the steep and stony 
 main street in a style which drew upon us the eyes of all Jamestown. 
 The road soon left the town, ascending the right side of the ravine by 
 a very long and steep grade. Behind the town are the barracks of 
 the soldiery and their parade-ground — all on a cramped and con- 
 tracted scale : then some dreary burial-grounds, the graves in which 
 resembled helps of cinders ; then a few private mansions, and green 
 garden-patches, winding upward for a mile or more. The depth and 
 narrowness of the gorge completely shut out the air ; the heat was 
 radiated powerfully from its walls of black volcanic rock, and the 
 
78 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 bristling cacti and yuccas by the roadside, with full-crowned cocoa 
 palms below, gave it a fiery, savage, tropical character. The peak of 
 the signal-station loomed high above us from the opposite side, and 
 now the head of the ravine — a precipice several hundred feet high, 
 over which fell a silver thread of water — came into sight. This 
 water supplies the town and shipping, beside fertilizing the gardens 
 in the bed of the ravine. It is clear as crystal, and of the sweetest 
 and freshest quality. Looking backward, we saw the spire of the 
 little church at the bottom projected against the blue plain of ocean, 
 the pigmy hulls of the vessels in the roads, and a great triangular 
 slice of sea, which grew wider and longer as we ascended, until the 
 horizon was full fifty miles distant. 
 
 Near the top of the ravine there is a natural terrace about a quar- 
 ter of a mile in length, lying opposite to the cascade. It contains a 
 few small fields, divided by scrubby hedges, and, near the further end, 
 two pleasant dwelling-houses, surrounded by a garden in which I saw 
 some fine orange-trees. This is " The Briars," memorable from hav- 
 ing been Napoleon's first residence on the island. Tlie Balcombe 
 family occupied the larger of the two dwellings, which is flanked by 
 tall Italian cypresses, while the other building, which was then a sum- 
 mer pavilion, but was afterward enlarged to accommodate the Em- 
 peror and his suite, received him on the very night of his landing 
 from the Bellerophon. It stands on a little knoll, overlooking a deep 
 glen, which debouches into the main valley just below. Tlie place is 
 cheerful though solitary ; it has a sheltered, sunny aspect, compared 
 with the bleak heights of Longwood, and I do not wonder that the 
 great exile left it with regret. Miss Balcombe's account of Napo- 
 leon's sojourn at " The Briars" is among the most striking reminis- 
 cences of his life on the island. 
 
 Just above the terrace the road turned, and, after a shorter ascent, 
 gained the crest of the ridge, where the grade became easier, and the 
 cool south-east trade-wind, blowing over the height, refreshed us after 
 the breathless heat of the ravine. The road was bordered with pine- 
 trees, and patches of soft green turf took the place of the volcanic dust 
 and cinders. Tlic flower-stems of the aloe-plants, ten feet in height, 
 had already begun to wither, but the purple buds of the cactus were 
 
A DAY AT ST. HELENA. 79 
 
 opening, and thick clusters of a watery, succulent plant were starred 
 with white, pink, and golden blossoms. We had now attained the 
 central upland of the island, which slopes downward in all directions 
 to the summit of the sea-wall of cliffs. On emerging again from the 
 wood, a landscape of a very different character met our view. Over 
 a deep valley, the sides of which were alternately green with turf and 
 golden with patches of blossoming broom, we looked upon a ridge of 
 table-land three or four miles long, near the extremity of which, sur- 
 rounded by a few straggling trees, we saw the houses of Longwood. 
 In order to reach them, it was necessary to pass around the head of 
 the intervening valley. In this direction the landscape was green and 
 fresh, dotted with groves of pine and white country houses. Flocks 
 of sheep grazed on the turfy hill-sides, and a few cows and horses 
 ruminated among the clumps of broom. Down in the bottom of the 
 valley, I noticed a small inclosure, planted with Italian cypresses, and 
 with a square white object in the centre. It did not need the pos- 
 tillion's words to assure me that I looked upon the Grave of Napo- 
 leon. 
 
 Looking eastward toward the sea, the hills became bare and red, 
 gashed with chasms and falling off in tremendous precipices, the 
 height of which we could only guess from the dim blue of the great 
 sphere of sea, whose far-off horizon was drawn above their summits, 
 so that we seemed to stand in the centre of a vast concavity. In 
 color, form, and magnificent desolation, these hills called to my mind 
 the mountain region surrounding the Dead Sea. Clouds rested upon 
 the high, pine-wooded summits to the west of us, and the broad, 
 sloping valley, on the other side of the ridge of Longwood, was as 
 green as a dell of Switzerland. The view of those fresh pasture- 
 slopes, with their flocks of sheep, their groves and cottages, was all the 
 more delightful from its being wholly unexpected. Where the ridge 
 joins the hills, and one can look into both valleys at the same time, 
 there is a small tavern, with the familiar English sign of the " Crown 
 and Rose." Our road now led eastward along the top of the ridge, 
 over a waste tract covered with clumps of broom, for another mile 
 and a half, when we reached the gate of the Longwood Farm, A 
 broad avenue of trees, which all lean inland from the stress of the 
 
80 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 irade-wind, conducts to the group of buildings, on a bleak spot, over- 
 looking the sea, and exposed to the full force of the wind. Our wheels 
 rolled over a thick, green turf, the freshness of which showed how 
 unfrequent must be the visits of strangers. 
 
 On reaching the gate a small and very dirty boy, with a milk- 
 and-molasses complexion, brought out to us a notice pasted on a 
 board, intimating that those who wished to see the residence of the 
 Emperor Napoleon must pay two shillings a-piece, in advance ; child- 
 ren half-price. A neat little Englishwoman, of that uncertain age 
 which made me hesitate to ask her whether she had ever seen the 
 Emperor, was in attendance, to receive the fees and act as cicerone. 
 We alighted at a small green verandah, facing a wooden wing which 
 projects from the eastern front of the building. The first room we 
 entered was whitewashed, and covered all over with the names of 
 visitors, in charcoal, pencil, and red chalk. The greater part of them 
 were French. " This," said the little woman, " was the Emperor's 
 billiard-room, built after he came to live at Longwood. The walls 
 have three or four times been covered with names, and whitewashed 
 over." A door at the further end admitted us into the drawing-room, 
 in which Napoleon died. The ceiling was broken away, and dust and 
 cobwebs covered the bare rafters. The floor was half-decayed, almost 
 invisible through the dirt which covered it, and the plastering, filling 
 off, disclosed in many places the rough stone walls. A winnowing - 
 mill and two or three other farming utensils stood in the corners. 
 The window looked into a barn-yard filled with mud and dung. 
 Stretched on a sofa, with his head beside this window, the great con- 
 queror, the " modern Sesostris," breathed his last, amid the delirium 
 of fancied battle and the bowlings of a storm which shook the island. 
 The corner-stone of the jamb, nearest which his head lay, has beep 
 quarried out of the wall, and taken to France. 
 
 Beyond this was the dining-room, now a dark, dirty barn-floor, 
 filled to the rafters with straw and refuse timbers. We passed out 
 into a cattle-yard, and entered the Emperor's bed-room. A horse 
 and three cows were comfortably stalled therein, and the floor of mud 
 and loose stones was covered with dung and litter. " Here," said the 
 guide, pointing to an unusually filthy stall in one corner, "was the 
 
A DAY AT ST. HELENA. 81 
 
 Emperor's bath-room. Mr. Solomon (a Jew in Jamestown) has the 
 marble bathing-tub he used. Yonder was his dressing-room" — a big 
 brinded calf was munching some grass in the very spot — " and here" 
 (pointing to an old cow in the nearest corner) " his attendant slept." 
 So miserable, so mournfully wretched was the condition of the place, 
 that I regretted not having been content with an outside view of- 
 Longwood. On the other side of the cattle-yard stand the houses 
 which were inhabited by Count Montholon, Las Casas, and Dr. 
 O'Meara ; but at present they arc shabby, tumble-down sheds, whose 
 stone walls alone have preserved their existence to this day. On the 
 side facing the sea, there are a few pine-trees, under which is a small 
 crescent-shaped fish-pond, dry and nearly filled with earth and weeds. 
 Here the Emperor used to sit and feed his tame fish. The sky, over- 
 cast with clouds, and the cold wind which blew steadily from the sea, 
 added to the desolation of the place. 
 
 Passing through the garden, which is neglected, like the house, 
 and running to waste, we walked to the new building erected by the 
 Government for Napoleon's use, but which he never inhabited. It is 
 a large quadrangle, one story high, plain but commodious, and with 
 some elegance in its arrangement. It has been once or twice occu- 
 pied as a residence, but is now decaying from very neglect. Stand- 
 ing under the brow of the hill, it is sheltered from the wind, and much 
 more cheerful in every respect than the old mansion. We were con- 
 ducted through the empty chambers, intended for billiard, dining, 
 drawing, and bed-rooms. In the bath-room, where yet stands the 
 wooden case which inclosed the marble tub, a flock of geese were lux- 
 uriating. The curtains which hung at the windows were dropping to 
 pieces from rot, and in many of the rooms the plastering was cracked 
 and mildewed by the leakage of rains through the roof Near the 
 building is a neat cottage, in which General Bertrand and his family 
 formerly resided. It is now occupied by the gentleman who leases 
 the farm of Longwood from the Government. The form is the largest 
 on the island, containing one thousand acres, and is rented at £315 a 
 year. The uplands around the house are devoted to the raising of 
 oats and barley, but grazing is the principal source of profit. 
 
 G 
 
82 THE ATLANTIC SOrVEKIR. 
 
 I plucked some branches of geranium and fragrant heliotrope from 
 llie garden, and we set out on our return. I prevailed upon Mr. 
 
 P to take my place in the carriage, and give me his horse as far 
 
 n.s the " Crown and Rose," thereby securing an inspiring gallop of 
 nearly two miles. Two Englishmen, of the lower order, had charge 
 •of the tavern, and while I was taking a glass of ale, one of them 
 touched his hat very respectfully, and said: "Axin' your pardon. Sir, 
 are you from the States 1" I answered in the affirmative. " There !" 
 said he, turning to the other and clapping his hands, " I knew it ; 
 I Ve won the bet." " What were your reasons for thinking me au 
 American]" I asked. "Why," said he, "the gentlemen from the 
 States are always so mild! I knowed you was one before you got 
 f off the horse." 
 
 We sent the carriage on by the road, to await us on the other side 
 of the glen, and proceeded on foot to the Grave. The path led down- 
 ward through a garden filled with roses and heliotropes. The peach- 
 trees were in blossom, and the tropical loquat, which I had seen grow- 
 ing in India and China, hung full of ripe yellow fruit. As we 
 approached the little inclosure at the bottom of the glen, I, who was 
 in advance, was hailed by a voice crying out, " This way, Sir, this 
 way !" and, looking down, saw at the gate a diminutive, wrinkled, 
 old, grizzly-headed, semi-negro, semi-Portuguese woman, whom I at 
 once recognized as the custodienne of the tomb, from descriptions 
 which the officers of the Mississippi had given me. "Ah! there you 
 are!" said I; "I knew it must be you." "Why, Captain!" she 
 exclaimed ; " is that you ? How you been this long while 1 I did n't 
 know you was a-comin', or I would ha' put on a bettor dress, for, you 
 see, I was a-washin' to-day. Dickey!" — addressing a great, fat, 
 white youth of twenty -two or twenty-three, with a particularly stupid 
 and vacant fiicc — "run up to the garden and git two or three of the 
 finest lokys as ever you can, for the Captain and the ladies !" 
 
 At the gate of the inclosure hung a placard, calling upon all visit- 
 ois to pay, in advance, the sum of one shilling and sixpence each, 
 before approaching the tomb. This touching testimony of respect 
 having been complied with, we were allowed to draw near to the 
 
A DAY AT ST. HELENA. 83 
 
 einjDty vault, which, for twenty years, enshrined the corpse of Napo- 
 leon. It is merely an oblong shaft of masonry, about twelve feet 
 deep, and with a rude roof thrown over the mouth, to prevent it being 
 filled by the rains, A little railing surrounds it, and the space 
 between is planted with geraniums and scarlet salvias. Two wil- 
 lows — one of which has been so stripped by travellers that nothing 
 but the trunk is left — shade the spot, and half-a-dozen monumental 
 cypresses lift their tall obelisks around. A flight of steps leads to 
 the bottom of the vault, where the bed of masonry which inclosed the 
 coffin still remains. I descended to the lowest step, and there found, 
 hanging against the damp wall, a written tablet stating that the old 
 woman, then waiting for me at the top, told an admirable and excel- 
 lent story about the burial of Napoleon, which travellers would do 
 well to extract from her, and that one shilling was but a fair compen- 
 sation for the pleasure she would afford them. Appended to the 
 announcement were the following lines, which I transcribed on the 
 spot: 
 
 " Firmly strike my bounding lyre, 
 Poet's muse can never tire, 
 Nosegays gay and flowers so wild, 
 Climate good and breezes mild, 
 Humbly ask a shilling, please, 
 Before the stranger sails the seas. 
 Napoleon was in love with a lady so true, 
 He gave her a gold ring set with diamonds and pearls, 
 Which was worthy the honors of many brave earls. 
 But she died, it is said, in her bloom and her beauty, 
 So his love broken-hearted 
 For ever was parted. 
 He drank of the spring and its water so clear, • 
 
 "Which was reserved for his use, and he held it most dear. 
 So he died, so he died. 
 In the bloom of his pride, 
 Like the victor of worlds in the tomb to abide, 
 Though he conquered to conquer another beside. 
 , In his life he sat under yon lone willow-tree, 
 And studied the air, the earth, and the sea ; 
 His arms were akimbo, his thoughts far away. 
 
84 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 He lived six months at the house on the hill, at his 
 
 friend's, the brave General Beetrand by name, and 
 from thence he would come 
 
 To visit the spot, 
 
 And stand in deep thought, 
 
 Forgotten or not." 
 
 If I had been saddened by the neglect of Loiigwood, 1 was dis. 
 gristed by the profonation of the tomb. Is there not enough reverence 
 in St. Helena, to prevent the grave which a great name has hallowed, 
 from being defiled with such abominable doggerel ? And there was 
 the old woman, who, having seen mc read the notice, immediately 
 commenced her admirable and interesting story in this wise : " Six 
 years he lived upon the island. He came here in 1S15, and he died 
 in 1821. Six years he lived upon the island. lie was buried with 
 his head to the east. This is the east. His feet was to the west. 
 This is the west. Where you see that brown dirt, there was his 
 head. He wanted to be buried beside his wife, Josepliine ; but, as 
 that could n't be done, he was put here. They put him here because 
 he used to come down here with a silver mug in his pocket, and take 
 a drink out of that spring. That 's the reason he was buried here. 
 There was a guard of a sargeant and six men up there on the hill, all 
 the time he was dovm here a-drinkin' out of the spring with his silver 
 mug. This was the way he walked." Here the old woman folded 
 her arms, tossed back her grizzly head, and strode to and fro with so 
 ludicrous an attempt at dignity, that, in spite of myself, I was forced 
 into laughter. " Did you ever see himi" I asked. " Yes, Captain," 
 said she ; " I seed him a many a time, and I always said, ' Good morn- 
 in'. Sir,', but he never had no conversation with me." A draught i>f 
 the cool and delicious lymph of Napoleon's Spring completed the 
 farce. I broke a sprig from one of the cypresses, wrote my name in 
 the visitor's book, took the "boky" of gillyflowers and marigolds, 
 which Dickey had collected, and slowly remounted the opposite side 
 of the glen. My thoughts involuntarily turned from the desecrated 
 grave to that fitting sepulchre where he now rests, under the banners 
 of a hundred victorious battle-fields, and guarded by the time-worn 
 
A DAY AT ST. HELENA. 85 
 
 remnant of his faithful Old Guard. Let Longwood be levelled i.r» the 
 earth, and the empty grave be filled up and turfed over ! Better that 
 these memorials of England's treachery should be seen no more ! 
 
 We hastened back to Jamestown, as it was near sunset. The 
 long shadows already filled the ravine, and the miniature gardens and 
 streets below were more animated than during the still heat of the 
 afternoon. Capt. Rowland was waiting f:>r us, as the ship was ready 
 to sail. Before it was quite dark, we had weighed anchor, and M^ere 
 slowly drifting away from the desolate crags of the island. The next 
 morning, we saw again the old unbroken ring of the sea. 
 
gi ®r0pital f 0psie. 
 
 BT PARK BEKJAMnf. 
 
 It was the month, the saddest one 
 
 Of all the varied year ; 
 The slant beams of the setting sun 
 Touched the long vapors, thick and dun, 
 
 Like hope that brightens fear. 
 And far and near, with dash and moan, 
 The waves, like prisoners, dungeon-pent, 
 
 Beat on the rocky bars ; 
 When forth upon my voyage I went, 
 Companioned, yet alone ! 
 
 Friends made I of the stars ; 
 For, ere the day had slowly rolled. 
 The mists were all bedecked with gold. 
 
 And when dark shadows grew, 
 Those lustrous children of the Night 
 Looked with their tender eyes of light 
 
 Serenely from the blue. 
 I was no sage astrologer, 
 Yet in their pure and brilliant lore. 
 Without one cloud the page to blur, 
 
 As gently, smoothly, softly o'er 
 Now sparklmg waves our vessel flowed, 
 
 Could I a radiant story see 
 
 Of that not far futurity, 
 That longed-for, sighed-for, dear abode, 
 From which, forlorn, I had departed. 
 
 To drink awhile the healing airs, 
 To taste the effluence, which imparted, 
 
 In answer to unfaltering prayers. 
 
88 THE ATLAKTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Joy to the storm-tost mariner, 
 
 When, dimly far, Cohitbus spied 
 The blue line of San Salvador 
 Lift o'er the golden tide ! 
 Yes, hopes and wislies fell like rays 
 Upon me from that starry blaze ; 
 And well I knew that I should turn 
 
 Safely my homeward prow once more, 
 And once more view their glory burn, 
 
 Silvering the billows toward the shore 
 Of Northern climes, to which my soul 
 Still pointed with magnetic power ; 
 Though soft the scene and fair the hour, 
 And though tlie billows' murmuring roll 
 Lulled every sense in deep repose. 
 And winds, that seemed to waft the rose. 
 Came to me through the Tropic night, 
 Suggesting visions of delight, 
 And rapturous dreams of beauty bright. 
 In Southern chambers, never known 
 To dwellers in the Temperate zone. 
 
 And so we sailed — on — on — while smiles 
 
 Dimpled each billow's azure cheek. 
 And then wo hailed those happy isles 
 
 That Nature's fond enthusiasts seek, 
 Because perpetual Summer dwells 
 In all their flower-besprinkled dells, 
 And lifts his banners green above 
 
 Their hills and woods, and hangs his wr?ath9 
 In all their bowers — where lasting love 
 
 The incense of fruition breathes. 
 
 It is, in truth, a fairy clime, 
 "With all its beauty spared by Time. 
 Though Cultivation o'er the land 
 Hath sown its seeds with liberal hand; 
 Though, in tiio lapse of many a year 
 The Spirit of the Storm appear, 
 And hurl destruction far and near, 
 So rai)idly is life regained 
 
A TROPICAL VOYAGE. 89 
 
 By tree and herbage, that the field 
 Where the swift deluge fiercest rained, 
 
 "Will all its vegetation yield, 
 "With more luxuriance than the first 
 New morn the faithful soil was nursed. 
 
 Long graceful lines of coast were seen, 
 Fringed with the deepest tints of green ; 
 The waves ran up and kissed the shore. 
 
 As if inspired with child-like glee. 
 Then, laughmg at the robbery, bore 
 
 Leaves, buds, and blossoms out to sea. 
 It was a heartfelt joy to hear 
 
 Their merry voices ; to behold 
 Grleaming upon their foreheads clear, 
 
 Circlets of silver, wreaths of gold ; 
 To deem them living creatures, blest 
 
 "With the soft airs and genial glow 
 Of this Elysium of the "West, 
 
 Unchanging ever in their flow, 
 Save with the changes of their queen — 
 
 The Moon — subdued by whose sweet face^ 
 They rolled away and left between 
 
 Their boundary and the shore a space — 
 A glittering belt of sand and shells. 
 Tossed from the ocean's treasure-cells. 
 
 Alas ! how many years I 've told 
 
 On my life's rosary, since the time, 
 
 "When, jinghng httle beUs of rhyme, 
 I voyaged to shun the mist and cold 
 Of "Winter in a Northern town ; 
 I voyaged to lands of small renown — 
 Lands where no war was ever waged, 
 Where none but lovers were engaged ; 
 "Where old Association finds 
 No records of Ulustrious minds ; 
 No ruined temple, broken bust, 
 Nor urn nor venerated dust ; 
 But where, a, Matron-Bride arrayed 
 In all the pomp of light and shade, 
 
f);» THE ATLAXTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 In flowers that blush in earth, in air, 
 In fruitage, luscious, rich and rare. 
 Sits Nature with her belt unbound. 
 Garments loose-flowing to the ground. 
 Looks, gesture, motion warm and free, 
 And all the charms of liberty. 
 
^Oy?A^^^ 
 
&.NINDIAN LEGEND. 
 
 BT F. W . 6HELT0N. 
 
 Long, long ago, on the banks of the Upper Mississippi, among the 
 tribes of the warlike Sacs, lived a young woman, who for the endear- 
 ing gentleness of her nature, was called Nit-o-me-ma, or Gentle Dove. 
 The savages in the wilderness acknowledged her power, though 
 revealed only in the majesty of her motions and in the music of her 
 voice. She controlled their avenging passions by her glance of pity, 
 and disarmed them with a woman's tears. The doctrines of the 
 cross accorded well with a spirit so meek and loving, and she became 
 a Christian. The good missionary Marquette came from a distant 
 land, crossed the stormy deep, and pursuing his journey through a 
 trackless equntry, bore in his hands the Gospel of Peace. Self-sacri- 
 ficing and devoted, he went upon his errand, proclaiming to the 
 benighted children of the forest the glad tidings of salvation with a 
 resolution which despised all dangers and which knew no fatigue. 
 How sublime is the life of such a follower of Christ ! But alas ! the 
 disciple was treated as his master. His benevolent designs were 
 soon mistaken, and ascribed to motives base and mercenary. Escap- 
 ing from his pursuers, he went into a solitary place to pray. When 
 they came up with him he was discovered on his knees. It is said 
 that they drew their bows, but, observing that he did not move, they 
 approached and found him dead. 
 
 Soon after this, Gentle Dote was married to Omaint-si-ar-nah, son 
 of the nation's chief. Beautiful and manly in person, tall and athletic, 
 
92 TilE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 with features regular and handsome, skillful and adroit in the use of 
 the bow and in casting the javelin, in battle bold and daring, like his 
 sire, he was, moreover, the faithful friend, the kind husband, the 
 generous host ; but he was in temper sanguine, credulous, and 
 jealous. 
 
 Scarcely had Gentle Dove become his bride, even with the first 
 waning rnoon which made her his, when a sudden war-whoop broke 
 upon this dream of bliss. No more the lovers walked within the 
 silent forest or shot the rapids in their light canoe. Tender and im- 
 passioned was their early parting ; and should they never see each 
 other more upon the transitory earth, they vowed to meet unchanged 
 in love upon the shadowy confines of the spirit-land. Omaint-si-ar-nah 
 smoothed the tresses of his Gentle Dove, held her hand in momentary 
 silence, then turned his back, and walked erect to meet his warriors 
 in the grove. Towering above the naked and be-painted group, he 
 waved his arm, and with a bold untutored eloquence, he recounted 
 insults and kindled up the passion of revenge, "Wild gestures, and a 
 yell more dreadful than the beasts make in concert, attested that 
 his words had taken effect. Calling Que-la-wah, "Faithful Friend," he 
 walked aside, and bade him save his scalping-knife and unstring his 
 supple bow. He could have no part in the present foray, although 
 he was a warrior of approved renown. Que-la-wah must remain 
 behind, and to his good protection during her lord's absence he com- 
 mitted Gentle Dove. Then, having received assurance, the chief once 
 more called his band around him, and marched without delay to take 
 revenge upon the distant tribes. 
 
 The art of writing was unknown ; but every month he sent a trusty 
 courier from his camp with a verbal message to his wife, and received 
 her missives in return. Loitering and tedious was this method for the 
 impatience of affection, but dearer than volumes were the true words 
 when they arrived, Omaint-si-ar-nah sometimes drank them into his 
 ear as he reclined by the camp-fires at midnight, and the music of 
 water-fjvlls was not so sweet. They nerved his arm for a score of 
 battles, though but the plaining of a dove. How welcome the sur- 
 prises when he heard the dry leaves crackling, and seized his bow and 
 stole without the tent, expecting an enemy in ambush, and lo ! n mes- 
 
GENTLE DOVE. 93 
 
 seuger from his love ! Thus to and fro, like shining arrows shot and 
 returned, were reciprocated these missives of two faithful hearts, 
 until they suddenly ceased. Omaint-si-ar-nah walked in gloom. He 
 thought his courier had fallen a victim to the foe. 
 
 Que-la-wah, " Faitliful Friend," had become enamored of Gentle 
 Dove, and sought by every means to win her from her rightful lord. 
 She spunied his offers with indignation, but he did not cease to tor- 
 ment her with his appeals. The old and the very young were all who 
 remained in the tribe, and she needed protection from her protector. 
 ^Meantime, being much perj^lexed in spirit, she had a dream. An 
 awful form stood before her, and told her that the Virgin loved her, 
 and promised to reveal the future to her eyes. What she had suf- 
 fered from Que-la-wah was but a beginning of greater woes to come ; 
 for he in Avhom her soul delighted should be deceived, forsake his 
 faithful wife, and she should narrowly escape with life. Moreover, 
 there should be a strife for empire, and a race of white men who ha^" 
 cained a footino; near the rising sun, from small bc^inninffs should 
 sweep over and subdue the entire land. Still her own nation should 
 not be without renown, for lo ! a chief should arise who should bear 
 sway over many tribes, and lead his warriors to successful battles ; 
 and when at last his limbs should be bound in fetters, his soul would 
 be unsubdued: his name should never perish, and the Holy Virgin 
 would vouchsafe protection to Gentle Dove. 
 
 Omaint-si-ar-nah dispatched another messenger. Meantime, Que- 
 la-wah, finding that his proffers were rejected, vowed revenge. Ho 
 bribed the courier whom the chieftain sent with tidings to his wife, so 
 that she received them not, and returned no answer ; but he bore 
 back word that he had delivered them, and that Gentle Dove had 
 treated them with marked contempt ; that she was inconstant and 
 abandoned, and had violated her pledge. On the receipt of these 
 cruel tidings, the chief went into a paroxysm of rage. He commanded 
 those who stood near him to draw their bows and shoot him. As 
 none obeyed, he was about to drive a dart into his own breast, but 
 the Aveapon was wrested from his hand. Then the flame of love being 
 quite extinguished, a violent hate reigned in its place, and he resolved 
 that the base woman who had betrayed his hopes should speedily die 
 
94 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 He dispatched an emissary, to whom he gave secret orders to entice 
 his Avife into the forest, under pretence that he bore tidings from her 
 lord, when he should slay her, and immediately return to the camp, 
 bringing with him a lock of her hair as a pledge that his errand had 
 been accomplished. 
 
 The round orb of the setting sun was just visible above the waves 
 of the yellow Mississippi, Nito-me-ma stood in the door of her tent, 
 weeping and dejected, pressing to her bosom her new-born child, and 
 sometimes, according to the faith which she had imbibed, appealing to 
 the protection of the Virgin, sobbing out in short ejaculations, " O 
 sweet Mary, holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me !" Thus 
 engaged in devotion, her eyes were uplifted to heaven ; but when 
 again they were cast downward, a strange form stood before her. So 
 stealthily had he glided through the thickets, that his presence was 
 like that of a spirit. For a moment he stood erect in silence, as if 
 spell-bound by her charms. 
 
 The expression of maternal love added a new grace to the pale 
 face of the poor child of sorrow, and her bright yet tender eyes were 
 brimming over with tears. Her hair, as if unloosed on purpose to be 
 rifled for the sacrificial token, fell upon her glossy shoulders and 
 almost touched the ground, and, like a mute and unoffending victim, 
 ready for the altar, she stood as if to wait the mandate of the avenging 
 priest. 
 
 The stranger stretched his naked arm, and pointed with his finger 
 to the sun. " See !" he said, in a low voice like a whisper, " he is 
 departing ; the day is almost dead. The winds cease to move the 
 tree-leaves ; the waves cease to murmur. But it is not dark ; it i^ 
 not silent. Go with mc to the deepest thicket at a distance from the 
 curling smoke of tents. Over the mountains I have come, through 
 the rivers. A message sent so liir for one beloved is not for common 
 ears. Fear not. Gentle Dove !" 
 
 Trembling and agitated, still pressing her babe to lier breast and 
 praying as she went, she followed his footsteps, which were rapid, so 
 that she could scarce keep pace with them, with her burdin in her 
 arms. It was nearly dark when, arriving at a most secluded spot, her 
 guide suddenly turned, and without the delay of a moment, as if he 
 
GENTJ,E DOVE. 95 
 
 feared that pity might gain the mastery over him in the sight of so 
 much beauty, assumed a stern aspect, and commanded her to lay down 
 her child. 
 
 " Nito-me-ma !" he exclaimed, " prepare to die instantly, as the 
 penalty of unfaithfulness. I am the avenging messenger of your hus- 
 band, and I dare not disobey his bidding. That the blow may be 
 surer and less painful, do not resist a fate which is inevitable. 
 Kneel !" 
 
 He snatched his tomahawk from his girdle, and raised it on high 
 Gentle Dove, who, for her own sake, would have gladly died, looked 
 on her innocent child ; then, with a wild, impassioned eloquence, 
 begged a few moments' respite to send up a prayer to God. Her 
 request was granted, and she poured forth her soul for heavenly aid 
 in such a strain as well might make the angels weep. The Great 
 Spirit heard it. The delay which had been allowed by Omaint-si-ar- 
 nah's messenger was fatal to his resolution. Three times he whirled 
 his hatchet round his head, then struck it deep into the trunk of the 
 nearest tree, and yielded to compassion. In truth, his savage soul had 
 first been melted when he stood before the tent. 
 
 He spared the life of Nito-me-ma on one condition : that she would 
 retire into the thickest forest, and never more be seen among her 
 tribe. Having exacted such a promise, he shore a long lock of her 
 raven hair, gazed at her in a long, admiring silence, replaced his 
 hatchet in his girdle, and then, as loth to go, he turned upon his heel 
 and stalked away. " I have disobeyed my chieftain," he wailed aloud 
 when at a little distance ; then he beat his breast and exclaimed, " The 
 Great Spirit is my chieftain, and He spoke to me from here." He was 
 inclined to turn again and shield the unprotected wanderer ; but when 
 he reached the river's brink he flung himself into his bark canoe, 
 and waiting for the moon to rise, he slept upon the murky tide. 
 
 Gentle Dove, when left alone to perish, as might be supposed, by 
 a more cruel, lingering death, moved slowly onward through the dark, 
 she knew not where. Entering a deep hollow, she found it filled with 
 dry leaves, and, lying down with her child, the breeze of the night came 
 along, and with a sudden gust, covered them lightly with the same, so 
 that the chilling dews should not benumb them. More useful thus 
 
96 THE ATLANTIC SOLTEXIR. 
 
 the perished twigs than when upon the oaken crowTis they shone in 
 glossy verdure, and were vital in the spring-time of the year. The 
 wolves howling for their evening repast might be heard in the dis- 
 tance, but Nito-me-ma slept sweetly on her sylvan couch, and feared 
 no evil. On the morrow she rose up refreshed, and went away into her 
 woody exile far from her husband's tent. She would return no more, 
 but God would be her sole protector. For three days she travelled 
 in the forest, till, arriving at a very secret place, where she perceived 
 no trails had been, she kneeled upon the sod, and, by a short act of 
 private devotion, consecrated it as her future home. It was a narrow 
 vale, sheltered by a gigantic growth, and without brambles or under- 
 wood. Thf. soft green sod was a carpet for her bare feet, and a pure 
 fountain gushed up hard by from a bed of little white pebbles. A 
 snail's shell served as a water-cup, and searching in the neighborhood 
 for a place to build her tent, a vast tree, hollowed out at the base, was ' 
 revealed to her, quite ample in accommodation for herself and child. 
 She now sought the means of life, that the fount which flowed in her 
 bosom might not be dry. Roots and berries would not supply its 
 rich life-stream, but Nito-me-ma had not lived in the forest in vain. 
 Wandering beyond the limits of her domain, she came upon an open 
 place in the wilderness where the sun shone down, and her eyes were 
 delighted by the sight of a field of wild maize. Day by day she trans- 
 ported the treasure to her habitation, until it was all housed and her 
 bread was sure. From the white husks she wove a matting for her 
 habitation, and the sweet stalks she stored away elsewhere, and she 
 beat the grain in a rude mortar ; but as she sat in the door- way, 
 Nito-me-ma reflected that she had no fire to bake thb crisp-cakes 
 withal. But the same God who gave her daily bread struck a dry 
 pine-tree in one of his glorious storms, and enkindled its bark as if 
 with the very sparks of IIis pity. From that time the flame died not 
 on the domestic hearth ; and when the shades of night came down, it 
 shone with soft cfiiilgence on the mother and her child. Nito-me-ma 
 found a sharp-edged stone in the brook, with whit-h slie hewed down a 
 lithe sapling, and having woven a strong cord for her bow, and selected 
 some reeds for arrows, she shot the little birds and dressed them for 
 food, and she entrapped the mountain trout in their fastnesses, and 
 
GENTLE DOVE. 97 
 
 preserved them in the waters of a salt spring which she discovered 
 about a league off from her home. She laid away great store of dried 
 fruits and berries, and pleasant herbs and flowers, and sassafras and 
 birch, and sweet barks. In one moon before the hoar frosts had 
 whitened the ground, her store-house was so well furnished that she 
 could have no dread of famine, and might even entertain a pilgrim in 
 distress. The furniture of her abode accorded also with her wants : a 
 bed made of dry husks, with a covering of the same, a chair woven of 
 the wild willow, and a slight table of the same ; for cups, gourds and 
 snail-shells, and vessels of rude pottery made by her own hands. At 
 morning, noon, and night, she offered prayers to God, and invoked the 
 Virgin. 
 
 Gentle Dove seemed to live within a charmed circle. Wild beasts 
 and venomous serpents did not find their way therein, and the more 
 dreaded foot of man intruded not ; but myriads of birds flew into the 
 inclosures, both those of gorgeous plumage and of dulcet song — the 
 bobolink and the oriole, and the pure white doves. The humming- 
 birds came in quest of honeysuckles and the Missouri rose-budsj which 
 clustered around the poor child's door. Moreover, the fawns ski2:)ped 
 on the grass before the hollow tree, but she could not find it in her 
 heart to pierce them w^ith her arrows. They were the delight of her 
 eyes, and at last approached and ate out of her hand. While her 
 child slumbered on the bed of husks, Gentle Dove sat without, sing- 
 ing in a low sweet voice the hymns Marquette had taught her ; nor 
 were these moments spent in idleness : she wove willow baskets, or 
 made sandals from the bark of trees, blankets, and garments for her 
 little one. Oh ! how sweetly it slumbered ! — it seemed to thrive more 
 and more every day, and in features more and more resembled its 
 mother. "Morning-Glory" was its name, and every morning Nito- 
 me-ma took it to the spring, and poured the cold crystal waters upon 
 it, so that it became hardy, and its olive complexion glowed with 
 health. She had already baptized it, but not in the waves of the 
 fountain. When she first came into the wilderness, perceiving that 
 the child's foce was wet with tears which had dropped from her own 
 eyes, she signed the cross upon its forehead, and in those holy drops 
 
 which welled up from a broken heart, christened it in the name of the 
 
 1 
 
9S THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 undivided Trinity. Swung upon her shoulders, Morning-Glory was 
 the constant attendant of all her walks, no matter how great the dis- 
 tance, or what additional burden she expected to bear. 
 
 A mother with her child, can feel no solitude. Every place is a 
 desert without it ; with it, there are people enough in the unpeopled 
 waste. It is music where there is no voice, and speech where there 
 is no language, and a host of friends where all have departed, a blue 
 sky where there is nothing but clouds, and a flower in the unwatered 
 wilderness. But this little wood-nymph, in its hollow tree, made the 
 whole ground enchanted. The winds sighing in the branches seemed to 
 Gentle Dove like angels of heaven which whispered its lullaby. Alas ! 
 it was only when she thought that her child was without a father, that 
 this dream of bliss was doomed to be interrupted. But never had her 
 love for her husband become abated, nor had such cruel treatment 
 stirred one feeling of resentment in her soul. In truth, she hardly 
 learned to love him till she .was forced to pity and forgive ! 
 
 How different from this peaceful sanctuary the scenes where 
 Omaint-si-ar-nah walked in gloom ! With desperate rage he rushed 
 into the thick of battle. He raged and ravened like a wolf upon the 
 bloody field, and scalped his foes and brought off many trophies ; but 
 most of all, he sought to terminate a life which was no longer to be 
 desired. The very sun was hateful to his sight, and so irascible 
 became his temper, that his own friends would scarce approach him 
 in his fits of moody melancholy, lest in a moment he should strike 
 them dead. He had been deceived by the wife of his bosom, in whom 
 he trusted, and he now suspected all of being traitors. In fact, he 
 was betrayed and blinded ; but she who was so grossly injured did 
 not cease to pray for his preservation, and that the scales might be 
 removed from her husband's eyes. 
 
 One day, with bow and arrows, and a basket on her arm and with 
 Morning-Glory on her back, Gentle Dove Avent forth to search for 
 eggs of pheasants and the prairie-hen. She wandered far, and was 
 just stooping to complete her store, when her quick ear detected the 
 approaching sound of steps. Gliding into a thicket, she moved 
 not and dared scarcely breathe. In a moment, Que-la-wali, detested 
 traitor, appeared in sight. Low stooping, with his eyes fastened on 
 
GENTLE DOVE. 99 
 
 the ground, he examined footsteps in the sand. Then he laid down 
 his bow and game, and first looking upward, stood with his hack 
 against a tree. 
 
 " God of Justice !" exclaimed Gentle Dove, " nerve thy weak crea- 
 ture's arm !" 
 
 She placed her child upon the ground, chose from her quiver a 
 well-sharpened arrow and fitted it to the string. Fixing her keen eye 
 for the moment on the mark she aimed at, she drew the weapon to its 
 flinty head and let it speed. The whizzing shaft just grazed the ear 
 of the false savage, and quivered in the bark. 
 
 " Lost !" said Gentle Dove, but did not remove her gaze, and fitted 
 another arrow to the string. 
 
 Que-la-wah leaped aloft and uttered a terrific yell, and leaving after 
 him his bow and game, fled quickly to the thickest woods. Then 
 Nito-me-ma inscribed a cross upon the tree in token of deliverance, 
 and gathering at its foot the small wild flowers, she bore them home 
 and wove a votive chaplet for her shrine. 
 
 The autumn passed away ; the falling leaves and sombre skies 
 announced that winter was at hand. Nito-me-ma laid up a great 
 store of brushwood, and dry turf and pitchy bark, and prepared a 
 wadded curtain for the opening in the hollow tree, and made thick 
 brooms of twigs wherewith to sweep away the snows, and little lamps 
 of clay to be used in the long winter evenings, and garments of the 
 furs of rabbits, and a soft couch for her child from the down of the 
 prairie-hen, and treasured up eggs in the waters taken from the salt 
 spring. Thus having done all for safety which her knowledge 
 prompted, she waited without apprehension for the cutting blasts 
 and for thick-falling snows. Beautiful and like a conqueror came 
 on October in the distant west, with gorgeous plumes and purple 
 hues, like hectic flushes of the dying. A thin blue vapor floated over 
 vale and mountain-top ; the air was fragrant with the scent of straw- 
 berry-leaves, while the still genial sun encouraged vegetation and 
 wooed the prairie-rose to bloom. The wild grapes hung in tempting 
 clusters from the high trees of the forest, as if the produce of the elm 
 and vine. Then often at the hour of sunset, when the birds hid their 
 heads beneath their wings, and all the labors of the day were finished, 
 
100 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 would Nito-xne-ma sing an evening hymn, or with a low and plaintive 
 melody, strike into a little voluntary of her own : 
 
 " My Mormng-Glory is the prido of the forest : 
 Nothing so sweet beneath the stars : 
 
 Opens its blue eyes in the morning and closes its lids at night: 
 It has but a slender support to lean on, 
 For its strong prop has been taken away. 
 It climbs o'er a sorrowful ruin, 
 And its cup, it is filled -with briny tears. 
 Wind round me, sweet Morxing-Glort, 
 Ami bind up the stem which holds up thee." 
 
 At last the snows descended and lay in pyramidal layers on the 
 pines and evergreens, and the air was nipping cold, but it entered not 
 the barken inclosure, nor touched the little nymph at the foot of the 
 oak. Gentle Dove was happy in those dark days. The snow-birds 
 hopped about her abode, to receive crumbs from her humble table, 
 and left their footprints all around. She had no book to read from, 
 nor had she learned the art of reading, but Morning-Glory was an 
 opening and expanding revelation, full of poetry and irradiated with 
 hope. At night, when the winds howled, and, in sympathy with the 
 uplifted head, the sides of the living house in which she dwelt were 
 contorted and sent forth groans as if in pain, she made moccasins by 
 the dim light of her lamp, with her feet near the hot embers, and so 
 beguiled the weary time. She dared not wander during the wintry 
 months, for the wolves were hungry, and their bowlings could be 
 heard for miles on the air. Beyond the forests the illimitable prairies 
 were covered with a white mantle, and the Father of Waters was 
 frozen-up. 
 
 When the natal day of the Lord came. Gentle Dove adorned her 
 sanctuary with laurel and with green twigs, and out of doors built 
 an altar of pure white snows, and wreathed it round with running 
 vines, and placed thereon the dried-up votive chaplet, and she called 
 it the Altar of Deliverance. It was not destitute of other offerings, 
 for the trees dropped icicles, and covered it with crystal gems. At 
 last the thaws began, and the green blades of grass peeped forth upon 
 
GENTLE DOVE. 101 
 
 the sunny knolls, and the blue violets appeared, first heralds of the 
 spring, and the fragrant buds swelled out, and tender leaves appeared. 
 Another ordeal had been safely passed, while new hope and confidence 
 animated the grateful heart of Nito-me-ma. She came forth from her 
 retreat, and erected a summer bower more ample in accommodations 
 than the one which she left, working at it during the intervals in which 
 her child reposed. She bent the crowns of tall young saplings, and 
 fastening them together at the top with strong cords, she interwove 
 the intervals with pliant boughs, and having completed it in a short 
 time moved thither her domestic goods. So sweetly stole the hours 
 away, and never was one more happy in unhappiness, or more sup- 
 ported when support appeared to be withdrawn. 
 
 The arrival of the lovely month of May awakened a feeling of 
 ecstasy in the heart of Gentle Dove. In that month she was born and 
 married, and in that her child was born ; nay, more, at that season 
 she had been converted to the religion of the Cross, and every fortu- 
 nate circumstance of her life was connected with it, and it was asso- 
 ciated with a thousand happy memories. Its balmy breath infused 
 new life into her system, for she was somewhat pale and wan with 
 watching and confinement, and again she hurried forth with Morning- 
 Glory on her shoulders, to gather flowers in the distant vale. Her 
 provision of maize was still flir from exhausted, but she had been 
 obliged to mix the cakes with water, and long ago the bread had 
 become poor to the taste. Her unpampered palate required still the 
 luxury of milk. She was just thinking of this, although by no means 
 murmuring, when, in a grassy nook, she suddenly encountered a 
 female buffalo quietly grazing, with her young by her side. It was as 
 tame as if brought up among the haunts of men. She fed it with 
 hand's-full of green and tender grass, and, unmolested, placed her tiny 
 palms upon its forehead. When she retreated, the coav followed her, 
 and never ceased to track her footsteps until she arrived before her 
 bower. From that time she drained its milk day by day in the hoi 
 low of a wild gourd, and it gave sustenance to herself and to her 
 child. 
 
 Nito-me-ma used to rise at day-break, and, after washing herself 
 in the cool brook, and offering up her devotions, she walked withii. 
 
102 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 sight of her home until the time of her morning meal. In one of 
 these excursions she was clambering up a ledge of rocks when she 
 dipped her hands into some wild honeycomb filled with sweets, and 
 made of the earliest flowers of spring. Thoughtlessly she broke it 
 into fragments, and piled the delicious masses into an apron made of 
 leaves, while all around her head the bees buzzed busily without the 
 infliction of a sting. Although in faith a Christian, Gentle Dove 
 adhered religiously to many customs of her ancestors, so far as they 
 did not conflict with her Christian foith. She loved her tribe and peo- 
 ple, and her own dear home, from which she was banished, and she 
 longed to dwell again among her kindred, to assuage their ferocious 
 spirit, and to teach them the offices of kindness and of love. Day 
 after day passed away in her hopeless solitude, and brought no tidings 
 from her distant lord. Yet she had the most manifest proofs of the 
 Divine protection in the little miracles which diversified her lonely 
 career. The courier had taken that lock of hair from her devoted 
 head, and carried it to Omaint-si-ar-nah at his encampment, who sup- 
 posed that his cruel mandate had been obeyed. Hence he continued 
 to be reckless of life, and did not make haste to return to the homes 
 of his fathers. 
 
 In the mean time Morning-Glory increased in stature, and was 
 straight and slender as a reed. So soon as she could be made to 
 comprehend, she was instructed in the first principles of the Christian 
 faith. In the cathedral-like and solemn gloom of primitive woods, 
 each day her little hands were clasped in prayer, and the whole ]>lace 
 was rendered consecrate. There was a music in her lisping voice, 
 which rose to heaven with a more buoyant ease than sound of organs 
 and of jubilant anthems in the temple-naves. In the pure waters of 
 the spring, which gushed up hard by, might sometimes bo seen a wild 
 little picture, the image of Morning-Glory — her face stained with 
 berries, her hair stuck full of the feathers of gay birds, and her waist 
 wound around M'ith a cincture of flowers. She was already skillful in 
 the use of the bow and in casting a small javelin ; she was n»j longer 
 swung upon her mother's l)ack, nay, in case of danger and attack, 
 Morning-Glory might have been an efliiient auxiliary, because she 
 could direct a deadly arrow, and did not know the sentiment of 
 
GENTLE DOVE. 103 
 
 fear. But her mother did not permit her out of sight for a moment. 
 Deprived of her sweet child, her sole companion, the spirits of Gentle 
 Dove would have sunk beyond recovery. One morning, having slept 
 soundly, on awaking, she found that Morning Glory had risen before 
 her, and gone out of the house. In dread alarm, she rushed into the 
 wood, and lifted up her voice, and shrieked aloud ; but no answer was 
 returned, save the mocking echo, " Morning-Glory ! Morning-Glory !" 
 She ran hither and thither, she knew not where, and peered into the 
 thickets with a keen eye, and tried to track her by the footprints of 
 her tiny feet, and kept continually calling her by name, weeping and 
 beating her breast the while, but no Morning-Glory ! Exhausted by 
 exertion, and overpowered with grief. Gentle Dove came and cast her- 
 self upon her cot in an agony bordering on despair. But as the day 
 declined, and she had given up all for lost, the clear and ringing 
 laughter of the little rover was heard without, and she approached 
 with two young turtle-doves, which she had only slightly wounded. 
 Nito-me-ma clasped her to her bosom, and her convulsions of joy were 
 almost fatal. When a little recovered, she thought to punish her foi 
 so wild and disobedient an act, but she could not find in her heart to 
 lay a finger upon her, and she did nothing but weep upon the head of 
 Morning-Glory a shower of sparkling tears. 
 
 The child had, perhaps, attained her sixth year, and the life in the 
 grove was but little varied, when Omaint-si-ar-nah, tired of roaming, 
 returned with his warriors to the place whence they had set out. His 
 wigwam was burned to the ground, his old mother was dead, his 
 Gentle Dove (as he thought) was murdered. He walked apart and 
 spent his days in gloom, while his warriors dared not approach him, 
 for he was more ferocious and hostile in spirit than before. One day 
 he was wandering listlessly on the bank of a stream, waiting for a deer 
 which was swimming with its current, when his attention was attracted 
 by some hieroglyphics on a tree, understood by Nito-me-ma and him- 
 self They were the emblems of true love ; and, on close inspection, 
 he discovered that some of them had been freshly made, and signified 
 affection which has changed not, and which is unchangeable. Their 
 time of being made was posterior surely to that when she whom he 
 saspected had been accounted false. Then the sad truth flashed in ov 
 
104 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEMR. 
 
 his benighted soul ; he struck his brow with violence, and groaned 
 filoud. He took the raven tresses from his liosoni, sole relic of his 
 once-loved wife, and, sitting down upon a fallen trunk, spake to him- 
 self in mournful accents, and in the figurative language of the Indian 
 tribes : *' O Nito-me-ma, Dove of the Forest, Beautiful Pride of the 
 Prairie, torn away by cruel fate. Her breath was sweeter than the 
 mountain balm ; her eyes were like the wild fawn's eyes ; and her 
 teeth, white as the snow-flakes newly fallen. Where wanders my 
 love by the crystal rivers of the Spirit-Land? Omaint-si-ar-nah's 
 heart is gloomy as the cypress-grove at midnight when the moon 
 goes down. His arm has lost its strength, and his feet cease from 
 running. O Gentle Dove, come to me from the land of ghosts !" 
 
 " The chief walks alone," said a voice almost at Omaint-si-ar-nah's 
 car. He turned, and Gray-Eagle stood before him, the commissioner 
 of blood. 
 
 " Ha !" said the former, clutching in his hand the lock of hair, 
 "you have executed your errand well, and have shed innocent blood." 
 He restored the lock to his bosom, placed his left hand on the hatchet 
 in his girdle, and raising his right arm to heaven, "By the Great 
 Spirit !" he added, " we shall both die, and that before yon sun goes 
 do-wn." 
 
 Gray-Eagle stood erect and smiled a moment without reply. He 
 walked slowly down to the margin of the brook, dipped a shell in 
 water, and poured it over his hands. 
 
 " Thou art not exonerated," said Omaint-si-ar-nah. 
 
 " I am, Chief," replied the Gray-Eagle. 
 
 Omaint-si-ar-nah grasped his tomahawk, and made a threatening 
 motion as if to strike him dead. 
 
 Gray-Eagle smiled again, and did not move. 
 
 " Hear me," he said ; " I have disobeyed my chieftain, but these 
 hands have not been stained with blood. The Gentle Dove still 
 lives." 
 
 •' Lives !" said the other, and he clasped his hands and stood a 
 long time rooted to the soil — "lives!" he exclaimed in ecstasy; 
 " then / live ; then the sun shines ; then the grass grows. Speak on." 
 
 " I never slew her. I brought you but the token of unchanged 
 
GENTLE DOVE. lOo 
 
 affection, and not the stain of blood. I have not made your house 
 desolate, nor your child motherless." 
 
 The chieftain struck his javelin in the earth. "My child "?" he 
 shrieked in a voice which made the woods ring again, a combmation 
 of ecstasy and agony and surprise — " my child?'''' 
 
 " Your child !" replied the Gray-Eagle. 
 
 " Whither gone 1" said Omaint-si-ar-nah. 
 
 " You ask too much of me," answered the Gray-Eagle. " If I did 
 not take away their lives, could I keep them from dying 1 A man 
 can kill, but the Great Spirit keeps alive, and He only. I know not 
 where they are." 
 
 "Enough," said Omaint-si-ar-nah. "All will be well. Gray- 
 Eagle soars aloft and stoops not low." With the end of his spear he 
 described a circle on the ground, and, placing the end of it in the cen 
 tre, he drew many radii. " To-night," he said, " we sleep as if the 
 sleep of death. When the sun dawns, each man, yea, every woman 
 of the tribe, will start from here, and travel toward the rising and 
 the setting sun, and every point, until she is found whom my sou! 
 loveth." 
 
 " Stay !" said Gray-Eagle, " you will go too early in the search 
 Punish traitors first before you haste to seek for the betrayed. Youi 
 Faithful Friend is at the bottom of this mischief Que-la-wah strove 
 to win the Gentle Dove. She drove him off with fierce rebuke, and 
 hence he vowed revenge." 
 
 Omaint-si-ar-nah grasped the hand of the Gray-Eagle, and while a 
 fierce vindictive look flashed over him, he said, "To-morrow! yes, 
 to-morrow!" then pressed the lock of hair unto his lips, wrapped 
 his blanket round him, and sank upon the ground, even on the very 
 spot where he had stood and slept. 
 
 Soon as the first beams of day appeared, the chief went forth alone 
 to punish a man who had betrayed his trust. He found Que-la-wah 
 gathering sticks to make his morning meal. "Base villain," he 
 exclaimed, " thou shalt die." And with that he beat him to the earth, 
 and left his body for the crows and vultures of the air to prey upon. 
 Thus did the spirit of implacable revenge find place in the same heart 
 which was just opening anew to the genial influences of affection. 
 
106 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEKIR. 
 
 Que-la-wah suffered not beyond his just deserts. The ruthless 
 invader of the domestic sanctuary is held a savage among savages, 
 and un%yorthy to enjoy the boon of life. 
 
 Omaint-si-ar-nali dispatched liis warriors and chosen men, while he 
 and Gray-Eagle set their fiices due north to hunt up the nest of Gen- 
 tle Dove. A secret voice assured him that she still lived. For three 
 days they travelled to no purpose, calling loudly, wherever they went, 
 the name of Nito-mc-ma. 
 
 "A cruel husband," said the chief, sorrowfully, "who banishes his 
 wife, puts her, indeed, afar off. Great is the interval betwixt them. 
 Moons wax and wane. Rivers flow. Time and distance interpose 
 their great gulfs. There is no straight line ; ' we wander uncertain, for 
 the ways of the ungrateful are crooked." 
 
 On the fourth day, Omaint-si-ar-nah found an arrow sticking in an 
 oak, and beneath it were hieroglyphic symbols lately cut, for the 
 wounded bark had not long healed over them. Here was the spot 
 where the lurking traitor stood who had since met his doom. The 
 chief examined the inscription carefully, then clapped his hands and 
 uttered a slight yell. Gray-Eagle made a signal from a distance. 
 On the margin of a brook he had discovered the tiny foot-prints of a 
 child, and near by were pebbles and smooth stones arranged upon the 
 sands, while a critical scrutiny of the surrounding places showed that 
 the twigs had been slightly bent aside or broken. EolloM-ing these 
 indications for several hours, and often losing the faint trail toward 
 sun-down, Omaint-si-ar-nah paused suddenly. 
 
 " I smell the smell of smoke," said he. " Wigwams arc not far 
 off." lie put his ear close to the ground, then rose up, tightened his 
 girdle, and called Gray-Eagle to his side. "Advance," said he, mov- 
 ing with rapidity, " let not the grass grow in the path." As the day 
 declined, they came upon the certain signs of a habitation. The earth 
 was well tracked and beaten in diverging foot-paths, the sound of 
 voices began to be heard, and the low chaunting of an Indian song. 
 At last tl]e bower f>f Gentle Dove appeared in sight. She sat without 
 it in the shade, engagt'd in painting and in decorating barken sandals, 
 and busily intent upon her work, Morning-Glory was feeding the 
 tame buffalo with handfiils of the wild clover. Omaint-si-ar-nah 
 
GENTLE DOVE. 101 
 
 remained unobserved for a few moments ; then he commanded Gray 
 Eagle to stand at a distance, and, silently approaching, stood before 
 his wife. Confounded at his sudden presence, she rose up, and was 
 deprived of speech. A sudden pallor diffused itself over her features, 
 and she trembled like an aspen leaf in the breeze. The chief lifted 
 her in his arms ; he pressed her to his bosom ; he kissed her cold 
 brow again and again, and as he smoothed down her glossy locks with 
 his hand, and spoke in the accents of tenderness, big tears rolled do-svn 
 his scarred and furrowed countenance. Nito-me-ma dropped her head 
 upon hi§ shoulder and wept, then beckoning to Morning-Glory, lightly 
 and gracefully the child came leaping to her mother. Omaint-si-ar- 
 nah burst into a loud yell of extreme delight. He caught her in his 
 arms, adorned her neck with tinkling ornaments, and called her 
 Dancing Fawn, and Rippling Rill, and Waving Feather, and all the 
 endearing titles which he knew, but she said her name was Morning 
 Glory. She did not fear the warrior's savage aspect, and with her 
 earliest speech she had been taught the name of father. Omaint-si 
 ar-nah beckoned to Gray-Eagle, who still kept aloof^ and told him to 
 approach. Then Nito-me-ma prepared a sumptuous entertainment 
 for her guests ; smoked meats, and cakes of Indian maize, and snow 
 white milk, and honey-comb, and dainties long laid up. Pleasantly 
 the time passed in mutual narrative, and on the morrow they pre- 
 pared to hurry back to the deserted camp. Great was the joy of the 
 whole tribe on the return of Gentle Dove and Morning-Glory. Three 
 whole days were spent in rejoicing. Feasts were spread in profusion 
 while the young amused themselves with dances and wrestling and 
 ball-play, and the sports adapted to their age. 
 
 The second nuptials were never marred by bitterness or grief. 
 Moon followed moon, and plenty blessed the tribe, which laid aside 
 the hatchet as if a peaceful angel came into their midst. A Christian 
 church now stands upon the spot where the poor pilgrim raised her 
 cross within the hollow of the tree, and the sweet sound of Sunday 
 chimes invites the worshippers of God. Omaint-si-ar-nah lost his 
 savage nature, though he did not openly profess the faith of Christ ; 
 but when the evening of his days came on, and she who had been true 
 to him till death slept with her fathers in the quiet grave, to children 
 
108 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 grouped around in listening attitudes, the old man loved to call up 
 memories of the past, and tell the story of his long-lost Gentle 
 Dove. 
 
 Note. — For many of the facta contained in the above legend, the author is 
 indebted to a poem called " Black Hawk," wTitten by Elbert H. Suttd 
 
/^ 
 
A FBAGilENT PROM THE LIST CANTO OF "ULRIC, OR THE VOICES." 
 
 THEODORE 
 
 [The following fragment is the concluding canto of the second unpublished part of a poem 
 written in 1S46 and 47. The first part appeared under the name of " Vlrio ; or, the Voices.'" There 
 is a period of ten years between the two parts. Ejemelixe's sou, Fritz, has grown into a youth of 
 nineteen. In rather a strong contrast to the present state of the eastern continent, where a new 
 crusade appears being organized, not against, but in favor of Islamism, the Ottoman govern- 
 ment, after possessing itself of the most beautiful and celebrated countries of the ancient oriental 
 world, conceived the ambitious design of subjugating Europe to the faith of the Prophet. 
 Weakened and distracted by cinl wars, the Christian princes might well tremble to behold Con- 
 stantinople the seat of the Sultan, and the Crescent advancing to Venice, Vienna, and Bavaria. 
 SoLYMAN II., furious at his defeat by the knights of St. John, in the island of Malta, had invaded 
 Hungary ^vith a powerful army, and laid siege to Sigeth, the bulwark of Styria against the Turk. 
 
 Uleic had promised to join his standard to that of the noble Count Zekrini (according to a cus- 
 tom of those days) whenever the Turkish forces should again threaten Europe. He reached 
 Sigeth with his forces just before the formidable army had approached its walls. Both Uleic and 
 Zeekini believed that the European Maximilian II., who lay in the neighborhood with an army 
 not inferior to that of the besiegers, would at least attempt its relief; and on the supposition that 
 60 noble an enterprise would be almost certainly victorious, and would open a brilliant career tc 
 the sou of Emmeline, he had taken him as one of his aides. Arrived at Sigeth, it transpired that 
 the Emperor had resolved not to aid the city ; and death now stared in the face of every ont 
 within the fatal walls of Sigeth. The canto opens at the moment when Zeeeini and Uleic had 
 adopted the desperate expedient of cutting their way out. This celebrated action of Zeeeini is a 
 weU-known historical incident. The Turks left 80,000 dead on the field. Soltman died during 
 the siege. His successor granted Maximilian a twelve years' truce. Zeeeini, as the poem 
 relates, fell while cutting his way out of the fortress.] 
 
 Haek ! hark 1 the thunder I not of Heaven, 
 But that which Hell to earth has given. 
 
 Hark 1 peal on peal resound I 
 Where the hot battle fiercely bums, 
 The cannon's fiery fury turns 
 On Sigeth's gate. Hark I madly tear 
 Each crash along the broken air. 
 Death and destniction madly glare, 
 
 And shake the aff'ighted ground 
 
110 THE ATLANTIC SOCVEXIR. 
 
 And 'niid their solemn anthem rise, 
 Troubhng tlie soft astonished skies, 
 Deep howls of hate, and yells of pain, 
 And shrieks of death that pierce the brain, 
 And fiends' discordant glee, 
 And clashing steel and oatlis of rage, 
 Vain praj'ers beneath the sabre's edge, 
 
 And shouts of victory. 
 Amid the rout Hell's master stood, 
 And saw his work, that it was good. 
 
 Ha ! will the wreaths, slow-rolling by, 
 Of hea\y smoke, for ever Uo 
 Upon tliat group, and veil its fate. 
 Which issues from the castle gate ? 
 Xow wafts the breeze the rising cloud : 
 On ! on ! their foes around them crowd. 
 Hark ! Ulric's voice, like trumpet loud. 
 
 His lagging men to cliide. 
 forward his sable courser springs, 
 And his dread sword, which terror winga, 
 As 'gainst each flasliing blade it rings. 
 
 Drips with the crimson tide. 
 
 "W ith huu, what warrior, fiercely bright, 
 Cuts his way onward through the fight ? 
 It IS Zekrixi, and between. 
 Half 'mid the battle's fury seen 
 That bold boy -hero I How would start, 
 Emmelfxe ! thy mother's heart, 
 
 If, with unhebned brow, 
 'Mid cannon crash and gory stream, 
 And wliistlJng bidl and sabre gleam. 
 As in some dark delirious dream. 
 
 Thou couldst behold him now ; 
 Couldst mark how near each hot ball hissed 
 That cheek thy lips so oft have kissed ; 
 And how each sabre's deadly blow 
 "Would deep have cleft that laughing brow, 
 But for one arm whoso watchful blade 
 Ever like lightning round him played, 
 • Iiitiiit fmin harm to shield. 
 
THE DEATH OF ULRIC. 
 
 If once, amid tliat iron rain, 
 Ton broken bridge their steeds can gain, 
 They 're safe — yet no I They strive in vain, 
 'T is their last battle-field. 
 
 But look I hurnih! new shouts resound 1 
 Their foes give way, and bite the ground. 
 And Uke some strong uprooted oak, 
 
 Contending with the blast, 
 Slow yielding to the tempest stroke. 
 Now wavering 'mid the billowy smoke, 
 That torn and flamiting Crescent look 1 
 
 Stoops to the dust at last. 
 
 There, 'mid the battle's wildest storm. 
 Erect, Zerrint's glorious form 
 
 Uptowers lilce a god. 
 With shout, resomidiug wUd and lar 
 Above the mad discordant war. 
 He cheei-s lus men, "On! on! hurraJil" 
 But, now, St. Steven ! to the ground, 
 Borne, hke the stag, by fierce blood-houud, 
 O'erwhelmed with many a mortal wound 
 He falls, our eyes no more to greet. 
 Crushed 'mid wiJd horses' iron feet, 
 
 A trampled, broken clod. 
 
 On ! on 1 'mid shout and dying groan, 
 Now Ulric and the boy are down 1 
 But no ! they rise ; o'er heaps of slain 
 Forward their snorting chargers strain ; 
 The masses break apart again. 
 
 Their foes, they reel ; they fly ! 
 "With then- sharp swords they cut theu- way, 
 Uninjured, through the reckless fray. 
 The bridge 1 the bridge ! they gain the day I 
 
 " On ! death or victory !" 
 
 Oh, gallant Fritz ! not yet, not yet I 
 Beware that furious, hot onset, 
 With fijuning eyes, together four 
 Against thee rusli. One struggle more ! • 
 
 111 
 
112 THE ATLAXTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Tlirice the sliarp sabro to thy brow I 
 
 Thrice Ulric's s\\-ifl hand wards the blow — 
 
 Wards and avenges well — for low 
 
 They ho who struck. Each recreant dies I 
 
 The last survivor, panting, flies; 
 But e'er liis Arab steed he pressed 
 He turned to aun at Fritz's breast 
 
 One wingod ball of hate. 
 Now, Ulric ! speed ! In Sultan's flank, 
 Deep, deep the spur, encriuisoned, sank, 
 
 Alas ! too late ! too late ! 
 He sees his sword, so swift and keen, 
 All useless now, but rides between, 
 
 Witli one convulsive bound ; 
 And then the flash, the smoke, tiie shout, 
 The clear report rang sharply out. 
 The deatUy messenger ho feels ; 
 Starts sudden, in his saddle reels. 
 
 Then sinks upon the ground ! 
 
 Fritz springs to save him I sees, oli Death I 
 Thy heavy hand ! Thy failing brcatii. 
 
 Th}' smotlicred groan of pain ! 
 To stanch, he strives, the bubbling blood, 
 Outgushing in a s^'oUen flood, 
 
 A dreadful task, and vain. 
 
 " Oh, general I Oh, fatal strife ! 
 For nunc thou gavest thy precious life ! 
 The ball was meant for me !" 
 "That flnng fellow sent it home, 
 Tlis aim was good; my hour hnth come — 
 My hour of victory." 
 
 And now from Fritz's wliite cheek flowed 
 The hue, that all the battle stood ; 
 
 And dropped his blinded eyes. 
 •'Oh, fatal, fatal day!" ho said, 
 As o'lT thiit brow the death-damp spread; 
 
THE DEATH OF ULRIC. 
 
 And still streamed forth the purple tide; 
 " So late, aloft, I saw him ride, 
 In all life's grandeur and its pride ; 
 Now, here he lies." 
 
 'Yes, yes, in death the warrior laj. 
 Each moment ebbed his life away, 
 The helm unloosed, the forehead bare, 
 Upraised to Heaven in silent prayer. 
 Then gently spoke: "Dear Fritz, no, no, 
 "T is vain, 't is vain ; let — let it flow ! 
 "Weep not for me. Death is no theme 
 For weeping. It most sweet doth seem 
 
 To yield my breath. 
 Oh I nothing m this world hath been 
 So slandered, with thy friendly mien. 
 Thy face, so hopeful, so serene, 
 As thou, oh Death 1" 
 
 " Sweet, pitying Heaven ! my heart wiU breakl 
 
 " My breath, it fails ; poor Sultan take 
 My parting gift, and for my sake 
 Be gentle with hun, Fritz ; and when 
 Thou reachest Rudolstadt again, 
 And ridest him, all joyous, on 
 Through wood and vale, o'er hill and lawu, 
 
 Each sylvan path I see ! 
 The mossy steep, the silent wood, 
 Look! how the yellow golden flood. 
 The very spot on which we stood, 
 
 Bid her remember me." 
 
 "Oh, dearest friend! oh, gracious Heaven! 
 
 His senses wander " 
 
 " I have striven, 
 Not all in vain, and now the spell 
 I break at last. Sweet boy, farewell ! 
 Thy hand ! I die — all cold — all dark ! 
 
 ily blessmg to thy ra . Hark ! hark ! 
 
 They call! what bright forms round me gather! 
 Ha! yes; my blessing to thy father!" 
 
 113 
 
J 14 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Oh DEAxn ! bow beautiful, how still I 
 As if some sculptor's wondrous skill. 
 Out of the cold and lifeless stone 
 That noble warrior form had hewn. 
 Over the marble features stole 
 A hght, as rose the parting soul, 
 And then, descending o'er tlie plain, 
 Floats softly an angelic strain 
 Of voices airj' sweet, that seem 
 A loving thought, a tender dream. 
 It lingers not, that passing choir, 
 But slow recedes, and rises higher, 
 Fainter and fainter ; now it dies. 
 Uncertain, in the farthest skies. 
 
 Ulric, farewell ! Th}- painful task is done, 
 Thy battle with the Prince of Hell is won. 
 Faith's narrow path thy child-like soul hath trod. 
 Thou hast believed, obeyed, and worshipped Gou 
 
 And thus a Christian spirit, free at last, 
 Beyond the reach of wearj-ing sin hath passed, 
 From its hard warfare with Hell's potent might : 
 Good against evil; darkness against liglit. 
 Victorious o'er the Avorld, its sorrows ended. 
 And through Dcatii's gates by angel forms attended. 
 
 And thus, oh reader ! whatsoe'er thou art, 
 • Or high or low, or rich or poor, tliy pan, 
 
 Thus, in its hour, thy spirit, too, may rise 
 From earth's short sufl'erings to the liappy skiea, 
 If thou but care to choose aright between 
 The curse and blessing of this lower scene ; 
 If thou but mark, as by God's help we may, 
 Hell's filthy laughter, as thou go'st astray. 
 And the clear voices cjxlling thee again. 
 With many a secret tone and thrilling strair , 
 Voices, perchance, now floating, faint and /iir, 
 From some light cloud or quiet gazing star. 
 While now, with trumpet tones, they burst ami roll 
 Up from the depths of thy eternal soul. 
 
THE DEATH OF ULRIC. 
 
 Oh mortal ! listen to them. Learn to know 
 
 Those earnest voices, whencesoe'er they flow. 
 
 Watch for them I Listen ! Mark them and obey 1 
 
 Follow not thou the Evil One's soft way, 
 
 For all his art can give. "When, at thy side, 
 
 He stands and whispers thoughts of lust and pride, 
 
 From his vLle spells, by prayer thy spirit free, 
 
 And break away, how sweet soe'er they be. 
 
 For sweet, oh God ! they are, and liis old throne 
 
 Too firmly set for thee to move alone. 
 
 Oh, sorcerer ! full many a wondi'ous charm 
 
 He knows to banish doubt and hush alarm. 
 
 Thy eyes to veil, and so to sway thy thought, 
 
 Clasped in his arms, thou stUl beUevest not. 
 
 All bright things of the earth, oh ! mystery 1 
 
 Are sometimes lent, his instruments to be ; 
 
 Nature's fair visions, music, moonlight, love ; 
 
 All that they will may captivate and move, 
 
 Soft vales and mountains, summer-days and floTeraL 
 
 And golden hopes that wing youth's airy hours. 
 
 Science and taste and intellect refined. 
 
 The noble heart and the aspiring mind , 
 
 The fatal trust in conscious innocence 
 
 Whatever wakes the soul, or wins the sense, 
 
 There lies the dark foe 'mid the roses curled, 
 
 Bnt One alone can overcome the world. 
 
 115 
 
/^-z^^ 
 
€^tm '§d^u^L 
 
 FEEDEEIO 3. 0OZZBH» 
 
 " My eyes make pictures when they are shut." 
 
 In one of those villages peculiar to our Eastern coast, whose long 
 lines of pepper-and-salt stone-fences indicate laborious if not profit- 
 able farming, and the saline breath of the ocean has the effect of 
 making fruit-trees more picturesque than productive, in a stone 
 chunk of a house, whose aspect is quite as interesting to the geologist 
 as to the architect, lives Captain Belgrave. 
 
 The Captain, as he says himself, " is American clean through, 
 on the father's side, up to Plymouth Rock, and knows little, and cares 
 less, of what is beyond that." To hear him talk, you would suppose 
 Adam and Eve had landed there from the May-Flower, and the 
 Garden of Eden was located within rifle distance of that celebrated 
 land-mark. His genealogical table, however, stands upon unequal 
 legs ; for, on his mother's side he is part German and part Irishman. 
 I mention this for the benefit of those who believe that certain 
 qualities in men are hereditary. Of course it will be easy for them 
 to assign those of Captain Belgrave to their proper source. 
 
 The house is square, and not remarkable except for its stone 
 turret on one corner. This, rising from the ground some forty feet, 
 embroidered with ivy, and pierced with arrow-slits, has rather a 
 feudal look. It stands in a by-lane, apart from the congregated 
 village. On the right side of the road is a plashy spring, somewhat 
 redolent of mint in the summer. Opposite to this, in a clump of 
 
118 THE ATLANnC SOUVENIR. 
 
 oaks, surrounded with a picket-fence, is the open porch, with broad 
 wooden benches, and within is an ample hall, looking out upon well- 
 cultivated fields, and beyond — blue water ! This is the " Oakery," as 
 Captain Belgravc calls it. Here he lives with his brother Adol- 
 phus — bachelors both. 
 
 Ilis title is a mystery. There is a legend in the village, that in 
 the last war Belgrave was enrolled in the militia on some frontier. 
 One night he was pacing as sentinel on a long wooden piazza in front 
 of the General's quarters. It was midnight ; the camp was asleep, 
 and the moon was just sinking in a bank of clouds. Belgravc heard 
 a footstep on the stairs at the end of the piazza. " Who goes there 1" 
 No answer. Another step. " "Who goes there ?" he repeated, and 
 his heart began to fail him. No answer — but another step. He 
 cocked his musket. Step, step, step, and then between him and 
 the sinking moon appeared an enormous head decorated with dia- 
 bolical horns. Belgrave drew a long breath and fired. The next 
 instant the spectre was upon him ; he was knocked down ; the 
 drums beat to arms ; the guard turned out, and found the sentinel 
 stretched upon the floor, wath an old he-goat, full of defiance and 
 odor, standing on him. From that time he was called " Captain." 
 
 No place, though it be a paradise, is perfect without one of the 
 gentler sex. There is a lady at the Oakery. Miss Augusta Belgrave 
 is a maiden of about — let me see ; her age was formerly inscribed 
 on the fly-leaf of the family Bible between the Old and New Testa- 
 ments ; but the page was torn out, and now it is somewhere in the 
 Apocrypha. No matter what it may be ; if you were to see her, 
 you would say she was safe over the breakers. Two unmarried 
 brothers, with a spinster sister, living alone: it is not unfreqiicnt 
 in old families. The rest of the household may be embraced in 
 Hannah, the help, who is also "a maiden all forlorn," and Jim, the 
 stable-boy. Jim is a unit, as well as the rest. Jim has been a 
 stable-boy all his life, and now, at the age of sixty, is only a boy 
 ripened. His chief pride and glory is to drive a pair of bob-tailed 
 bay trotters that arc (traditionally) fiist ! Adol[>hus, who has a turn 
 for literature, christened the ofl*-horse "Spectator;" but the near 
 horse came from a bankrupt wine-broker, who named him " Chateau 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE. 119 
 
 Margaux." This the Captain reduced to " Shatto," and the village 
 people corrupted to " Shatter !" 
 
 There was something bold and jaunty in the way the Captain used 
 to drive old Shatter on a dog-trot through the village, (Spectator 
 rarely went with his mate except to church on Sundays,) with squared 
 elbows, and whip depending at a just angle over the dash-board. 
 " Talk of your fost horses !" he Avould say. " Why, if I would only 
 let him out," pointing his whip, like a marshal's baton, toward 
 Shatter, " you would see time /" But he never lets him out. 
 
 The square turret rises considerably above the house-roof Every 
 night, at bed-time, the villagers see a light shining through its narrow 
 loop-holes. There are loop-holes in the room below, and strong case- 
 ments of ordinary size in the rooms adjoining. In the one next to it 
 Miss Augusta sleeps, as all the village knows, for she is seen at times 
 looking out of the window. Next to that is another room, in which 
 A-dolphus sleeps. He is often seen looking out of that window. 
 Next, again, to that is the vestal chamber of Hannah, on the south- 
 west corner of the house. She is sometimes seen looking out of the 
 window on either side. Next to that again is the dormitory of Jim. 
 the stable-boy. Jim always smells like a menagerie, and so does his 
 room, no doubt. He never looks out of the window except upon the 
 Fourth of July, when there is too much noise in the village to risk 
 driving Spec and Shat. No living person but the occupants has 
 ever been in that story of the house. No living person understands 
 the mystery of the tower. The light appears at night through the 
 loop-holes in the second story, then flashes upward, shines again 
 through the slits in the lofty part of the turret, burns steadily half 
 an hour or so, and then vanishes. Who occupies that lonely turret 1 
 
 Let us take the author-privilege and ascend the stairs. First we 
 come to Jim's room ; we pass through that into Hannah's apartment. 
 There is a bolt on the inside of her door ; we pass on into the loom 
 of Adolphus ; it, too, has a bolt on the inside. Now all the virtues 
 guide and protect us, for we are in the sleeping-apartment of the 
 spinster sister ! It, too, has a bolt on the inside ; and here we are m 
 the tower : the door, like the rest, is bolted. There is nothing in the 
 room but the carpet on the floor ; no stair-iase, but a trap-door in the 
 
120 THE ATLAXTIC SOUVEXIR. 
 
 ceiling. It is but a short flight for fancy to reach the upper story. 
 The trap is bolted in the floor ; there is a ladder standing beside it ; 
 here are chairs, a bureau, a table, with an extinguished candle, and 
 the moonlight fivlls in a narrow strip across the features of Captain 
 Belgrave, fist asleep, and beside him a Bible, and an enormous horse- 
 pistol, loaded. 
 
 Nowhere but in the household of some old bachelor could such 
 discipline exist as in the Oakery. At night the Captain is the first to 
 retire ; Miss Augusta follows with a pair of candlesticks and candles ; 
 then metaphysical Adolphus with his mind in painful state of fermen- 
 tation ; then Hannah, the help, with a small brass candlestick ; then 
 Jim, the stable-boy, who usually waits until the company is on the 
 top-stair, when he makes a false start, breaks, pulls himself up, and 
 gets into a square trot just in time to save being distanced at the , 
 landing. Adolphus and Jim are not trusted with candles. Miss 
 Augusta is rigorous on that point. She permits the Captain to have 
 one because he is careful with it; beside, he owns the house and 
 every thing in it ; the land and every thing on it ; and supports the 
 fixmily ; therefore his sister indulges him. We now understand the 
 internal arrangement of the Oakery. It is a fort, a castle, a citadel, 
 of which Augusta is the scarp, Jim the glacis, Hannah the counter- 
 scarp, and Adolphus the ditch. Tlic Captain studied the science of 
 fortification after his return from the wars. 
 
 The Belgraves are intimate only with one family in the village, 
 and they are new acquaintances — the Mewkers. Tliere is Mr. 
 Mewker, Mrs. Mewker, Mrs. Lasciver, formerly Miss Mewker, and 
 six or seven little Mewkers. Mewker has the reputation of being a 
 good man, but unfortunately his appearance is not prepossessing. 
 lie has large bunchy feet, with very ineflectual legs, low shoulders, 
 a sunken chest, a holloAV cavity under the waistcoat, little, weak, 
 eyes that seem set in bladders, straggling hair, rusty whiskers, 
 black, and yellow teeth, and long, skinny, disagreeable fingers; 
 beside, he is knock-kneed, shuniing in gait, and always leans on one 
 side when he wftlks. Uncharitable people say he leans on the side 
 where his interests lie, but Captain Belgrave will not believe a word 
 of it. Oh ! no ; Mewker is a dilferent man from that. He is a mem- 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE. 
 
 121 
 
 ber of the church, and sings in the choir. He is executor of several 
 estates, and of couKse takes care of the orphans and widows. He 
 holds the church money in trust, and of course handles it solely to 
 promote its interests. And then he is so deferential, so polite, so 
 charitable. " Never," says the Captain, " did I hear him speak ill of 
 any body, but he lets me into the worst points of my neighbors by 
 jest teching on 'em, and then he excuses their fibles, as if he was kind 
 o' sorry for 'em ; but I keeps my eye onto 'em after the hints he give 
 me, and he can't blind me to them." 
 
 Harriet Lasciver, formerly Miss Mewkcr, is a widow, perfectly 
 delicious in dimples and dimity, fond of high life and low-necked 
 dresses, music, birds, and camclias. Captain Belgrave has a great 
 fuicy for the charming widow. This is a secret, however. You and I 
 know it, and so does Meivker. 
 
 It is Sunday in Little-Crampton — a summer Sunday. The old 
 fashioned flowers are blooming in the old-fashioned gardens, and the 
 last vibration of the old rusty bell in the century-old belfry seems 
 dying off, and melting away in fragrance. Outside, the village is 
 quiet, but within the church there is an incessant plying of fans and 
 rustling of dresses. The Belgraves are landed at the porch, and 
 Spec and Shat whirl the family carriage into the grave-yard. The 
 Mewkers enter with due decorum. Adolphus drops his hymn-book 
 into the pew in front, as he always does. The little flatulent organ 
 works through the voluntary. The sleek head of the Eev. Mr. Spat 
 is projected toward the audience out of the folds of his cambric 
 handkerchief; and after doing as much damage to the simple and 
 beautiful service as he can by reading it, flourishes through the regular 
 old Spatsonian sermon; its tiresome repetitions and plagiarisms, 
 with the same old rising and falling inflections, the same old tremu- 
 lous tone toward the end, as if he were crying ; the same old recu- 
 perative method by which he recovers his lost voice in the last 
 sentence, when it was all but gone ; and the same old gesture by 
 which the audience understand that his labors (and theirs) are over 
 for the morning. Then the congregation departs with the usual 
 accompaniments of dresses rustling, and pew-doors slamming ; and 
 Mr. Meeker descends from the choir and sidles up the aisle, nursing 
 
122 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEKIR. 
 
 his knobs of elbows in his skinny fingers, and congratulates the Rev. 
 Mr. Spat upon the excellent discourse he had delivered, and receives 
 the customary quid 2vro quo in the shape of a compliment upon the 
 excellent singing in the choir. This account ailjustcd, ^fr. Mewker 
 shuffles home beside the lovely widow ; and Mrs. Mewker and the 
 small fry of members follow in their wake. 
 
 "I have looked into the records in the county clerk's office," 
 Mewker says, in a whisper, to his sister, " and the property is all 
 right. That old Tiling, (unconscious Augusta Belgravc, rolling 
 home behind Spec and Shat, do you hear this]) that old Thing, 
 and that fool of a book-worm (Adolphus) can be packed off after 
 the wedding, and then we can arrange matters between us. Spat 
 understands mc in this, and intends to be hand and glove with Bel- 
 grave, so as to work upon him. Ilfc will, he must do it, for he knowS 
 that his remaining in this church depends upon me." Here Mr. 
 Mewker was interrupted by one of the young Mewkers, who came 
 running up, hat in hand. "Oh! pa, look there ! see those beautiful 
 climbing roses growing all over that old tree!" "Jacob," said 
 Mewker, catching him by the hair, and rapping his head with his 
 bony knuckles until the tears came, " have n't I told you not to speak 
 of such trivial things on the Sabbath? How dare you (with a 
 repetition of raps) think of climbing roses so soon after church ? 
 Go ; (with a fresh clutch in the scalp of Mewker, Junior,) go to your 
 mother, and when I get home I will punish you." Mr. !Mewker 
 resumed the whispered conversation. "Belgrave is ruled entirely 
 by his sister, but between Spat and I, she can be blinded, I think. If 
 she should suspect, now, she would interfere, of course, and Belgrave 
 would not dare to disobey her. But if we can get him committed 
 once in some wa}', he is such a coward that he would be entirely 
 in my power. Dear," he said aloud to Mrs. M., "how did you 
 like the sermon 1" "Angelic," replies Mrs. Mewker. "That's my 
 opinion, too," responds Mewker. "Angelic, angelic. Spat is a lovely 
 man, my dear. "NVliat is there for dinner ?" 
 
 If there were some feminine meter by which Harriet Laseiver's 
 soul could be measured, it would indicate "good" pretty high uj> on 
 the scale. Yet she had listened to this after-church discourse of her 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE, 123 
 
 Drother not only with complacency, but with a full and unequivocal 
 assent to all he had proposed. So she would have listened, so 
 assented to any thing, no matter what, proposed by him ; and all 
 things considered, it was not surprising. Even as continued attrition 
 wears the angles of the flint until it is moulded into the perfect 
 pebble, so had her nature been moulded by her brother. He had 
 bullied her in her childhood and in her womanhood, except when 
 there was a purpose in view which he could better accomplish by 
 fawning; and her natural good disposition, so indurated by these 
 opposed modes of treatment, had become as insensible to finer emo- 
 tions as her heart was callous to its own impulses. There was one 
 element in his composition which at all times had cast a gloss upon 
 his actions. It was his piety ! God help us ! that any one should 
 allude to that but with reverence and love ! Nor do I here speak 
 of it but as a profession, an art, or specious showing forth of some- 
 thing that is not real, hut jirofessed, in order to accomplish other ends. 
 What profited her own experience, when Harriet Lasciver was so far 
 imposed upon as to believe her brother's professions sincere ? What 
 though all his life he had been a crooked contriver and plotter, 
 malicious in his enmity, and false in his friendship ; and she knew it ? 
 Yet, as she could not reconcile it with his affected sanctity, she could 
 not believe it. That wonderful power which men seldom, and women 
 never analyze — hypocrisy, held her entangled in its meshes, and she 
 was his instrument to be guided as he chose. Every noble trait 
 true woman possesses — pity, tenderness, love, and high honor — 
 were commanded by an influence she could not resist. Her reason, 
 nay, her feelings were dormant, but her foith slept securely upon 
 her brother's religion ! 
 
 In this instance there was another consideration — a minor one, it 
 is true, but in justice to the widow, it must be added. She really 
 admired the Captain ; but that makes no great difference. A widow 
 must love some body. Those delicate tendrils of affection which put 
 forth, with the experiences of the young wife die not in the widow, 
 but survive, and must have some support. Even if the object be un- 
 worthy or unsightly, as it happens sometimes, still will they bind, 
 and bloom, and cling, and blossom around it, like honey-suckles 
 around a post. 
 
124 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 The windows at the Oakery are open, and the warm air of a Sun 
 day summer evening pours in, as Augusta pours out the tea. The 
 Captain burns his mouth with the first cup, turns the tea into the sau- 
 cer, blows it to cool it, drinks it off hastily, takes a snap at the thin, 
 white slicfc of bread on his plate, takes another snap at a radish some- 
 what overcharged with salt, wipes his mouth, goes to the window and 
 calls out "Jim!" Jim appears at the stable-door with a wisp of 
 straw and a curry-comb. " Put in the bosses !" Jim telegraphs with 
 the curry-comb, "All right. Sir!" Augusta stares at Adolphus, and 
 Adolphus brushes the metaphysical films from his eyes, and, for once, 
 seems wide awake. The Captain takes his seat and a fresh snap at 
 the bread. Augusta looks at him steadily. " Why, brother, where 
 are you going with the horses on Sunday afternoon ?" The Captain 
 squints at the bread, and answers, " To Mewker's." " Mewker's !" 
 repeats Augusta ; " Mewker's ! why, brother, you 're crazy ; they 
 never receive company on Sunday. You know how strictly pious 
 Mr. Mewker is, and he would look at you with amazement. To see 
 you riding, too ! why — I — never !" 
 
 The Captain, however, said nothing, but waited, with some impa- 
 tience, until Spec and Shat turned out with the carriage from the sta- 
 ble. Then he took the ribbons, stopped, threw them down, went up 
 into the tower, came back with a clean shirt on, climbed into the scat, 
 and drove off. 
 
 " lie '11 come back from there in a hurry, I guess," said Augusta 
 to the wondering Adolphus. 
 
 But the Captain did not return until eleven that night, and then 
 somewhat elevated with wine. " Augushta," said he, as the procession 
 formed as usual on the stairs, "that Mucous 'sha clever feller, heesha 
 clever fuller, heesha dev'lish clever feller; heesh fond of talking on 
 church matters, and sho 'mi. His shistcr, sheesha another clever ful- 
 ler, she 's a chump ! I asked 'cm to come to-morrow to tea, and 
 shaid they would." 
 
 " Why, brother, to-morrow is Monday, washing-day !" replied the 
 astonished spinster. 
 
 " Tha 's a fack, Gushta, fack," answered the Captain, as he took 
 the candle from his sister at the tower-door ; " but, was-h or no wash. 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE. 125 
 
 musht come. When I ask 'em to come, musht come. Good- 
 night !" 
 
 The bolts are closed on the several doors, scarp and counterscarp, 
 ditch and glacis are wrapped in slumber ; but the Captain lies wide 
 awake, looking through the slits in the tower casement at the Great 
 Bear in the sky, and thinking rapturously of the lovely Lasciver. 
 
 Never did the old family carriage have such a polishing as on that 
 Monday morning. Never did Jim so bestir himself with the harness 
 as on that day under the eye of Belgrave. The Captain neglects to 
 take his accustomed ride to the village in the morning, that Spec 
 and Shat may be in condition for the afternoon. At last the carriage 
 rolls up the road from the Oakery, with Jim on the box, and the Cap- 
 tain retires to dress for company. In due course the carriage returns 
 with Spec and Shat somewhat blown with an over-load; for all the 
 young Mewkers are piled up inside, on the laps of Mrs. Mewker and 
 the lovely Lasciver. Then Augusta hurries into thfe kitchen to tell 
 Hannah, the help, to cut more bread for the brats, and Adolphus is hur- 
 ried out into the garden to pull more radishes, "and the young Mew- 
 kor tribe get into his little library, and revel in his choice books, and 
 quarrel over them, and scatter some leaves and covers on the floor as 
 trophies of the fight.. Then the tea is brought on, and the lovely Las- 
 civer tries in vain to soften the asperity of Augusta ; and then Mew- 
 ker takes her in hand, and does succeed, and in a remarkable degree, 
 too. Meanwhile the ciphers of the party, Mrs. Mewker and Adol- 
 phus, drink and eat in silence. Then they adjourn to the porch, and 
 Mewker sits beside Augusta, and entertains her with an account of 
 the missions in Surinam, to which she turns an attentive ear. Then 
 Mrs. Mewker says it is time to go, " on account of the children," at 
 which Mewker darts a petrifying look at her, and turns with a smile 
 to Augusta, who, in the honesty of her heart, says " she, too, thinks it 
 is best for the young ones to go to bed early." Then Jim is sum- 
 moned from the stable, and Spec and Shat ; and the Mewkers take 
 leave, and whirl along the road again toward home. 
 
 It was long before the horses returned, for Jim drove back slowly. 
 There was not a tenderer heart in the world than the one which beat 
 in the bosom of that small old boy of sixty. He sat perched upon 
 
126 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 the box, calling out, " Gently, soho !" to Spec and Shat, when they 
 advanced beyond a walk, and held a talk with himself in this wise : 
 " I do n't want to carry that old carcase agin. He gits in and praises 
 up the Cap'n so as / can hear him, and then asks me if I wo n't lay 
 the whip on the bosses. Says I, ' Mr. Mewker, them bosses has been 
 druv.' Says he, ' Yes, James, but you can give 'em a good rubbin' 
 down when you get to hum, and that will fetch 'em all right.' Now, 
 I want to know if you take a man, and lay a whip onto him, and 
 make him travel till he 's sore, whether rubbin' down is a-goin' to 
 make him all right 1 No, Sir. Then he calls me James. I do n't 
 want no man to call me James ; my name 's Jim. There was old 
 ^Midgely ; he called me James ; did n't he coax out of me all I 'd 
 saved up for more 'n twenty years, and then busted? There was 
 Deacon Cotton ; did n't he come in over the Captain with that pork ? 
 lie called me James, too. And there was that psalm-singin' peddler 
 that got Miss Augusty to lend him the colt ; he called me James. Did 
 he bring the colt back? No, Sir; at least not yit, and it 's more 'n 
 three years ago. When a man calls me James, I take my eye and 
 places it onto him. I hearn him when he tells Miss Mewker not to 
 give beggars nothin'. / hearn him. He sez they may be impostors ! 
 Well, 'spose they be 1 When a feller-creatur' gits so low as to beg, 
 have n't they got low enough 1 Aint they ragged, dirty, despised ? 
 Do n't they run a chance of starvin', impostors or not, if every 
 body drives 'em off? And what great is it if they do got a-head of 
 you, for a crumb or a cent ? When I see a feller-creatur' in rags, 
 beggin', I say human natur' has got low enough ; it 's in rags ! it 
 begs ! it 's 'way down, and it do n't make much difference if it 's 
 actin' or not. Them aint impostors that will do much harm. Them 
 aint impostors like old Midgely, and Deacon Ci^tton, and that psalm- 
 singin' peddler that borrowed the colt ; at least they do n't cut it so 
 fat. But 'spose they do n't happin' to be impostors, artcr all ? 
 Whar 's that account to be squared ? I guess I 'd raythor be the beg- 
 gar than the other man when that account is squared. I guess when 
 that account is squared, it will kind a-look as if the impostor was n't 
 the one that asked for the stale bread, but the one that would n't give 
 it. Seems as if I 've heard 'cm tell about a similar case somewhere." 
 
CAPTAIN EELGRAVE. 12'! 
 
 A good rubbing down, indeed, for Spec and Shat that niglit, and a 
 well-filled manger, too. When Jim picked up his stable-lantern, he 
 gave each horse a pat on the head and a parting hug, and then backed 
 out, with his eyes still on them, " Spec !" said he at the door. Spec 
 gave a whinny in reply. " Shat !" Shat responded also. " Good- 
 night, old boys ! Old Jim aint a-goin' to lay no whip onto you. If 
 old Jim wants to lay a whip onto something, it wo n't be onto you, 
 that 's been spavined and had the bots, and he 's cured 'em, and they 
 know it, hey! No, Sir. His 'tipathy works outside into another 
 quarter. Is my name James ? Well, it aint. It 's Jim, is n't it 1 
 Yes, Sir!" 
 
 Old Jim's remarks being ended, and the stable-door locked, 
 nothing remained for him to do but to form the glacis before the 
 Belgrave citadel. 
 
 From that night, however, the halcyon days of Spec and Shat 
 were at an end. The Mewkers loved to ride, but they had no horses : 
 the only living thing standing upon four legs belonging to Mr. Mcw- 
 ker was an ugly, half-starved, cross-grained, suspicious-looking dog, 
 that had the mange and a bad reputation. Of course, the Captain's 
 horses were at their service, for rides to the beach, for pic-nics in the 
 woods, for shopping in the village, or, perchance, to take Mr. Mewker 
 to some distant church-meeting. And not only were the horses 
 absent at unusual times ; there seemed to be a growing fondness in 
 the Captain for late hours. The old-style regularity of the Oakery, 
 the time-honored habits of early hours to bed, the usual procession up 
 the stairs, formal but cheerful, were, in some measure, broken into ; 
 not but what these were observed as formerly ; not but what every 
 member of the family waited and watched until the Captain returned, 
 no matter how late ; but that sympathetic feeling which all had felt 
 when the hour of bed-time came, had ceased to be, and in its place 
 was the dreary languor, the tiresome, tedious feeling that those expe- 
 rience who sit up and wait and wait, for an absent one, waiting and 
 asking, " Why tarry the wheels of his chariot V There was an increas- 
 ing presentiment, a gloomy foreshadowing of evil, in Miss Augusta's 
 mind at these doings of the Captain ; and this feeling was heightened 
 by something, trifling in itself, yet still mysterious and unaccountable. 
 
128 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Some body, almost every day, cut off a tolerably large piece from the 
 beef or mutton, or whatever kind of meat there chanced to be in the 
 cellar. And uo body knew any thing about it. Hannah was fidelity 
 itself; Jim was beyond suspicion ; Adulphus never went into the cel- 
 lar, scarcely out cf the library, in fact. The Captain ! could it be her 
 brother? Miss Augusta watched. She saw him do it. She saw him 
 covertly draw his jack-knife from his pocket, and purloin a piece of 
 l)eautiful rump-steak, then wrap it up in j^apcr, put it in his pocket, 
 and walk off whistling, as if nothing had happened. " Tlie widow is 
 at the bottom of this !" was the thought that flashed through the mind 
 of Augusta. She was indirectly correct. The widow was at the bot- 
 tom of the theft, and I will tell you how. I have mentioned a large, 
 mangy dog, of disreputable character, Mr. Mewker's property, and 
 " Bose" by name. Whenever the Captain drove up the path to the 
 house of his friend, there, beside the step of the wagon, from the time 
 it passed the gate until it reached the porch, was this dog, with a tail 
 short as pie-crust, that never wagged ; thick, wicked eyes, and a face 
 that did not suggest fidelity and sagacity, but treachery and rapine, 
 dead sheep, and larceny great or small. And although the Captain 
 was a stout, active, well-framed man, with a rosy cheek, a bright eye, 
 and a sprightly head of hair, yet he was afraid of that dog. And 
 therefore, the Captain, to conciliate Bose, brought him every day 
 some choice morsel from his own kitchen ; and as he did not dare 
 to tell Augusta, the same was abstracted in the manner already 
 described. 
 
 Here I must mention a peculiarity in Captain Belgrave's charac- 
 ter. He never saw a dog without thinking of hydrophobia ; he never 
 bathed on the beautiful beach in the rear of his house without imagin- 
 ing every chip in the Avater, or ri]>ple on the wave, to be the dorsal 
 fin of some voracious shark. When he drove home at night, it was 
 with fear and trembling, for an assassin might be lurking in the 
 bushes; and if he passed a sick neighbor, he walked off with small- 
 pox, measles, typhoid, and whooping-cough trundling at his hoels. In 
 a word, he was the most consummate co\yard in Little-Crampton. It 
 was f^r this reason he had built and slept in the tower ; and what with 
 reading of pirates, buccaneers. Captain Kidd, and Black Beard, his 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVB. 129 
 
 mind was so infected that no sleeping-place seemed secure and safe, 
 but his own turret and trap-door, scarp, counterscarp, ditch, and gla- 
 cis, through which all invaders had to pass before they encountered 
 him with his tremendous horse-pistol. 
 
 It was not the discovery of the theft alone that had opened the 
 eyes of Augusta in regard to her brother's motions. Although he had 
 told her, again and again, that he merely went to Mewkcrs to talk 
 over church matters, yet she knew intuitively, as every woman would, 
 that a widow so lovely as Harriet Lasciver could not but have great 
 attractions for such an old bachelor as her brother. In fact, she 
 knew, if the widow, as the phrase is, " set her cap for him," the Cap- 
 tain was a lost man. But to whom could she apply for counsel and 
 assistance 1 Adolphus ? Adolphus had no more sense than a kitten. 
 Haimah? There was something of the grand old spinster — spirit 
 about Augusta that would not bend to the level of Hannah, the help. 
 Jim ? She would go to Jim. She would see that small boy of sixty, 
 and ask his advice. And she did. She walked over to the stable 
 in the evening, while her brother was making his toilet for the cus- 
 tomary visit to the Mewkery, and, without beating around the bush 
 at all, reached the point at once. "Jim," said she, "the Captain is 
 getting too thick with the Mewkers, and we must put a stop to it. 
 How is that to be done V 
 
 Jim paused for a moment, and then held up his forefinger. " I 
 know one way to stop him a-goin' there ; and, if you say so. Miss 
 Augusta, then old Jim is the boy to do it." 
 
 Augusta assented in a grand, old, towering nod. Jim, with a mere 
 motion of his forefinger, seemed to reiterate, " If you say so, I 'II 
 do it." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then, by Golly!" responded Jim joyfully, "arter this night 
 he '11 never go there ag'in." 
 
 Augusta walked toward the house with a smile, and Jim proceeded 
 to embellish Shatter. 
 
 By-and-by the Captain drove off in the wagon, and old Jim 
 busied himself with Spectator, fitting a mouldy saddle on his back, 
 and getting him ready for action. 
 
130 THE ATLANTIC SOl'A'E.VIR. 
 
 There was a thin cloud, like lace, over the moon that night; just 
 enough to make objects painfully distinct, as Captain Bclgrave turned 
 out from Mewker's gate, and took the high road toward home. He 
 jogged along, however, quite comfortably, and had just reached the 
 end of Mewker's fence, when he saw a figure on horseback, emerging 
 from the little lane that ran down behind the garden to the pond at 
 the back of the house. The apparition had a sort of red cape around 
 its shoulders; a soldier-cap, with a tall plume, (very like the one the 
 Captain used to wear on parade,) was upon its head ; in its hand was 
 a long, formidable-looking staff; and the horse of the spectre was 
 enveloped in a white saddle-cloth, that hung down almost to the 
 ground. What was remarkable, Old Shatter, as if possessed with the 
 devil, actually drew out of the road toward the stranger, and gave a 
 whinny, which was instantly responded to in the most frightful tones 
 by the horse of the spectre. Almost paralyzed, the Captain suffered 
 the apparition to approach him. What a face it had ! Long masses 
 of hair, like tow, waved around features that seemed to have neither 
 shape nor color. Its face seemed like a face of brown paper, so form- 
 less and flat was it, with great hideous eyes and a mouth of intolera- 
 ble width. As it approached, the figure seemed to have a convul- 
 sion — it rolled so in the saddle; but, recovering, it drew up beside 
 the shaft, and, whirling its long staff, brought such a whack upon Shat- 
 ter's flank, that the old horse almost jumped out of his harness. 
 Away went the wagon and the Captain, and away went the spectre 
 close behind ; fences, trees, bushes, dust, whirled in and out of sight ; 
 bridges, sedges, trout-brooks, mills, willows, copses, plains, in moon- 
 light and shadow, rolled on and on ; but not an inch was lost or won ; 
 there, behind the wagon, was the goblin with his long plume bending, 
 and waving, and dancing, and his staff whirling with terrible menaces. 
 On, and on, and on, and ever and anon the goblin steed gave one of 
 those frightful Mhinnies that seemed to tear the very air with its disson- 
 ance. On, and on, and on ! The Captain drove with his head turned 
 back over his shoulder, but Shat knew the road. On, and on, and on ! 
 A thought flashes like inspiration through the mind of the Captain, 
 " The horse-pistol !" It is under the cushions. lie seizes it nervously, 
 cocks it, and — bang ! goes the plume of the goblin. " By gosh !" said 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE. 131 
 
 a voice under the soldier-cap, " I did n't cal'late on that ;" and then, 
 " I vum ef old Shat haint run away !" Sure enough, Shatto has run 
 away ; the wagon is out of sight in a turn of the road ; the next 
 instant, it brings up against a post ; off goes Shat, with shafts and 
 disl3;;ated fore- wheels; and old Jim soon after finds the remains of 
 the wagon, and the senseless body of his master, in a ditch, under 
 the moon, and a willow. To take the red blanket from his shoulders, 
 which he had worn like a Mexican poncho by putting his head through 
 a hole in the middle, is done in an instant ; and then, with big tears 
 rolling down his cheeks, the old boy brings water from a spring, in 
 the crown of the soldier-cap, to bathe the face of the Captain. The 
 report of the pistol has alarmed a neighbor ; and the two, with the 
 assistance of the hind-wheels and the body of the wagon, carry poor 
 Belgrave through the moon-lit streets of Little-Crampton, to the 
 Oakery. 
 
 When the Captain opened his eye, (for the other was under the 
 tuition of a large patch of brown paper, steeped in vinegar,) he found 
 himself safe at home, surrounded and fortified, as usual, by Augusta, 
 Adolphus, Hannah, the help, and Jim, in picturesque attitudes. How 
 he came there, was a mystery. Stay; he begins to take up the 
 thread : Mewkers, fence, the figure, the race for life, and the pistol ! 
 What else ? Nothing — blank — oblivion. So he falls into a tranquil 
 state of comfort, and feels that he does not care about it. No getting 
 up that steep ladder to-night ! Never mind. It is a labor to think, 
 so he relapses into thoughtlessness, and finally falls asleep. There 
 was a stranger in the room behind the bed's head, a tall, astringent- 
 looking man. Dr. Butternuts, by whom the Captain had been let 
 blood. If Belgrave had seen him, he would have fainted. " No inju- 
 ries of any consequence," says the doctor, departing and waving his 
 brown hand. " Terribly skart, though," Augusta responds in a whis- 
 per. " Yes, he will get over that ; to-morrow he will be better ;" 
 and the doctor waves himself out. Adolphus retires, and then Han- 
 nah, the help; but Augusta and Jim watch by the bedside until 
 morning. The Captain, every now and then, among the snowy sheets 
 and coverlet, turns up a side of face that looks like a large, purple 
 egg-plant, at which Jim sighs heavily ; but Augusta whispers sooth 
 
132 THE ATLANTIC SOITVEKIR. 
 
 ingly, " Never mind, Jim, it 's for his good ; I 'm glad you skart 
 him ; you skart him a Icctle too much this time, that 's all ; next time 
 you '11 be more careful, wo n"t you, and not skcar him so bad V' 
 
 That Captain Belgrave had been thrown from his wagon, and 
 badly hurt, was known all over Little-C'rampton, next morning. 
 Some said he had been shot at by a highwayman ; some, he had shot 
 at a highwayman. The story took a hundred shapes, and finally was 
 rolled up at the door of the Rev. Melchior Spat, who at once took 
 his wagon, and drove off to the Mcwkery. There the rumor was 
 unfolded to Mr. Mewker, who, enjoying it immensely, made so many 
 funny remarks thereon, that the Rev. Melchior Spat was convulsed 
 with laughter, and then the two drove down to the Oakery to condole 
 with the sufTorer. On the way there, the Rev. ]Melchior yas so won- 
 derfully facetious, that Mewker, who never enjoyed any person's 
 jokes but his own, was actually stimulated into mirth, and had it not 
 been for happily catching a distant sight of the tower, would have so 
 forgotten himself as to drive up to the door with a pleasant expres- 
 sion of countenance. As it was, thoy both entered grave as owls, and 
 inquired, in faint and broken voices, how the Captain was, and whe- 
 ther he was able to see friends. Augusta, who received them, led 
 them up to the room, where the Captain, with his face like the globe 
 in the equinox, sitting propped up in bed, shook both feebly by the 
 hands, and then the Rev. Melchior proposed prayer, to which Mew- 
 ker promptly responded by dropping on his knees, and burying his 
 face in the bottom of an easy chair. This was a signal for Adolphus 
 to do likewise ; and the Captain, not to be behind, struggling up into a 
 sitting posture, leaned forward in the middle of the coverlet, with his 
 toes and the end of his shirt deployed upon the pillows. Then the 
 Rev. Melchior, in a crying voice, proceeded according to the homeo- 
 pathic practice — that is, making it short and sweet as possible — 
 touching upon the excellent qualities of the sufleror, the distress of 
 his beloved friends, and especially of the anxiety which would l)e 
 awakened in the bosom of one now absent, " whose heart was only the 
 heart of a woman, a heart not strong and able to bear up against 
 calamity, but weak, and fragile, and loving, and pitiful, and tender; 
 a heart that was so weak, and loving, and pitiful, and tender, and 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE. 133 
 
 fragile, that it could not bear up against calamity ; no, it could not ; 
 no, it could not ; it was weak, it was pitiful, it was loving, it was ten- 
 der, it was fragile like a flower, and against calamity it could not 
 bear up." 
 
 So great was the effect of the Eev. Melchior Spat's eloquence, that 
 the Captain fairly cried, so as to leave a round wet spot in the middle 
 of the coverlet, and Mr. Mewker wiped his eyes frequently with his 
 handkerchief, as he rose from the chair. And although the voice of 
 the Reverend Melchior had been heard distinctly, word for word, by 
 Jim, in the far-off stable, yet it sank to the fiintest whisper when he 
 proceeded to inquire of the Captain how he felt, and what was this 
 dreadful story. And then the Captain, in a voice still fainter, told 
 how he was attacked by a man of immense size, mounted on a horse 
 of propoi'tionate dimensions, and how he had defended himself, and 
 did battle bravely until, in the fight, " Shatto got skeared, and overset 
 the wagon, and then the man got onto him, and pounded the life out 
 of him, while he was entangled with reins." Then Mr. Mewker and 
 the Rev. Mr, Spat took leave with sorrowful faces, and as they drove 
 home again, renewed the jocularity which had been interrupted some- 
 what by the visit to the Oakery. 
 
 To say that Mr, Mewker neglected his friend, the Captain, during 
 his misfortunes, would be doing a great injustice to that excellent 
 man. Every day he was at the Oakery, to inquire after his health ; 
 and rarely did he come without some little present, a pot of sweet- 
 meats, a bouquet, or something of the kind, from the lovely Lasciver. 
 How good it was of him to buy jelly at two shillings a pound at the 
 store, and bring it to the Captain, saying, " This little offering is from 
 Harriet, who thought some delicacy of the kind would be good for 
 you." Was it not disinterested ? Hiding his own modest virtues in 
 a pot of jelly, and presenting it in the name of another ! The truth 
 is, Mewker's superior tactics were too profound for Augusta to con- 
 tend against ; she felt, as it were, the sand sliding from under her 
 feet. Nor was Mewker without a powerful auxiliary in the Reverend 
 Melchior Spat, who, by his prerogative, had free access to the house 
 at all times, and made the most of it, too. Skillfully turning to com- 
 mon topics when Augusta was present, and as skillfully returning tc 
 
134 THK ATLAKTIC SOrV'ENIR. 
 
 the old subject when she retired, he animated the Captain with such 
 desire fur the lovely widow, that, had it not been for his black eye, he 
 would assuredly have gone olT and proposed on the spot. This fLcl- 
 ing, however, subsided when the Rev. Melchior was gone ; the Cap- 
 tain did not think of marrying ; he was a true old bachelor, contented 
 with his lot, and not disposed to change it even for a better ; beside, 
 he was timid. 
 
 At last our hero was able once more to go about, and Jim drove 
 him down slowly to the Mewkery. Such a noise as Bosc made when 
 he saw the carriage approaching ! But there was no present from the 
 hand of his friend this time ; so Bose contented himself with growling 
 and snapping angrily at his own tail, which was not longer than half a 
 cucumber. What a blush spread over the face of the Captain when^ 
 he saw the widow, all dimples and dimity, advancing to meet him in 
 the familiar back-parlor ! ITow the sweet reuses breathed through the 
 shaded blinds as he breathed, out his thanks to the widow for many 
 precious favors during his confinement. They were alone ; the Cap- 
 tain sat beside her on the softi ; one of her round, plump, white, dim- 
 pled hands was not far from him, resting upon the black hair-cloth of 
 the sofii bottom. He looked right and left ; there was no one near ; 
 so he took the hand respectfully, and raised it to his lips, intendipg to 
 replace it, of course. To his dismay, she uttered a tender " O !" and 
 leaned her head upon his shoulder. What to do, he did not know; 
 but he put his arm around her bewitching -waist, to support her. Her 
 eyes were closed, and the long, radiant lashes heightened, by contrast, 
 the delicious color that bloomed in her chocks. The Captain looked 
 right and left again •, no one was near ; if he could venture to kiss 
 her! He had never kissed a pretty woman in all his life! The 
 desire to do so increased; it seemed to grow upon him, in fact; 
 drawn toward her by an influence he could not resist, he leaned 
 over and touched those beautiful lips, and then — in walked Mr. 
 Mewker. 
 
 Had Mewker not been a genius, he might have compromised 
 every thing by still playing the humble, deferential, conscientious 
 part ; but hypocrisy on a low key was not his cue now ; ho know his 
 man too well f .r that, and besides, familiar as this branch of art had 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE, 136 
 
 been, there was another still more natural to him ; he was wonderful 
 in the sycophant, but matchless in the bully ! Those little, weak, 
 bladdery eyes seemed almost to distil venom, as wrapping his knobby 
 arms in a knot, he strode up to the astonished Belgrave, and asked him 
 " how he dared invade the privacy of his house, the home of his wife 
 and children, and the sanctuary of his sister ? How he dared trespass 
 upon the hospitality that had been extended toward, nay, that had 
 been lavished upon him 1 Was not the respectability of the Mewker 
 family, a family related to the wealthy Balgangles of Little-Cramp- 
 ton, and connected by marriage with the Shellbarques of Boston, a 
 sufficient protection against his nefarious designs ? And did he under- 
 take, under the mask of friendship," and Mewker drew up his fore- 
 head into a complication of lines like an indignant web, " to come, 
 as a hypocrite, a member of the church (0 Mewker!) with the 
 covert intention of destroying the peace and happiness of his only 
 sister ?" 
 
 Belgrave was a man who never swore ; but on this occasion he 
 uttered an exclamation: "My grief!" said he, "I never had no such 
 idee." 
 
 " What, then, are your intentions ?" said Mewker, fiercely. 
 
 " T' make it all straight," replied the Captain. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 Belgrave paused, and Mewker shuffled rapidly to and fro, mutter- 
 ing to himself At last he broke out again : 
 
 "How, I say?" 
 
 " On that p'int I 'm codjitatin'." 
 
 "Do — you — mean — " said Mewker, with a remarkable smile, 
 placing his hand calmly on the Captain's shoulder, "to — trifle — 
 with — me?" 
 
 " No," replied poor Belgrave, surrendering up, as it were, what 
 was left of him ; " I 'm ready to be married, if that will make it all 
 straight, provided," he added with natural courtesy, turning to the 
 lovely widow, " provided this lady does not think me unworthy of 
 her." 
 
 Mewker drew forth a tolerably clean handkerchief, and applied it 
 to his eyes: a white handkerchief held to the eyes of a figure in 
 
136 TnK ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 threadbare black is very effective. The lovely Lasciver remained 
 entirely passive; such is discijiline. 
 
 Here, at last, was an opportunity to beat a retreat. The Captain 
 jpse, and shaking Mewker's unemployed hand, which, he said after- 
 ward, " felt like a bunch of radishes," left the room without so much 
 as a word to the future Mrs. Belgrave. So soon as the door closed 
 upon him, Mr. Mewker raised his eyes from the handkerchief, and 
 smiled sweetly upon his sister. The thing is accomplished. ' 
 
 As some old bear, who had enjoyed freedom from cubhood, feels, 
 at the bottom of a pit dug by the skillful hunter, so feels Captain Bel- 
 grave, as he rides home sorrowfully. His citadel, after all, is not a 
 protection. Into its penetralia a subtle spirit has at last found 
 entrance. The air grows closer and heavier around him, the shadows 
 broader, the bridges less secure, the trout-brooks blacker and deeper. 
 IIow shall he break the matter to Augusta? "No hurry, though; 
 the day has n't been app'inted yit ;" and at this suggestion the clouds 
 begin to break and lighten. Then he sees Mewker, threadbare and 
 vindictive ; his sky again is overcast, but filaments of light stream 
 through as he conjures up the image of the lovely widow, the dimpled 
 hand, the closed eyes, the long radiate lashes, cheeks, lips, and the 
 temptation which had so unexpected a conclusion. Home at last ; 
 and, with some complaint of fatigue, the Captain retires to his high 
 tower to ruminate over the past and the future. 
 
 Tlic future ! yes, the future ! A long perspective stretched before 
 his eyes ; and, at the end of the vista, was a bride in white, and a 
 wedding. It would take some months to gradually break the subject 
 to his sister. Then temperately and moderately, the courtship would 
 go on, year by year, waxing by degrees to the end. 
 
 Mr. Mewker altered the focus of Belgrave's optics next morning, 
 by a short note, in which he himself fixed the wedding-day at two weeks 
 from the Captain's declarations of intentions. This intelligence confined 
 the Captain two days in the tower, "codjitating," during which time 
 every body in Little-Crampton was informed that Widow Lasciver 
 and he were engaged to be married. The news came from the best 
 authority — the Rev. Melchior Sj)at. On the evening of the second 
 dav. a pair of lead-colored stockings, a fustian petticoat, a drab short- 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE. 137 
 
 gown, and a bright bunch of keys, descended the steep step-ladder 
 from the trap in the tower, and walked into the room adjoining. 
 Then two hands commenced wringing themselves, by which we may 
 understand that Augusta was in great tribulation. Tlie rumor, rife in 
 Little-Crampton, had reached her ears, and her brother had confirmed 
 its truth. The very means employed to keep him out of danger had 
 only assisted the other party to carry him off. This should be a 
 warning to those who interfere with affairs of the heart. But what 
 was her own future ? Certainly her reign was at an end ; a new 
 queen-bee was to take possession of the hive ; and then — what then 1 
 kings and kaisers, even, are not free from the exquisite anguish 
 which, in that hour, oppressed the heart of Augusta Belgrave. It was 
 but a step ; but what a step ? from mistress to menial, from ruler to 
 subordinate. She knelt down heavily by the bedside, and there 
 prayed ; but — oh ! the goodness of woman's heart ! — it was a prayer, 
 earnest, smcere, truthful, and humble ; not for herself, but for her 
 brothers. Then her heart was lightened and strengthened ; and as she 
 rose, she smiled with a bitter sweetness, that, considering every thing, 
 was beautiful. 
 
 Great preparations now in Little-Crampton for the wedding. In- 
 vitations were out, and needles, scissors, flowers, laces, ribbons, and 
 mantua-makers at a premium. The Captain took heart of grace, and 
 called upon his lovely bride, but always managed to get past that 
 lane before night-fall. Hood & Wessup, the fashionable tailors of 
 Little-Crampton, were suborned to lay themselves out night and day 
 •upon his wedding-suit. He had set his heart upon having Adolphus 
 dressed precisely like himself on the occasion. Two brothers 
 dressed alike, groom and groomsman, look remarkably well at a 
 wedding. But to his surprise, Adolphus refused to be dressed, and 
 would not go to the weddmg — ^^ positively. '''' Neither would Augusta. 
 Brother and sister set to work packing up, and when the expected 
 night arrived there was all their little stock in two, blue, wooden 
 trunks, locked, and corded, and ' ready for moving, in the hall of the 
 Oakery. 
 
 It was a gloomy night outside and in, for the rain had been falling 
 all day, and a cold rain-storm in summer is dreary enough. But 
 
138 THE ATLANTIC SOrV'ENIR. 
 
 cheerful bars of light streamed across the darkness from the tower 
 whidows, lighting up a green strip on a tree here and there, a picket 
 or two in the fence, and banding with an illuminated ribbon the side 
 and roof of the dripping barn. The Captain was making his toilet. 
 White ruffled shirt, with a black mourning pin containing a lock of 
 his mother's hair ; white marseilles waistcoat, set off with an inner 
 vest of blue satin, (suggested by Hood & Wessup ;) trowsers of 
 bright mustard color, fitting as tight as if his legs had been melted 
 and poured into them ; blue coat, cut brass buttons, oid of handker- 
 cher' sticking out of the pocket behind ; black silk stockings and 
 pumps ; red check-silk neck-cloth, and flying-jib collars, Down he 
 came, and there sat brother and sister on their corded trunks in the 
 hall, portentous as the Egyptian statues that overlook the Nile from 
 their high stone chairs. Not a word was said; but the Captain 
 opened the door and looked out. "Why, it rains like fury. Jim!" 
 
 Jim, who was unseen in the darkness, and yet within three feet 
 of the door, answered cheerily, " Aye, aye. Sir !'' 
 
 "All ready, Jim ?" 
 
 "All ready, Capfin." • 
 
 " Wait till I get my cloak ;" and as the Captain wrapped himself 
 up, his sister silently and carefully assisted him ; not on account 
 of his plumage, but to keep him from catching cold. 
 
 Off goes Shatter, Jim, and the Captain ; off through the whistling 
 rain and the darkness. The mud whirled up from the wheels and 
 covered the cloak of the bridegroom, so ho told Jim " to drive kecr- 
 ful, as he wanted to keep nice," It was a long and dreary road, but 
 at last they saw the bright lights from Mewker's windows, and with 
 a palpitating heart the Captain alighted at the porch. 
 
 Old Bose, who had been scouring the grounds and barking at 
 every guest, started up with a fearful growl, but the Captain threw 
 off his travel-stained cloak, and exhibited himself to the old dog in 
 all his glory. The instant Rose recognized his friend and benefactor 
 he leaped upon him with such a multitude of caresses that the white 
 marseilles vest and mustard-colored trowsers were covered with 
 proofs of his fidelity and attachment, "Hey, there! hey! do\>Ti, 
 Bose !" said Mewker at the door : " Why, my dear brother !" 
 
CAPTAIN BELGRAVE. 139 
 
 The Captain, with great gravity, was snapping with his thumb and 
 finger the superfluous mud with which Bose had emljellishcd his 
 trowsers. 
 
 " Come in here," said Mewker, chuckling and scratching his chin. 
 '' I '11 get you a brush. No hurry. Time enough before the cere- 
 mony." 
 
 Tlie Captain walked after him through the hall, and caught a 
 glimpse of the parlors, radiant with wax-lights, and crowded with 
 such a disjilay of company as was rarely seen in Little-Crampton. 
 
 " Come in here," said Mewker, still chuckling, as he opened the 
 door. " This is your room ;" and he winked,*^ and gave the bride- 
 groom such a nudge with his knobby elbow as almost tumbled him 
 over the bed. "Your room — understand? The hridahchamhcr ! 
 Wait here, now ; wait here till I get a brush." 
 
 The Captain, left alone, surveyed the apartment. The pillow- 
 cases were heavy with lace. Little tasteful vases filled with fl^owers, 
 made the air drunk with fragrance ; a white, worked pin-cushion was 
 on the bureau, before an oval glass, with his own name wrought there- 
 on in pin's heads. The asti'al lamp on the mantel shed a subdued and 
 chastened light over the whole. Long windows reached to the floor, 
 and opened on the piazza; light Venitian blinds wei-e outside the 
 sashes, without other fastenings that a latch. The Captain tried the 
 windows, and they opened with a touch of his thumb and fore-finger. 
 He had not slept in so insecure a place for more than twenty years. 
 Then he thought of the phantom horseman, and the deep pond behind 
 the house. He shivered a little, either from cold or timidity. The 
 window was partially raised, so he throws it up softly, touches the 
 latch ; the blinds are open ; he walks out on the piazza, and then 
 covertly steals around to the front of the house, where he finds 
 Shatter and the wagon, with old Jim peering through the blinds to 
 see the wedding come oflT. 
 
 " Jim," he says, in a hoarse whisper, " take me hum. I aint a-goin' 
 to sleep in such a room as that, no how." 
 
 The old boy quietly unbuckled the hitching-strap, and when 
 Mewker got back with the brush. Shatter was flying through the mud 
 toward the Oakery, at a three-minute gait. Two or three quick 
 
140 THE ATLANTIC SOUVE.VIR. 
 
 knocks at his o^v^l door, and it is opened by Augusta, who, with hci 
 brother, had kept watch and wavd on their corded trunks. The Cap 
 tain took the candle from the table, without saying a word, ascended 
 the stairs, passed through scarp, counterscarp, glacis, and ditch, 
 mounted his ladder, drew it up after him bolted the trap in the 
 floor, and cocked his pistol. 
 
 " Now," said he, " let 'em come on ! Tliey 'aint got me married 
 this time any how !"' 
 
i|e WitWm^-%x^ ai latl Jilbi^r gafn. 
 
 BY OHASLES O. LELAND. 
 
 nRBinKnii?nY uhhi 
 
 " Wk shall drink beer In heaven 
 From the skulls of our enemies." 
 
 Eegner Lodbroq. 
 
 The lightning grew pale, 
 And the thunder was dumb, 
 As if the old devil 
 In person had come, 
 When in vengeance and tury 
 The Death-raven black, 
 The Vikingir Alvar 
 Came sweeping the track. 
 " Great Odin, thou storm-god 1 
 Crack on with our ship ! 
 We are ofif on a batter. 
 Hurrah ! let her rip ! '" 
 So the wild pirate shouted 
 In madness and scorn. 
 While down went the liquor 
 And round went the horn. 
 
 So all hands, as you see, kept 
 a good head of steam on I 
 
 By the sea, by the mouniain, 
 On Noroway's strand. 
 
142 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEXIR. 
 
 Brentiilda, the peerless, 
 Sat high on the sand ; 
 "When, smack I o'er the water 
 In time double quick, 
 Great Alvar came down, 
 Like a thousand of brick. 
 Splash 1 into the ocean 
 The Vikingir sprung. 
 And pick-back the princess 
 O'er slioulders he flung : 
 Like an arrow he darted 
 Tlie wild billows through, 
 And into the " Dragon," 
 liiiExuiLDA he threw, 
 
 While all hands gave f» 
 yelL and took drinks on the strength of it ! 
 
 By the Gods of Valualla 1 
 
 I 'm done for I" she cried. 
 " By TnoR and by thunder I 
 
 You are /" he replied. 
 
 Xo more spake the maiden, 
 
 No more spake her lord, 
 
 But he stamped on the short deck 
 
 And brandished his sword. 
 " There 's a sail to the leeward I 
 
 A sail in our path ! 
 
 Do you hear I blood and brimstone I 
 
 Lok I blazes I and wrath I 
 
 The bier-sucker madness 
 
 Is boiling me through 1" 
 
 Then ho took a " long drink," 
 
 And right into it flew, 
 
 While the Ravens all 
 
 round took a horn and went at it. 
 
 Oh ! then on the helmets 
 The dc.ith-bitcrs rang, 
 While Alvar, the Raven, 
 Swore, murdered, and sang : 
 
THE WEDDING-TRIP OF JARL ALVAR RAFN. . 
 
 " The deck is blood-painted — 
 A wound, all the bay — 
 While round rage the sea-wolves 
 And fight for their prey. 
 Breshilda I land-maiden ! 
 Look up, and you '11 find 
 How the Raven can ' go it,' 
 When once he "s inclined. 
 See these skulls I how I split 'em ! 
 These throats how I slice ; 
 And all for thy sake, love 1 
 Thou pearl beyond price 1" 
 
 So the fight being over 
 they all went and hquored 
 
 " The Valkyries scream 
 For the souls of the dead, 
 While Balder, the Sim-God, 
 Shines down on our head !" 
 So, like good, pious fellows, 
 They knelt on the deck, 
 And thanked the great gods 
 That their foe was a wreck. 
 For on points of religion 
 Great Altar was " strict," 
 And always " held prayers" 
 When a ship had been licked. 
 On a prisoner they found, 
 By unanimous vote. 
 They first carved the eagle, 
 And then cut his throat ; 
 
 Then, church being over, 
 adjourned for refreshment. 
 
 And over the ocean 
 
 And over the foam, 
 
 Like a shot from a shovel 
 
 The VnoKGiRS come. 
 
 Loud roared the wild tempest. 
 
 Loud roared the mad sea. 
 
 143 
 
144 
 
 THE AT I- ANTIC SOUVE.VIR. 
 
 But louder great Alvar 
 Sang forth in his glee : 
 " Grim spectres sweep o'er ua 
 In lightning or gloom, 
 1 see their eyes gleaming 
 Like fire round a tomb : 
 The Runes of the valiant 
 Dead heroes obey, 
 Let 's pitch into Naples 
 And plunder and prey!" 
 
 So they gave him three cheera, 
 and then emptied a barrel. 
 
 " Set fire to the churches I 
 Set fire to the town ! 
 Grab, murder, and plunder, 
 Drag out and knock down ! 
 Go it strong, ye brave Northmen, 
 Crash, tumble, and slash I" 
 Roared the Jarl, as with each hand 
 He held a mustache, 
 And glared on the town, 
 Like a wild devil grim : 
 An Aesir in fury, 
 A JoTUN in limb. 
 Now the blue shields are crimson, 
 The spires are in flame. 
 But on pitch the Ravens, 
 All grit and all game: 
 
 Only stopping to bolt 
 down the wine on the altar. 
 
 Like fiends winged for murder 
 The arrows flew forth. 
 While red swords were ringing 
 The knell from the North, 
 And maces, deep mashing, 
 Laid saints in the mud ; 
 While tlio l>lack crow and eagle 
 "Went wading in blood. 
 
THE WEDDING-TRIP OF JARL ALVAR RAFN. 145 
 
 But where flames were loud roaring 
 With Death by his side, 
 Rose the giant Jarl Alvar, 
 In glory and pride. 
 " "We have tlirashed them to flinders 
 And knocked 'em from timel 
 Brexhilda, thou white one 
 Say — is n't it prime ?" 
 
 While the Northmen 
 
 all round took a drink from their helmeta 
 
 " The men are all murdered, 
 The town all aflame ; 
 And we 've bagged all the pewter ; 
 Let 's slope whence we came I 
 And under a full head 
 Of glory we go : 
 No scald now, thank Braga! 
 Can chalk us as ' slow.' 
 To our Death Dragon hasten : 
 How stately and light 
 She rides the bright Belt 
 Of the Daughter of Night 1 
 And be glad 1 for our voyage 
 Full plainly hath shown 
 That the gods, when we 're pious, 
 Look after their own." 
 
 So they took one good 
 horn, and went ofl:' in the Dragon, 
 
 IP 
 
|iSK0. 
 
 BT EEV. GEOBOE W . BETHUNK, D.D. 
 
 It is not long since that Hamilton County, with the whole region 
 lying between the fertile slopes of the Mohawk and Lake Champlain, 
 was known but as a vast, mountainous, cold tract, presenting the 
 extreme contrast of a primeval forest, traversed only by the hunter 
 of the deer, the bear, and the moose. Here and there an agricultural 
 settler along its borders snatched a scanty harvest from the brief sum- 
 mer, and on the eastern side the lumberman pursued his wintry toil ; 
 but, once past the log-cabin of the one or the shanty of the other, it 
 was literally a howling wilderness, where the yell of the wolf, the 
 scream of the panther, and the laughter of the owl mingled with the 
 roar of floods and the moanings of the winds through the tall hemlocks. 
 Now the marvellous beauty of its scenery, more wildly grand than any 
 other in North-America, diversified by many lakes of crystal purity 
 and their foaming outlets, have been so often eloquently described by 
 adventurous litterateurs in search of the picturesque, trout, and coj)y 
 money, that a tour through Eacquette and the Saranac is getting to 
 be well-nigh as readily undertaken as a trip to the Upper Nile. Even 
 ladies have ventured a day or two within the shadows, and before 
 long the solitary Indian, who lingers in the hunting-grounds of hia 
 fathers, or the moccasined woodsman, paddling his " birch," will be 
 startled by flotillas gay with fashionable drapery, and listen, in won- 
 dering delight, to the songs of Verdi and Auber among the echoes of 
 Blue Mountain, Lines of rival railways have already been traced 
 through the gorges and along the streams ; speculation has been busy 
 with the timber-lots, and soon the glory of the forest, unbroken 
 
148 THE ATLANTIC SOfVEMR. 
 
 since time began until now, will be floating dowTi the St. Lawrence 
 and the Hudson, or whirled at the tail of the locomotive to the sea- 
 side. The most zealous utilitarian might sadden over the coming 
 change, were it not that a century must go by before the industry of 
 man, though that man be a Yankee, can strip the rocky heights of 
 their ever-green luxuriance. 
 
 Following from the Mohawk side, and after crossing the hill which 
 bounds that valley, the bank of the noble Sacondaga (beait-ideal of a 
 trout river to an angler who is content to wade deeply fur a free cast 
 under the elms on pool or rapid) to the neat little inn of Francisco, 
 and then crossing a spur of the mountain-range by a road rough as 
 the bed of a torrent, the traveller will find himself gazing on the 
 placid waters and rich shores of Lake Pleasant, named by no flatter- 
 ing tongue, for a more lovely scene has seldom greeted the eye of 
 poet or artist ; and, yet farther on, connected with it by a short strait. 
 Round Lake sparkles like a bowl of silver wreathed with verdant gar- 
 land. Here several dwellings, with one or two flourishing farms, are 
 clustered about the county buildings, and a well-kept hotel opens its 
 doors in welcome to a tabic spread with luxuries unknown among the 
 dwellers on the plain. At the time when the incidents happened of 
 which I am about to write, the explorer, if not accustomed to wood- 
 craft, or bent upon adventure, tempted the diflTiculties of the way no 
 farther; nor was he indisposed to linger, where, with comfurt at night 
 and plenty by day, he could win rich trophies for both rod and gun, 
 or enjoy the beauty around him varying with dawn and evening, sun- 
 light and cloud. But perseverance for two or three hours would 
 bring him to another lake, the Piscco, far more lovely, at least in the 
 judgment of one rendered perhaps partial by memories of happy 
 days of many an early summer spent in contemplating its virgin 
 charms, traversing its pure bosom and enjoying the society of a half- 
 dozen kindred spirits, far from the dust of cities, the turmoil of trade, 
 and the frivolities of artificial life. 
 
 In this country, cspocially, the extreme heats that alternate with 
 our cold winters, and, still more, the suicidal intensity with whirh the 
 American f jIIows his calling, render some relief necessary to mind, 
 body, and heart ; nor can any of us who live in towns pass from the 
 
piSEco. 149 
 
 exhaustions of one season to those of the next without some interval 
 of change, and not suffer loss of physical vigor, intellectual force, and 
 moral health. He who, in His wise goodness, has made us so " fear- 
 fully and wonderfully," never intended our material or spiritual struc- 
 ture for such constant excess. The birth-place of man was amidst 
 trees, and herbage, and flowing waters. There are the works of God, 
 and there, as to our early home, should we at times turn to freshen 
 our being, and listen to the voice of Him who talked in Paradise with 
 His children. It is not relaxation that we need. Our straining of 
 nerve and thought, to say nothing of worse habits incident to our per- 
 verted modes of life, has already too much relaxed our faculties by 
 recoil from the tension. What our nature demands is invigoration, a 
 bracing of the frame, a quickening of the mind, an uplifting of the 
 heart, an inhalation of fresh life from its original sources, that 
 will enable us to grapple more strenuously with care, and duty, 
 and temptation. This can not be gained in the crowded saloons of 
 watering-places, or at the lordly country-seat, to which have been 
 transferred the appliances of courtly gratification, or by rushing over 
 the rapid rail, or on packed steamers, to haunts of hackneyed resorts, 
 merely to say that we have made the fashionable tour. These give 
 us no opportunity to think, no motive to repent and resolve anew. 
 We are still fettered by conventionalities. The wearisome monotony 
 of whirling excitements still sickens our aching brain. We must 
 break away from the crowd. We must reach a spot where distance 
 will give soberness to our view of our usual occupations, scenes where 
 we can gather ideas, sentiments, and emotions, not from Avorldly dic- 
 tation or even the page covered with other men's thoughts ; where 
 we can hold intercourse with our fellow-men who spend their days 
 more simply ; but, above all, where we can be alone with God among 
 the works of His hands, and hear, answering to our own, the pulses 
 of the Infinite Heart which fills the universe with truth and love. 
 
 The student, long shut up within his library, and the servant of 
 his race in religious or philanthropic oflices, need such a change quite 
 as much as men of business or pleasure. Books, precious as they are 
 for enlargement of knowledge and instruction from the past, may be 
 abused beyond their proper function. Classical, scholastic, and (in its 
 
150 THE ATLAKTIC SOUTEKIR. 
 
 general sense) sectarian forms, constrict and distort both the judg- 
 ment and the feeling. What we proudly term analysis and system 
 arc too often hut an arbitrary classification, under whose heads we, 
 Procrustes-like, compress or stretch out truths which Mere never 
 meant to talce such exact or fixed shapes, but should be allowed con- 
 fluence and commixture, losing, like the hues of nature, all rigidness 
 of outline in harmony and kindred. What a world of labor have 
 metaphysicians wasted, by forgetting that they are not mathema- 
 ticians, and endeavoring to hew the " lively stones" into such shape as 
 may be fixed in a building of their architecture ! How near the mate- 
 rialist has the self-styled idealist come by such affectations ! Too 
 much learning, (the scoffer was right,) or, rather, learning too much 
 by itself, will make a wise man mad. We may hide our souls from 
 our own view by our parchments, and look out upon the world of 
 humanity through obstinate hypotheses as false as gnarled window- 
 panes. Critics have done laughing at Wordsworth's early puerilities, 
 but every close student feels the force of the Laker's exhortation : 
 
 " Up ! up 1 my friend, and clear your looks ! 
 "Why all this toil and trouble ? 
 Up 1 up ! my friend, and quit your books, 
 Or surely you '11 grow double 1" 
 
 Double indeed ! deformed in mind as well as body. 
 I Nor will it answer to attempt such recuperation by force of wil. 
 alone. Accustomed to earnest occupation, we can not change the 
 habit which has become a law to us. Though we leave office, 
 counting-room, or library behind us, our calling will pursue us, and 
 force our thoughts into their ordinary ruts. The man of business 
 will be calculating his risks; the studious man working out his 
 
 theories. 
 
 " Post equitem sodet atra cura" 
 
 We can not shake the tormentor from the crupper, but must dis- 
 mount from our hobby. We can rid ourselves of one pursuit only 
 by adopting another — another lighter, less imperious; amusing, but 
 not engrossing; releasing the mind, but not binding it again. We 
 must have iihw instead of work; yet play that will be occupation. 
 
PISECO. 151 
 
 Hence the value Avhich those sturdy, sober, untranscendental, un- 
 mediseval thinkers, the Scotch wTiters, have set upon field-sports and 
 exercises which carry them out among the heather, over the moun- 
 tain, and along the stream. Christopher North, (green be the turf 
 above him ! ) " under canvas," was worth more as a philosopher, 
 •aye, as a philosopher, than any cobweb-spinning German, or back- 
 ward-looking Oxonian that ever ignored common humanity and its 
 every-day experience. Dyspepsia never soured his moral sentiments, 
 and, content with the cheerful sun, he left twilight to owls and bats. 
 
 Views like these led the little band of friends already spoken of 
 to the Piseco, on whose romantic bank they had built a simple lodge, 
 and whose waters abounded with several varieties of that aquatio 
 family, whose charms inspired Davy, not less admirable as a moralist 
 than an illustrator of natural science, to write his Salmonia. Some 
 of them were shrewd and successful in business ; some of them 
 more given to books ; one of them a preacher of Good News, 
 who loved his work, called Chaplain, not without warrant, for his 
 office was no sinecure; and all of them "honest, civil, and 
 temperate," as all anglers should be, and as (according to Izaak 
 Walton's infallible authority) all true anglers are. The lake is 
 about seven miles long, and nearly a mile and a half wide. Several 
 bays are curved out of the shore, the deepest, at the lower end, 
 called from an Indian, the stories told of whose life might make the 
 whole tradition apocryphal, had he not left his name, Girondicut 
 (the spelling is uncertain) to the most exquisite part of the water. 
 Some buildings, most of them abandoned to decay, show like a 
 peaceful hamlet at the upper end, but are hidden by a wooded pro 
 montory from the lodge, before whose humble porch a cleared field, 
 flourishing with corn and grass, slopes gently toward the lake. 
 Everywhere else Nature is in her wildest grace or most sublime 
 magnificence. 
 
 Up in the morning with the thrush, (the lark Piseco knows not, 
 but the thrush is as early,) each in his well-trimmed boat, rowed by 
 a sinewy woodsman, with a rod out over each side, the friends parted 
 to troll in various directions, never so intent on their game as not 
 to enjoy the shadows deep in the clear waters, or watch the mists, as 
 
152 THE ATLANTIC SOUTENIB. 
 
 rolling away they revealed the mountains piled in grand clusters, oi 
 stretching farther and farther, ridge over ridge, until their undulating 
 linos were lost in the blue sky. Nay, if truth be told, many a 
 finny prowler escaped the fate due to his murderous appetite, 
 because the thoughts of the angler were wandering in delicious 
 day-dreams, or aspiring gratefully to God, who has made our 
 way to heaven lie through a world so beautiful. The sultry 
 noon found them under the shadow of spreading birch trees, near a 
 spring of icy coldness, where, after a rude but welcome meal, they 
 were wont to recline on a bank carpeted by blossoming strawberry- 
 vines, with the low dash of the rippling wave in their ear. Then it 
 was that stories of the morning sport, innocuous jests, and, not 
 seldom, grave yet pleasant discourse, sped the moments to the 
 cooler hours when the boats were manned again, and they parted 
 until the shadows fell : then another chat over the fragrant " cup that 
 cheers, but not inebriates," and to sleep soundly and sweetly till the 
 sun roused them to renewed gratifications. News of political strife, 
 pressures in the money-market, or foreign wars, never penetrated 
 those pure, peaceful solitudes. The nearest post-office was many 
 miles away across the mountains, and tidings only of the beloved 
 ones at home were allowed to come. 
 
 Those days arc gone by, and the cheer of those friends will never 
 be heard over those waters again. One, the most revered of all, 
 sleeps in a holy grave, and his memory fades not in the hearts of his 
 comrades ; in other haunts of wild nature they greet each other with 
 unabated affection ; but for them Piseco is a word of memory, not 
 of hope. 
 
 The Sabbath there had peculiar charms. No church-going bell 
 rang through the woods, no decorated temple lifted its spire ; but 
 the hush of divine rest was upon all around, a sense of the Holy 
 One rested on the spirit, the birds sang more sweetly, the dews 
 of the morning shimmered more brightly, and the sounds of the 
 forest were like the voice of psalms. As the day went on toward 
 noon, the inhabitants, whose dwellings were scattered for miles 
 around, some down the rocky paths, others in boats on the lake, 
 singly or in companies, men, women, and little ones, might be seen 
 
FISECO. 153 
 
 drawing near to the lodge, where, when all assembled, they formed a 
 respectful and willing congregation of perhaps fifty worshippers, 
 and listened to the words of the preacher, who sought to lead 
 them by the Gospel of the Cross through nature up to the God 
 of grace. Such opportunities were rare for them; never, indeed, 
 was a sermon heard there except on these occasions. The devout 
 (for God the Saviour had a " few names" among them) " received the 
 word with gladness;" all were attentive, and their visitors found, 
 when joining with them in the primitive service, a religious power 
 seldom felt in more ceremonious homage. 
 
 On one of those sacred days there came among the rest two young, 
 graceful women, whose air and dress marked them as of a superior 
 cultivation. Their modest voices enriched the trembling psalmody, 
 and their countenances showed strong sympathy with the preacher's 
 utterances. At the close of the worship, they made, through one of 
 their neighbors, a request that the minister would pay a visit to their 
 mother, who had been a long time ill, and was near death. A pro- 
 mise was readily given that he would do so the same day ; but their 
 home lay four miles distant, and a sudden storm forbade the attempt. 
 The Monday morning shone brightly, though a heavy cloud at the 
 west suggested precautions against a thunder-shower. The friends 
 parted from the landing, each bent upon his purpose ; but the chap- 
 lain's prow was turned on his mission of comfort to the sick. Had 
 any prim amateurs of ecclesiastical conventionalities seen him with 
 his broad-brimmed hat, necessary for shelter from the sun, a green 
 veil thrown around it as defense from the mosquitoes near the shores, 
 his heavy water-boots, and his whole garb chosen for aquatic exi- 
 gences, (for, like Peter, he had girt his fisher's coat about him,) they 
 would hardly have recognized his errand. But the associations of the 
 scene with the Man of Nazareth and the Apostles by the Sea of Gali- 
 lee, were in his soul, carrying him back to the primitive Christianity, 
 and lifting him above the forms with which men have overlaid its sim- 
 plicity. The boat flew over the placid waters in which lay mirrored 
 the whole amphitheatre of the mountain-shores, green as an emerald. 
 The wooded point hid the lodge on the one side, a swelling island the 
 hamlet on the other. No trace of man was visible. The carol of 
 
154 THK ATLANTIC SOl'VENIR. 
 
 birds came ofT from the land ; now and then the cxultmg merriment 
 of a loon rang out of the distance, and soon a soft, southern breeze, 
 redolent of the spicy hemlock and cedar, rippled the surflice. The 
 Sabbath had transcended its ordinary hours, and shed its sweet bless- 
 ing on the following day. Ilis rods lay idly over the stem as the 
 chaplain thought of the duty before him, and asked counsel of the 
 Master, who " Himself bare our sicknesses and carried our sorrows." 
 He remembered the disciples who said, " Lord, he whom thou lovest 
 is sick ;" and the gracious answer, " This sickness is not unto death, 
 but for the glory of God, that the Son of Man might be glorified 
 thereby." 
 
 It is not imagination merely that gives such power to the living 
 oracles, when they come to us where the testimony of nature unites 
 with the inspiration. It is the blessing of Jesus, who sought the wil- 
 derness, the shore, and the mountain-side to gain strength from com- 
 munion with his Father. It was in such solitudes that our Example 
 and Forerunner found courage for his trial and suffering. Religion is 
 eminently social, but its scat is the heart of the individual believer, 
 and, whatever be the advantage of Christian fellowship, the flame 
 must be fed in private, personal converse with the Father of our 
 spirits. lie who has not been alone with God, can seldom find him 
 in the crowded church. 
 
 A brief hour, briefer for these meditations, brought the keel of the 
 boat to a gravelly nook, where the mouth of the inlet formed a little 
 harbor. There, awaiting the chaplain's arrival, stood a tall, upright 
 man, past the prime of life, who, with a style of courtesy evidently 
 foreign, bared his gray head, and greeted his visitor by name as a 
 friend. 
 
 "You have kindly come, sir, to see my poor wife; I thank you 
 for it. She is now expecting you, for we hoard the sound of your 
 •oars as you turned the island." 
 
 A rough stone house, built by a speculator of former days, 
 stood on a knoll a little way from the stream, and the garden around 
 it was trimmed with some tasto. As they entered, the owner said : 
 
 "Welcome to the mountain dwelling of an old soldier! He 
 (pointing to an engraved portrait of Blucher, wreatheil with lauroi 
 
pisEco. 155 
 
 leaves,) was my general, whose praise 1 once received as I lay 
 wounded on the field of battle. I am a Prussian, Sir, and came to 
 this country when my father-land had no farther use for my sword. I 
 have not been successful in my peaceful life, and misfortune after mis 
 fortune drove me here, hoping to gather about us a few of my coun 
 trymen, and make a German home ; but in that I was disappointed. 
 The severe winters chilled their resolution, and now we are by our- 
 selves. The few neighbors about us are not of our class, but they are 
 kind and honest ; and the world has nothing to tempt me back to it. 
 I have one brave son at sea. My two daughters you saw yesterday. 
 We had another, but she sleeps yonder." 
 
 He turned abruptly from the room. The chaplain, left to him- 
 self, observed about the apartment various articles of refinement and 
 faded luxury, telling the story of more prosperous days. His subse- 
 quent acquaintance with the family confirmed his first impressions. 
 Though not of high rank, they were educated, of gentle manners, and, 
 though for years remote from cultivated society, preserved the ameni- 
 ties which now distinguished them. Only the father seemed to have 
 suffered for want of occupation, and, not unlikely, from habits formed 
 in camp, but now doubly dangerous in seclusion. 
 
 At a signal from another room, one of the daughters led the chap- 
 lain to the bedside of the sufferer. The fiither sat with his face averted, 
 near an open window, through which came the laughing prattle of a 
 child, and a half-idiot serving-woman looked in wonderingly across 
 the threshold of an outer kitchen. The daughters, having raised 
 their mother's head on a higher pillow, and affectionately smoothed 
 her thin gray hair under the snow-white cap, withdrew to the other 
 side of the bed. The chaplain placed his broad hat, with its green 
 veil, on the little table, and sat silent for a while, not knowing how to 
 begin, since, as yet, nothing had given him a clue to the woman's state 
 of mind. She lay still and stone-like ; her eyes were dry, with little 
 " speculation " in them ; her lips moved, but uttered no sound ; and 
 her hand, feebly stretched out, was cold and stiff. Her whole frame 
 was worn to extreme thinness, and the color of her skin told that the 
 seat of her disease was the liver. 
 
156 THE ATLANTIC SOCVEXIR. 
 
 At length the chaplain, seeing that her soul was near its dread pas- 
 sage mto the eternal future, said : 
 
 " I am sorry, my friend, to find you so very ill. You are soon to 
 die." 
 
 » Yes." 
 
 " It is a fearful thing to die ; are you not afraid ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But to go into the presence of God, our Judge, is a most solemn 
 change." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And are you not afraid ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 The preacher was confounded. The short answers, almost cold, 
 without emotion, the glazed eye, the rigid countenance, caused him to 
 doul)t whether he had to contend with ignorance or insensibility. 
 Anxious to rouse some feeling, if possible, to startle into some atten- 
 tion, as a physician applies the probe, he pushed severe declarations 
 of certain judgment and the danger of impenitence, reminded her 
 that Christ, the Saviour of the believing, will be the Avenger of sin, 
 and that " there is no work or device in the grave," but " as the tree 
 falls, so it must lie." The tearless eye unwinkingly gazed on him, 
 and no shrinking followed liis keen surgery. 
 
 " Madam, you are going before God, and do you not fear ?" 
 
 A faint smile stole struggling through her thin features, and a light, 
 like a star twinkling under a deep shadow, was seen far within her 
 eye, and pointing with her finger upward, she said, in a firm, low 
 tone: 
 
 " Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." 
 
 The chaplain bowed his head on the pillow and wept thanks. Hero 
 was no ignorant or callous soul, but a child of God, whose perfect love 
 had cast out fear. 
 
 "Yes, Christian soul, you are not afraid of evil tidings; your heart 
 is fixed, trusting in Him who went this way before you. Fear no evil ; 
 His rod and His staff, they will comfort you." 
 
 "Amen! blessed be His name," replied the dying believer. 
 " It is true. I know in whom I have believed, and that He is able to 
 
pisEco. 157 
 
 keep what I have committed to Him. Because He hath been 
 my Help, therefore under His wings do I rejoice." 
 
 It seemed now as if the fountain of her speech was unsealed, and 
 though no moisture was in her eyes, and the few drops which started 
 out on her forehead were cold and clammy, and the worn lineaments 
 had lost the power to smile, and she lay still as marble, yet, with a 
 voice clear and unfaltering, she went on to testify her faith in Christ, 
 and of the peace that filled her soul, A strength denied to her body 
 came from within. 
 
 " Oh ! sir, I thank you for coming ; I thank God for sending you 
 to me, like the angel to Hagar in the wilderness. I prayed for it. 
 It is four long years since I heard the voice of a Christian minister, 
 and all that time I prayed for one to hold the water of life to my lips 
 once more. Now I know that He has heard me; blessed be His 
 name !" 
 
 The preacher interrupted her to say that she had not been left alone 
 by her God, who needed not man's lips to comfort his people. 
 
 " Alone ! no, never alone ! I have seen Him in His mighty 
 works. I have heard Him in the storms of winter and in the summer 
 winds. I had my Bible, His own holy word. His Spirit has been 
 with me. But I thank Him for the voice of His commissioned 
 servant, whose duty is to comfort His people." 
 
 The reader of this imperfect sketch can have little idea of the elo- 
 quence, almost supernatural, pervaded by Scriptural language and 
 imagery, with which she spoke. It was the soul triumphing over tho 
 fainting flesh ; truth in its own energy, unaided by human expression ; 
 a voice of the dead, not sepulchral, but of one near the gate of 
 heaven. 
 
 The chaplain knelt beside the bed and all the rest knelt with him ; 
 but there was more of thanks than petition in his prayer. The clouds 
 that hung about the borders of eternity were so bright with the glory 
 beyond, that sorrow and pain were forgotten as he gave utterance to 
 the dying woman's memories and hopes, the memories of grace and 
 the hopes of immortality that met together in her faithful heart. 
 Nor need I add that his own gratitude was strong to the Good 
 Shepherd, who had sent him to find this sheep among the mountains. 
 
168 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 not lost nor forgotten, but longing for a t^ken of her Saviour's 
 care. 
 
 "When he rose from his knees, she thanked him again, Lut with 
 more visible emotion than before, said : 
 
 " Sir, I doubt not God directed you here ; and there is one favoi 
 more I have asked of IIim and now ask tln-ougli you. Three years 
 ago my eldest daughter died in my arms, assured of rest, but leaving 
 behind her a babe not two weeks old. ' Mother,' she said, just as she 
 was dying, ' I leave my child with you to bring her to me in heaven. 
 You will do it for Christ's sake, and mine, and hers, mother. And, 
 mother. He has told us to give little children to Him in baptism. 
 Dear mother, promise that my child shall be baptized.' J promised, 
 and her spirit departed. Ever since, I have been praying and waiting 
 for some minister to find his way to us, but in vain. More than once 
 I heard of some who had come as far as Lake Pleasant, but none 
 TvAched Piseco, and I almost feared that I should die and not be able 
 to tell my child in heaven that the blessed water had been on her 
 baby's face. Yet, even in this, God has been good to me. You will 
 baptize my little one 1" 
 
 How gladly the chaplain assented, may be readily imagined. The 
 child was called in from her play on the grass-plat ; her rosy, wonder- 
 ing face was gently washed, and her light brown hair parted on her 
 forehead, and she stood, with her bare white feet, on a low bench by 
 her grandmother's pillow. The grandfather filled an antique silver 
 bowl with water, freshly dipped from a spring near the door. An 
 old brass-clasped folio of Luther's Bible was laid open at the family 
 record beside the -water, the chaplain's broad hat on the other side. 
 He thought not, and none thought of his coarse gray coat or his heavy 
 boots. He was full of liis sacred office, and the presence of the 
 Invisible was upon him. The feeble woman, strengthened by love 
 and faith, raised herself higher on the bed and put her wasted arm 
 over the plump shoulders of the fair, bluc-eycd child. The old man 
 and his daughters, and the dull-witted servant at the kitchen-door, 
 reverently standing, sobbed aloud; and, amidst the tears of all except 
 her whose source of tears was dried up for ever, the chaphnn recited 
 the touching prayer of the Reformed Churches l»efore the baptism of 
 
PISECO. 159 
 
 infants, and with the name of the departed mother breathed over her 
 orphan, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the 
 Holt Ghost, she was dedicated to God by water sprinkled three 
 times on her sweet grave face. The grandfather handed a pen to the 
 chaplain, but it was lightly pressed to trace the inscription, for the 
 page was wet with the big drops that fell from the old man's eyes. 
 
 Many moments elapsed before the thanksgiving could be uttered, 
 and then the happy saint joyfully exclaimed : 
 
 " Bless you. Sir ! I bless God that he has granted me this grace 
 before I die. Now I am ready to go to my child in heaven." 
 
 " My dear madam," answered the preacher, " it is, indeed, a blessed 
 ordinance ; but the child of prayers for two generations would not 
 have missed the promise because of an impossibility on your part." 
 
 " No, no ! the spirit is better than the form. She had the promise. 
 / knew that she was in the covenant, but I wanted her in the folcV 
 
 The chaplain entered his boat. Never did lake, and mountain, 
 and green shore look so beautiful, for they seemed all bathed with 
 holy light; and that noon, when, with his friends reclining on the 
 sward, he told the story of the baptism in the wilderness, their 
 moistened eyes expressed their sympathy with his joy. 
 
 Heaven opened for the grandmother a few days afterward. The 
 next year her Saviour took up her child's child in his arms, and the 
 three were together among the angels. The grandfather lived but a 
 short time. One of the daughters having married a farmer, moved, 
 with her sister, down into the open country, where she also died in 
 her young beauty. Of the two other members of the family, I have 
 heard nothing since. 
 
 The old stone house still stands near the rushing inlet, but the 
 storms beat through its broken windows. Rank weeds have over-run 
 the garden, and brambles hide the spiking near the kitchen door. Yet 
 the path from the landing-place can be followed ; and should any of 
 my readers ever visit Piseco, now more accessible, but charming as 
 ever, they can easily recognize the scene of my story. It is ever fresh 
 and hallowed in my memory ; for there I learned, by precious expe- 
 rience, that the good God never forgets those who trust in Him, and 
 that, go where we will, we may carry His blessing with us to some 
 heart thirsting for His word. 
 
ee/-k — -' / r7 f I e 
 
 T" 
 
i,a f 0uis iagli^ritf Clarli, isquirje 
 
 BY FITZ-GKEBNE HALLEOE. 
 
 I've greeted many a bonny bride 
 
 On many a bridal day, 
 In homes serene and summer-skied, 
 Where Love's spring-buds, with joy and prid9 
 
 Had blossomed into May; 
 But ne'er on lovelier bi'ide than thine 
 Looked these delighted eyes of mine, 
 And ne'er, in happier bridal bower 
 Than hers, smiled rose and orange flower 
 
 Through green leaves glad and gay, 
 When bridesmaids, grouped around her room, 
 In youth's, in truth's, in beauty's bloom, 
 Entwined, with merry fingers fair. 
 Their garlands in her sunny hair ; 
 Or bosomed them, with graceful art. 
 Above the beatmgs of her heart. 
 
 I well remember, as I stood 
 Among that pleasant multitude, 
 A stranger, mateless and forlorn. 
 Pledged bachelor, and hermit sworn. 
 That, when the holy voice had given, 
 
 In consecrated words of power, 
 The sanction of approving Heaven 
 
 To marriage-ring, and roof, and dower' 
 When she, a Wife, in matron pride, 
 Stood, life-devoted, at thy side: 
 11 
 
162 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 When happy lips had pressed her check, 
 
 And happiest lips her "bonny mou'," 
 And slie had smiled, with blushes meek, 
 
 On my congratulary bow, 
 A sunbeam, balmy with delight, 
 Entranced, subdued me, till I quite 
 
 ForB;ot my anti-nuptial vow. 
 And almost asked^ with serious brow 
 
 And voice of true and earnest tone, 
 Tlie bridesmaid with the prettiest face 
 To take me, heart and hand, and grace 
 
 A wedding of my own. 
 
 Time's years, it suits me not to say 
 
 How many, since tliat joyous day, 
 
 Have watcheil, and cheered thee on thy way 
 
 O'er Duty's chosen path severe, 
 And seen thee, heart and thought full grown, 
 Tread manhood's thorns and tempters down. 
 
 And win, Uke Pythian charioteer, 
 The wreaths and race-cups of renown — 
 Seen thee, thy name and deeds, enslirined 
 "Within the peerage-book of mind — 
 And seen my morning prophecy 
 Truth-blazoned on a noon-day sky. 
 That he, wliose worth could win a wife 
 
 Lovely as thine, at Life's beginning, 
 "Would always wield the power, through hfe, 
 
 Of winning all things worth the winning. 
 
 Hark 1 there arc songs on Summer's breeze. 
 And dance and song in Summer's trees. 
 And choruses of birds and bees 
 
 In Air, their world of happy v.-ings; 
 "Wliat far-off minstrelsy, wlioso tone 
 And words are sweeter than then- own. 
 
 Has waked these cordial welcomings? 
 'Tis nearer now, and now more near, 
 And now rings out like clarion clear. 
 They come — the merry bells of Fame I 
 They come — to glad me with thy r-ame. 
 
TO LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK, ESQUIRE. 163 
 
 And, borne upon theix music's sea, 
 From wave to wave, melodiously, 
 Glad tidings bring of thine and thee. 
 They tell me that, Life's tasks well done, 
 Ere shadows mark thy westering sun, 
 Thy Bark has reached a quiet shore. 
 And rests, with slumbering sail and oar. 
 Fast anchored near a Cottage door, 
 
 Thy home of pleasantness and peace, 
 Of Love, with eyes of Heaven's blue, 
 And Health, with cheek of rose's hue, 
 
 And Riches, with "the Grolden Fleece:" 
 Where slie, the Bride, a Mother now. 
 
 Encircled round with sons and daughters, 
 "Waits my congratulary bow 
 
 To greet her Cottage woods and waters ; 
 And thou art proving, as in youth. 
 By daily kindnesses, the truth 
 And wisdom of tlie Scottish rhyme — 
 " To make a happy fii-eside clime 
 
 For children and for wife. 
 Is the true pathos and subhme," 
 
 And green and gold of Life. 
 
 From long-neglected garden-bowers 
 
 Come these, my songs' memorial flowers, 
 "With greetings from my heart, they come 
 To seek the shelter of thy home ; 
 Though faint their hues, and brief their bloom, 
 And all unmeet for gorgeous room 
 Of "honor, love, obedience, 
 
 " And troops of friends," like thine. 
 I hope thou wilt not banish thence 
 
 These few and fading flowers of mine, 
 But let theu" theme be their defense. 
 The love, the joy, the frankincense, 
 
 And fi-agrance o' Lang Syne. 
 
 Foet-Lee, N. J. 
 
BY JOHN ■«". FBANCI8. 
 
 How precious a boon is memory ; how prolific of disquisition in 
 the writings of the psychologist ; how rich in associations when 
 treated by the poet; how full of pleasures and of pains in him who 
 has cherished this function of the mind by a proper observance of the 
 laws of organic health, without which soundness of intellect is im- 
 paired, and our mental impressions resolved in a state of cloudiness, 
 or lost in oblivion. As this great quality of the mind furnishes our 
 most accurate knowledge; as by it we retain our power of recall- 
 ing the various and numerous incidents of by-gone days, it summons 
 our associations, as the occasion may demand, and yields gratification 
 or suffering, according as life has been appropriated in furtherance of 
 the proper destiny of our race. As retrospective reflections possess 
 within themselves a permanence of impression denied to prospective 
 views, and as time seems gradually to absorb the intensity of painful 
 associations, the poet Rogers inculcates the belief, that as we advance 
 in existence, past associations become less and less blended with 
 sorrows, and unmixed gratification crowns the issue. It were well, 
 indeed, could we be entirely confident of the truth of this theory of 
 the mind. We must, however, leave it to the school-men to descant 
 on, and to old heads to enjoy the fruition. 
 
 He who has passed a period of some three-score years and 
 upward, some faithful Knickerbocker, for instance, native born, and 
 ever a resident among us, whose tenacious memory enables him to 
 meditate upon the thirty thousand inhabitants at the time of his birth 
 with the almost oppressive population of some seven hundred thou- 
 sand which the city at present contains ; who contrasts the cheap and 
 
166 THE ATLAXTIC SOUVEXIR 
 
 humble dwellings of that earlier date with the costly and magnificent 
 edifices which now beautify the metropolis ; who studies the sluggish 
 state of the mechanic arts at the dawn of the Republic, and the 
 mighty demonstrations of skill which our Fulton, and our Stevens, 
 our Douglass, our Iloe, our !^^orse, have produced ; who remembers 
 the few and humble water-craft conveyances of days past, and now 
 beholds the majestic leviathans of the ocean which crowd our har- 
 bors ; who contemplates the partial and trifling commercial transac- 
 tions of the Confederacy with the countless millions of commercial 
 business which engross the people of the present day in our Union ; 
 who estimates the oflspring of the press, and the achievements of the 
 telegraph ; he who has been the spectator of all this may be justly 
 said to have lived the period of many generations, and to have stored 
 within his reminiscences the progress of an era the most remarkable 
 in the history of his species. 
 
 If he awakens his attention to a consideration of the progress of 
 intellectual and ethical pursuits, if he advert to the prolific demon- 
 strations which surround him for the advancement of knowledge, 
 literary and scientific, moral and religious, the indomitable spirit 
 of the times strikes him with more than logical conviction. The 
 beneficence and humanity of his countrymen may be pointed out by 
 contemplating her noble free schools, her vast hospitals and asylums 
 for the alleviation of physical distress and mental infirmities; with 
 the reflection that all these are the triumphs of a self-governed people, 
 accomplished within the limited memory of an ordinary life. Should 
 reading enlarge the scope of his knowledge, let him study the times 
 of the old Dutch governors, when the Ogdcns erected the first church 
 in the fort of New- Amsterdam, in 1G42, and then survey the vast 
 panoramic view around him of the two hundred and fifty and more 
 edifices now consecrated to the solemnities of religious devotion. It 
 imparts gratification to know that the old Bible which was used in 
 tliat primary church of Van Twiller is still preserved by a descend- 
 ant of the builder, a pi-ecious relic of the property of the older 
 period, and of the devotional impulse of those early progenitors.* 
 
 * The Bible, that l.^s the IToly Scriptures contained In the Old and New TMt«menta. Quarto. 
 Ii ijiHntcd at London, by Uobort Hiirkcr, Printer to the King, 1C15, followed by Sternhold A 
 ll'"ikln8' Psalm*. This volntne Ls now In tho posscs»ion of Dr. Ojrden, of New-York. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER COLLES. 1G7 
 
 To crown the whole, time in its course has recognized the supremacy 
 of political and religious toleration, and established constitutional 
 freedom on the basis of equal rights and even and exact justice to all 
 men. That New- York has given her full measure of toil, expenditure, 
 and talent in furtherance of these vast results, by her patriots and 
 statesmen, is proclaimed in grateful accents by the myriad voice of 
 the nation at large. 
 
 But however gratifying to national feeling our cogitations on 
 themes of this nature might prove, they fall not within the scope 
 of our present intentions. A special and much more definite object 
 on this occasion is a reference to individuality. While we ponder at 
 our leisure on those great issues already hinted at, we feel that 
 specific justice has not been awarded to individual merit ; and that in 
 our general glorification of acts and principles, we have proved 
 laggard in our encomiums on the authors and the actors of the very 
 deeds which invoke our panegyric. The most amiable tendency of 
 the human heart is the intrinsic appreciation of the noble spirits of 
 a land, whose services have conferred benefits of wide and lasting 
 duration; wisdom no less than gratitude cherishes their memories, 
 and the example of their life is the most powerful stimulus to future 
 eflforts on the part of their successors. A people who cherish this 
 reverence must naturally possess that delicious frame of mind whose 
 most effective powers are manifested in the results of a philanthropic 
 spirit, and whose joys are most in harmony with the diviner essence 
 of our nature. 
 
 Duly to estimate the career of duty, which has marked the lives 
 of the men who thus by individual or confederated toil reared up the 
 nation to a commanding and an exemplary attitude, it becomes obli- 
 gatory on us to scrutinize in distinctive cases the circumstances which 
 checked or advanced their praiseworthy impulses for the public weal. 
 It is only by such investigations and inquiries that we become proper 
 umpires of their merits, can truthfully award the just meed of praise, 
 or hold in reverence their claims to regard. As at the juridical 
 tribunal circumstantial evidence is demanded, in order to arrive at a 
 proper conclusion and pronounce an honest verdict in the premises, 
 so in the various occupations and transactions of men, we associate the 
 
168 THE ATLANTIC SOIJVENIiv. 
 
 immediate and contingent relationship of affairs in oiJcr to arrive at 
 just conclusions. 
 
 A striking example to illustrate this opinion of life and its attend- 
 ant struggles is to be found in the auto-biography of Franklin. His 
 Honest chronicle of all his thoughts and doings enables us to 
 recognize his extraordinary intellect, and his mighty services for the 
 age in which he flourished and for all posterity, with a truthfulness 
 we could never otherwise have obtained ; and his renown is only ren- 
 dered more enduring when we contemplate the extremes of his exist- 
 ence — the destitute journeyman printer, and the noble statesman and 
 philosopher : the self-taught sage is vested with still brighter renown 
 when we find him at one time at the compositor's case, and, after suc- 
 cessive changes, in the parliamentary arena, convicting the haughty 
 Wedderbum of ignorance and insolence, to the admiration of a whole 
 senate, and the approval of a Burke and a Priestley. lie betrayed 
 the lofty aspiration of his nature, when, even a stripling in years, he 
 was solicitous of being introduced to Sir Isaac Newton, the philoso- 
 pher whose glories his own were destined afterward to outshine. 
 The cognomen of the penniless youth became a national name — the 
 appellation of the land of his birth — and American citizen, and a 
 countryman of Franklin, were synonymous terms. 
 
 Like remarks, and of a like tendency might be made in the case 
 of Fulton. The extraordinary trials of his early life, the provoca- 
 tions he endured fur years in his investigations and experimental 
 essays, ere he accomplished navigation by steam, endear the man to 
 us in a ten-fold view. I had the honor of a personal acquaintance 
 with him. His liberal nature, his frank utterance, his chivalric bear- 
 ing, all pronounced him one of Nature's noblest gifts. Neither the 
 jeers of the vulgar nor the scoffs of the sciolist ever disturbed his 
 equanimity or lessened the confidence he cherished in the ultimate 
 results of his bold project. After his successful toils on the Hudson, 
 it was affirmed it would be impossible to navigate in the East River, 
 or cross the ferry to Brooklyn, because of the force of the currents. 
 The folly of the declaration was soou demonstrated, and his floating 
 dock, the subject of laughter by the unwise, completed the work ho 
 had long cogitated. Wiion, soon after it was ascertained that this lost 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER COLLES. 169 
 
 labor of his had been adopted at Liverpool, and elsewhere abroad, 
 the skeptics disappeared. European approval had been secured, and 
 his sagacity and talent proclaimed even in the plaudits of his own 
 countrymen. But this was at a time when an American printed 
 book sold best with the imprint of — London : John Jones, Piccadilly. 
 
 If we view the early life of Fulton, and hold in memory his 
 achievements — at first the humble watch-maker, and finally the man 
 who, by his individual prowess, changed the relationships of remotest 
 people, and brought the old and the new worlds as neighbors 
 together; who, with pecuniary resources as nothing, save in the 
 liberality of Chancellor Livingston, has established the comity of 
 nations, and effected an annual profit to his country of more than one 
 hundred millions of dollars, our estimate of his brilliaiit career 
 becomes higher and higher by a proper study of his biography. 
 Golden has given his interesting story, and Tuckerman, in his Ameri- 
 can Portraits, has drawn him to the life. 
 
 Another instance may be cited of profitable influence, in the case 
 of De Witt Clinton. We need not advert to the early portions of 
 his career. He was always a student, and it is sufficiently known to 
 all that he identified himself with the great interests of public educa- 
 tion and humanity. He was a naturalist of no mean pretensions, and 
 mineralogy, geology, and botany were the pursuits of his pastime. 
 To judge of his merits in the organization of the canal policy of the 
 State of New- York, it behooves the inquirer after truth to become 
 acquainted with the financial career and condition of the State, the 
 history of its political leaders and factions, the force of public opinion, 
 the persecuting vindictiveness of party strife, and the poison of a 
 hireling press. No measure of such magnitude as the Erie and Hud- 
 son Canal was ever accomplished under such disheartening embarrass- 
 ments. In the great city most to be benefited by its completion the 
 opposition to it was strongest ; and many of those who cherished 
 feelings favorable to the undertaking were luke-warm in the project : 
 the river counties were to be ruined by it, and a general bankruptcy 
 of the State was to follow. It was affirmed that it was premature to 
 be involved in such a mighty if not preposterous work. Clinton had 
 early written to Jefferson on the subject, and pointed out the practica 
 
170 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 bility aiid advantages of the design. Mr. Jefiersou writes in answer 
 that he thinks the time for such a vast work too early by a century. 
 Upon its completion, Clinton informs him that all doubts of the prac- 
 ticability of the measure must now cease. Jcfiorsoii, in reply, con- 
 gratulates him, and adds, in substance, " My opinion only shows that 1 
 have lived one hundred years too soon." The indomitable mind of 
 Clinton rose superior to all obstacles. Under the guidance of his 
 counsels, and his inflexible perseverance, the mighty undertaking was 
 brought to a successful issue. His eulogist, Charles King, thus elo- 
 quently speaks of him : " In the great work of internal improvement 
 he persevered through good report and through evil report with a 
 steadiness of purpose that no obstacle could divert ; and when all the 
 elements were in commotion against him, and even his chosen asso- 
 ciates were appalled, he alone, like Columbus on the wide waste of 
 waters, in his frail bark, with a disheartened and unbelieving crew, 
 remained firm, self-possessed, and unshaken." 
 
 The distinctive merits of individuals, such, for example, as those 
 we have now mentioned, whose renown must endure for ages, are only 
 to be fittingly awarded by thoroughly understanding the circum- 
 stances inherent in their very position of life, their huhiiat, so to speak, 
 in the language of botany, when discoursing on the properties of 
 plants. Tills rule observed, how preeminently do they increase in 
 * our estimate of their virtues, emphatic as their works proclaim their 
 noble powers! Were the writers of American biography more 
 attentive to considerations of this kind ; Were we furnished with more 
 of what is termed ana, in the sketches and accounts of our illustrious 
 men ; were the novelty of situation, tlve condition of a new people, and 
 that pioneer eflbrt, so arduous, yet so inseparable from our country, 
 dwelt upon, we would love with a greater devotion the character of 
 the men who wrought for us such blessings, while our patriotism for 
 the land of our birth, and the heritage bequeathed us, would bo 
 cherished with a loftier estimate of their intellectual worth. 
 
 A glance at the advanced state of education at the present time, 
 compared with that of a former period, when instruction in the new 
 republic was sparsely provided, when competent teaeliers were rarely 
 '^'""'1 and school discipline depended upon the arbitrary decision of a 
 
REMINISCENCES OP CHRISTOPHER COLLES. Ill 
 
 vain-glorious and ignorant pedagogue, would lessen our surprise that 
 so few well-armed scholars have been reared among us. But even 
 this state of education has not wholly suppressed the reputation we 
 may claim for distinguished examples of scholarship. In these days, 
 of more critical acumen, the science of mind seems better compre- 
 hended, and studies apter for diversities of intellect, are selected with 
 better judgment and urged with greater fidelity. I tax memory for 
 a case in point under the older regime. I was a youngster at the 
 same school in New-York with Washington Irving. Every thing, I 
 believe, was professed to be taught by the Principal. I remember 
 how rigid was his law in enforcing public speaking ; every scholar 
 was assuredly to be made a Cicero. The selections assigned to 
 each speaker were, according to the master's deeper knowledge of 
 the temperament and physical qualities of the scholar. " Pity the 
 sorrows of a poor old man !" was given me. To young Irving, who 
 had the advantage of more years, capacity, and strength, was assigned 
 the heroic speech, " My voice is still for war." That my own exhibi- 
 tion was a sorry affair may be readily admitted ; but what are we to 
 think of the sedate, the peaceful and benignant Irving, whose bellicose 
 propensities have never yet been developed, and whose organ of com- 
 bativeness no phrenologist has yet discovered, selected to appear 
 before a large assemblage to display the heroic impulses of a son of 
 Mars ! Time, however, has proved the futility of the instruction and 
 the folly of the instructor ; and Mr. Irving, while he smiles in secret 
 at the discipline of his school-boy days, may rest satisfied that he 
 wears a chaplet of greater lustre and more lasting glory than ever 
 adorned the warrior's brow. 
 
 Life, physical and mental, is the result of association ; we are 
 portions of all around us. The harmony of the physiological 
 organization preserves the one ; the intellectual stores received by 
 perception sustain the other. By association, the cerebral fiicultics 
 become more capacious and of wider grasp, and judgment enlarges 
 her sphere and acts with greater wisdom and justice. I would 
 that truths founded on such a basis were more generally recog- 
 nized, and that opinions and decisions were made on such organic 
 principles. Association, not segregation, is the ladder we ascend, thf? 
 
]72 THE ATLAKTIC SOCVE.VIR. 
 
 better to have a true view of what we take cognizance of. The rule 
 applies equally to things, to acts, and to individuals. I know my 
 man, I make a right estimate, when I comprehend not merely what 
 he accomplished, but the circumstances in which he moved and acted, 
 the obstacles overcome, the incidents which favored his designs. 
 Every body knows that there never flourished, within our precincts, 
 a more beautiful wood than that which ornamented Hoboken and 
 Weehawken. It has been famous in prose and in song ; but when 
 we are told that within that forest, in its best estate, Kalm, the bota- 
 nist of Abo, enriched the species plantarum of Linnaeus ; that here the 
 enthusiastic Masson discovered new plants of interesting character and 
 properties ; that Volney here at times luxuriated while in philosophi- 
 cal contemplation ; that here, amidst these beautiful and majestic 
 trees, Michaux the younger composed some portions of his American 
 Flora ; that Pursh added to his great botanical treasures from these 
 woods, as did also the unfortunate Douglass; that in these walks 
 Irving and Paulding and Verplanck, in their earlier days, cherished 
 those sympathies with nature which give vitality to their descriptive 
 powers; that here the ornithologist, Wilson, and his successor, Audu- 
 bon, passed many of the choicest hours of their pilgrimage of life ; 
 that here Cooke, the tragedian, after undue excitement, found allevia- 
 tion of sorrow, and Matthews, the comedian, a solace for grievous 
 melancholy ; that the soil of Hoboken yielded to Bruce the magnesian 
 lime-stone, a product most precious in a mineralogical cabinet ; that 
 here the elder Stevens made experiments, the first in either hemi- 
 sphere, in demonstration of the practicability of railroad communica- 
 tion ; and more, when we find that our congenial Halleck has 
 enlisted his poetic gifts in laudation o( this captivating spot, our 
 gratification swells, every tree seems clothed with richer verdure, and 
 becomes sacred to our feelings. I walk through these shady groves 
 with emotions enhanced an hundred-fold by such associations, and 
 consider how many rich minds have surveyed them, and what trea- 
 sures they have yielded to the philosophical and rational pursuits of 
 the disciples of knowledge. 
 
 But, passing from these general reflections on the prolific subject 
 of the acquisition of knowledge under extreme diflioulties, and the 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER COLLES. 113 
 
 accomplishment of great deeds under adverse circumstances, 1 hasten 
 to notice, though briefly, an individual who long bore a conspicu- 
 ous part in the affairs of our active population, and whose life and 
 trials may be set forth as an instructive instance of personal warfare 
 against conflicting elements. I allude to 
 
 Christopher Colles. 
 
 There must still be among us some few old Knickerbockers, whose 
 recollections of some thirty-five years ago may bring him before them. 
 The young men of the present day may have heard their fathers talk 
 of the little weather-beaten old man, small in stature, and attenuated 
 m frame, of weight some one hundred and ten pounds avoirdupois, who 
 existed by his telegraph on the Government-House at the Bowling- 
 Green, and his telescope in the Park. 
 
 Colles was by birth an Irishman, and, losing his parents when 
 quite young, accident placed him under the care of the renowned Kich- 
 ard Pococke, the oriental traveller, and afterward Bishop of Ossory. 
 The pursuits of Pococke led the mind of his adopted student to phy- 
 sical investigation, and, it would appear, that to considerable attain- 
 ments in languages he added a fair acquaintance with mathematics, 
 mineralogy, climate, antiquities, and geographical science. Shortly 
 after the death of his patron, in 1765, inspired with the travelling pro • 
 pensities of his instructor, he set out a wanderer from his native land, 
 and we find him about the year 1772 engaged here in delivering a 
 series of lectures on the subject of lock navigation. He was the first 
 person who suggested canals, and improvements on the Ontario route. 
 In November, 1784, according to the records of the Assembly, he pre- 
 sented a memorial on the subject, and, in April following, a favorable 
 report was had thereon. Colles visited the country, and took an 
 actual survey of the principal obstructions upon the Mohawk river as 
 far as Wood Creek. He published the results of his tour in a pamph- 
 let from the press of S. Loudon, 1785. " The amazing extent of the 
 five great lakes," says Colles, " to which the proposed navigation will 
 communicate, will be found to have five times as much coast as all 
 England ; and the countries watered by the numerous rivers which 
 
174 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 fall into these lakes, full seven or eight times as great as that valu 
 able island." 
 
 In an article on the " Water Chronology of the City of New- 
 York," published in that valuable repository, the Corporation Manual 
 of Mr. Valentine for 1854, the services of Mr. Colles are duly noticed 
 by the vrriter, Theodore R. De Forest. Colles, in 1774, proposed the 
 construction of a reservoir and other works, between Pearl and White 
 streets, in this city, and to answer that end, the expense was to be 
 defrayed by issuing redeemable paper money. The war of the revo- 
 lution arrested the undertaking, yet in 1778 the people petitioned that 
 Colles' plan might be carried out. In 1797, we find his name among 
 the applicants for a contract to convey water through the city by 
 means of pipes. This was about the time that Dr. Brown associated 
 himself with the Manhattan Company, in order to procure for the city 
 a proper supply of pure and wholesome water. Dr. Brown recom- 
 mended to the Common Council the Bronx river for that purpose ; 
 and this, it is affirmed, is the first indication on record that a supply 
 from without the city was to be looked for. I believe that Colles 
 made the original suggestion to Brown. 
 
 Through the kindness of a Knickerbocker friend, G. B. Rapelye, I 
 have before me an elaborate pamphlet written by Colles, and pub 
 lished in New- York in 1808, on the interests of the United States of 
 America, extending to all conditions of men, by means of inland 
 navigable communications. He calls his plan, the Timber Canal, rea- 
 dier and more feasible to make, and far cheaper. These several tracts 
 show the devotion and abilities of Colles, at a time when, in our coun- 
 try, few indeed were qualified to enter as competitors in his design. 
 
 These several projects of public improvement gave to Colles occu- 
 pation congenial to his habits of study, though they resulted in but 
 trifling pecuniary returns. His modesty and unassuming character 
 were little calculated to force him within the channels of profitable 
 occupation; yet he filled up what leisure he had with mathe- 
 matics, hydraulics, and kindred studies. He was among the first, 
 if not th»! very first individual who commenced itinerant public 
 instruction. He practised land-surveying, and taught it in lectures in 
 different parts of this State and elsewhere. He lectured on eleo- 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER C0LLE8. 175 
 
 tricity, though I do not know that, like Franklin, ho made his own 
 electrical machine, in this city.* Mineralogy and manures, mesmerism 
 and mathematics were also topics of his public discourses. The expo- 
 sitions of the orrery of Rittenhouse doubtless often aided to enlarge 
 his audiences in those days. My old friend. President King, might 
 have said more of him in his Memoir on the Croton Aqueduct. 
 
 As there were periods when he could not study, and hours when 
 he could not lecture, the propensities of his old master roused him to 
 new efforts as a traveller. He wandered through divers parts of 
 Pennsylvania and this State, until he, by personal examinations and 
 calculations, prepared a Book of Roads for New- York, which he pub- 
 lished in 1789. I never heard from his lips any lamentations on his 
 travels, or his gastric sufferings, such as old Mrs. Knight has recorded 
 in her Tour through the Wilderness from Hartford to New- York, 
 made some time before. Colles was a genuine philosopher ; he had 
 studied the Salernian precepts, and could practically declare that a 
 bit in the morning was better than nothing all day. 
 
 Upon his final settlement in New- York, he at first lived by mak- 
 ing band-boxes : whether his mathematics gave them more symmetry 
 and grace, there is no one left to tell us. His support from this 
 source was precarious, and other appliances were at work, in the 
 manufacture of Prussian blue and other pigments. George Barou 
 commenced the Mathematical Correspondent, the first publication 
 of that sort in the Union, and similar in its intentions to the work of 
 Dr. Hutton. Baron was an English radical ; and Colles, with a spice 
 of democracy in him, must have found politics and mathematics and 
 the social habits of Baron an occasional relief from his weightier 
 cares. The almanac-makers at fiiult, Colles supplied their deficiencies 
 in astronomical calculations; and he added to these avocations the 
 collecting and arranging of opossum and beaver-skins, Indian vases 
 and tomahawks, and other objects of curiosity with which he became 
 familiar during his extensive western tours through the Mohawk 
 country, and his interviews with the chiefs of Oneida Castle. He 
 found a congenial friend in Gardiner Baker, who was then engaged in 
 
 * Colden Correspondence, when I examined it In ISIO. 
 
17 C) THE ATLAKTIC SOrVEXIR. 
 
 fitting up a cabinet of native curiosities for the Tammany Society, 
 recently organized for the promotion of natural science and American 
 antiquities, the Grand Sachem of which was William Pitt Smith, 
 M.D., the author of the Letters of Amyntor. 
 
 A windfall seems to occur once in the life of every individual, and 
 so it happened to Colics. The Constitution of the United States being 
 adopted, and the duties on spirits established by Congress, both the 
 hydrostatics and chemistry of Colles were called into requisition, and he 
 was appointed to test the specific gravity of imported liquors. From 
 the scarcity of the article, he turned his artistic skill to the making of 
 proof-glasses — another source of profit to him. But this period of 
 advantageous business had its end ; and, in his study of new things, he 
 projected his telegraph, which enabled him to meet his most pressing 
 wants, in his again straitened condition. The American Academy of 
 Fine Arts was now instituted, with Edward Livingston as its presi- 
 dent ; and, enriched with the Napoleon presents and Chancellor Liv- 
 ingston's rich gifts, needed a superintendent to watch over the beauti- 
 ful sculptures which it possessed. John Pintard, his ever-constant 
 friend, secured the trust for Colles, and we now find our ubiquitous 
 philosopher in good quarters and in wholesome employment. Tlie 
 fondest mother never regarded with greater care her first-born than 
 Colles watched over the Venus of the Bath. He had leisure now to 
 drive another business, and perhaps the luckiest of his scientific hits 
 was the application he made of his telescope and microscope. The 
 casual pittance of a six-penny piece for a look at Venus, or the circu- 
 lation, through the web of a frog's foot, with his exegetical remarks, 
 proved adequate to his now fullest desires. "What a contrast of con- 
 dition in life was Colles in New- York, with his old master, the affluent 
 Dolland, of London, with whom he had worked at achromatic lenses! 
 It was not always a clear atmosphere for Colles' apparatus, but a 
 brilliant night or a cloudless day added to his receipts ; and the fuller 
 contents of his l)asket, and the larger size of his head of cabbage, as 
 he returned from market, were diagnostic of the results of the pre- 
 ceding twenty-four hours. 
 
 While Colles was thus striving for the means of his daily exist- 
 ence, he was aided by a residence in the Government-House, whither 
 
KEMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER COLLES. Itl 
 
 the Academy of Arts had been removed. Nor was lie wholly over- 
 looked by prominent characters. His acquisitions were known by 
 many to be extensive if not profomid ; his industry through a long 
 life knew no idle hour ; his talents were admitted to be above the 
 ordinary standard ; his plans were sometimes pronounced visionary, 
 but his conversation was instructive, and his genius in mechanics suffi- 
 ciently original to command approbation. His nature was benevo- 
 lent : his morals void of offence toward God and man. He was the 
 advocate of an enlarged toleration in political as well as in religious 
 opinion ; and cordially as well as practically adopted the sentiment of 
 Jeremy Taylor, "The way to judge of religion is by doing our duty ; 
 and theology is rather a divine life than a divine knowledge." It was 
 his constant aim to be useful. If his occupation was not always ele- 
 vated, he was too frequently the victim of controlling circumstances. 
 He knew Poor Richard by heart, yet he overlooked his aphorism, 
 " Three removes are as bad as a fire," and was wont to substitute, in 
 justification of his numerous transitions in life, the maxim, " A nim- 
 ble sixpence is better than a sluggish shilling." Many paid deference 
 to him amid all his disappointments. De Witt Clinton included 
 him among the prominent promoters of internal improvement, and 
 with philosophical liberality, uttered this noble sentiment in reference 
 to Colles as well as others : " For the good which has been done by 
 individuals or communities in relation to the work, let each have a 
 due share of credit." Dr. Mitchill often visited him and lauded his 
 services in the advancement of public works. Jarvis, the painter, pro- 
 nounced him a genius, and painted his portrait with great fidelity. 
 *' My pencil," said Jarvis, " will render you hereafter better known : 
 you have done too much good to be forgotten." The picture is, or 
 ought to be, in the Historical Society. Dr. Hosack commemorated 
 him, in his Life of Clinton, as an early pioneer in behalf of the canal 
 policy of New- York, and caused an engraving of his portrait to occupy 
 a niche on the column of his canal worthies. Senator Seward has not 
 overlooked him in his elaborate introduction to the Natural History 
 of New- York. Trumbull, the historical painter, often cheered him 
 onward, and bid him hope, for on that article he himself had long lived. 
 
 Nor was that genuine Knickerbocker, G. C. Verplanck, indifferent to 
 
 12 
 
178 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 his condition, nor backward in suggestions. In the great celebration 
 which took place in this city in November, 1825, when the waters of 
 Erie united with the Atlantic, the effigy of Colles was borne with 
 appropriate dignity among the emblems of that vast procession. But 
 to Jolm Pintard was Colles most indebted, many years, for nume- 
 rous acts of beneficence and for his bounty in greatest need. As 
 through his whole life of four-score years he had always more ideas in 
 his brain than pennies in his pocket, he must have proved something 
 more than an occasional customer. 
 
 As Colics was an instructive representative of much of that 
 peculiarity in the condition and affairs of New- York at the time in 
 which he may be said to have flourished, I shall trespass a moment, 
 by a brief exhibit of the circumstances which marked the period in 
 which he was upon the whole a prominent character. Every body 
 seemed to know him ; no one spoke disparagingly of him. His enthu- 
 siasm, his restlessness were familiar to the citizens at large. lie, in 
 short, was a part of our domestic history, and an extra word or two 
 may be tolerated the better to give him his fiiir proportions. Had I 
 encountered Colles in any land, I would have been willing to have 
 naturalized him to our soil and institutions. lie had virtues, the 
 exercise of which must prove profitable to any people. The biogra- 
 pher of Chaucer has seen fit, inasmuch as his hero was born in Lon- 
 don, to give us a history and description of that city at the time of 
 Chaucer's birth, as a suitable introduction to his work. I shall 
 attempt no such task, nor shall I endeavor to make Colles a hero, 
 much as I desire to swell his dimensions, I shall circumscribe him to 
 a chap-book ; he might be distended to a quarto. Yet the ardent and 
 untiring man was so connected with divers affairs, even after he had 
 domesticated himself among us, that the every movement in which he 
 took a part must have had a salutary influence on the masses of those 
 days. lie was a lover of nature, and our village city of that time 
 gave him a fair opportunity of recreation among the lordly plane, and 
 elm, and catalpa trees of AVall-street, Broadway, Pearl-stroet, and the 
 Bowery. The bcautifpl groves about Richmond Hill and Lispenara 
 Meadows, and old Vauxhall, mitii^atod the dullness incidnit to his con- 
 tinuous toil. A trip to the scattered residences of Brooklyn awakened 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER COLLES. 179 
 
 iniral associations ; a sail to Communipaw gave him the opportunity 
 
 of studying marls and the bivalves. That divine principle of celestial 
 origin, religious toleration, seems to have had a strong hold on the 
 people of that day ; and the persecuted Priestley, shortly after he 
 reached our shores, held forth in the old Presbyterian Church in Wall- 
 street, doubtless favored in a measure by the friendship of old Dr. 
 Rodgers, a convert to AVhitefield, and a pupil of Witherspoon. This 
 fact I received from John Pintard. Livingston and Rodgers, Moore 
 and Provoost supplied the best Christian dietetics his panting desires 
 needed ; while in the persons of Bayley and Kissam, and Hosack 
 and Post he felt secure from the misery of dislocations and fractures, 
 and that alarming pest, the yellow fever. lie saw the bar occupied 
 with such advocates as Hamilton and Burr, Hoffmann and Colden, 
 and he dreaded neither the assaults of the lawless, nor the chicanery 
 of contractors. The old Tontine gave him more daily news than he 
 had time to digest, and the Argus and Minerva, Freaeau's Time-Piece 
 and Sword's Xew-York Magazine inspired him with increased zeal 
 for liberty and a fondness for belles-letters. The City Library had, 
 even at that early day, the same tenacity of purpose which marks its 
 career at the present hour. There were literary warehouses ui 
 abundance. Judah had decorated his with the portrait of Paine, and 
 here Colles might study Common Sense and the Rights of !NLau, or he 
 might stroll to the store of Duyckinck, the patron of books of piety, 
 works on education, and Noah Webster ; or join tete-a-tete with old 
 Hugh Gaine or James Rivington and Philip Freneau ; now all in 
 harmony, notwithstanding the withering satire against those accommo- 
 dating old tories by the great bard of the revolutionary crisis. 
 
 The infantile intellect of those days was enlarged with Humpty- 
 Dumpty and Hi-diddle-diddle.* Shop-windows were stored with 
 
 * We have books -without end concerning the origin of nations and races, while these mental 
 Instructors of a people have been favored with scarcely a pamphlet in vindication of their claims to 
 our consideration. I have inserted below the two best Latin versions descriptive of their trials and 
 mishaps. They have been too long the schoolmasters of early thought to be longer overlooked. 
 Why do not our scholars ferret out their birth-place, whether pigh Dutch or Low Dutch, with 
 more satisfaction, instead of referring us to the drama of the sixteenth century and the Bodleian 
 Library ? Would the t.isk prove unworthy of the learning of the distinguished toficher of German, 
 Professor Schmidt, of Col'imibia College? Hcmie' ' ''le inquiry a pash'ire from the cares of b'a 
 
180 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 portraits of Paul Jones and Truxton, and the musical sentiment broke 
 forth in ejaculations of Tally Ho ! and old Towler in one part of the 
 town, and, in softer accents, with Rousseau's Dream in another. Here 
 and there, too, might be found a coterie gratified with the crescendo 
 and diminuendo of Signer Trazetta; nearly thirty years elapsed 
 from this period ere the arrival of the Garcia troupe, through the efforts 
 of our lamented Ahnay'iva,, Dojni nick Lynch, the nonpareil of society, 
 when the Italian opera, with its unrivalled claims, burst forth from 
 the enchanting voice of that marvellous company. The years 1705- 
 1800 were unquestionably the period in which the treasures of the 
 German mind were first developed in this city by our exotic and indi- 
 genous wTiters. That learned orientalist. Dr. Kunze, now com- 
 menced the translations into English of the German Hymns, and 
 Strebeck and Milledolar gave us the Catechism of the Lutherans. 
 The Rev. Mr. Will, Charles Smith, and William Dimlap now sup- 
 plied novelties from the German dramatic school, and Kotzcbue and 
 Schiller were found on that stage where Shakespeare had made hia 
 first appearance in the new world in 1752. Colles had other mental 
 resources, as the gayeties and gravities of life were dominant with 
 him. The city was the home of many noble spirits of the Revolu- 
 tion : General Stevens, of the Boston Tea-Party, was here, full of 
 anecdote. Fish, of Yorktown celebrity, and Gates of Saratoga, 
 always accessible. 
 
 There existed in New- York, about these times, a war of opinion 
 which seized even the medical fiiculty. The Bastile had been taken. 
 
 collegiate life. Notwithstanding Porson's labors, " What's Hecuba to me or I to Hecuba f Is tbo 
 oxclamatioD of many a youtli whoso formative dcveloiunont sprung ft-om Hutnplus Duniplus. 
 
 lIUMTius In muro requicvlt Duuitius alto; 
 Ilumtiiis e mufoDumtUis heii ccciJlt! 
 Si-d non regis cqul, rcglnio cscrcltus omnls, 
 lliiinti, to, Dumtl, rcstltuero loco ! 
 
 Hei dldiilum! atqiie Itcruindlduhim! fellsqne flde«<)ue, 
 Vaccn super lunro cornua prosllult : 
 Noscio qua catulus rlslt dulcedino hidl; 
 Alstullt ct turjil liiux cochleare fiigiu 
 
 A like obccurlty hangs over Jacxey IIokneb. After all that has boon snid, wc know not mort 
 acctimtoly of his nativity than we do of the site of tha* tnclent city, old Troy. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER COLLES. 181 
 
 French speculations looked captivating, and Genet's movements won 
 admiration, even with grave men. In common with others, our school- 
 masters partook of the prevailing mania: the tricolored cockade 
 was worn by numerous school-boys, as well as by their seniors. The 
 yellow fever was wasting the population ; but the patriotic fervor, 
 either for French or English politics, glowed with ardor. With other 
 boys I united in the enthusiasm. The Carminole was heard every- 
 where. I give a verse of a popular song echoed throughout the streets 
 of our city, and heard at the Belvidere at that period : 
 
 "America, that lovely nation, 
 
 Once was bound, but now is free ; ^ 
 
 She broke her chaui, for to maintain 
 The rights and cause of liberty." 
 
 Strains like this of the Columbian bards in those days of party 
 virulence emancipated the feelings of many a throbbing breast, even 
 as now the songs, of pregnant simplicity and affluent tenderness, bj 
 Morris, afford delight to a community pervaded by a calmer spirit, 
 and controlled by a loftier refinement. Moreover, we are to remem- 
 ber that in that early age of the Republic an author, and above 2,11 a 
 poet, was not an every-day article. True, old Dr. Smith, once a 
 chemical professor in King's College, surcharged with learning and 
 love, who found Delias and Daphnes everywhere, might be seen in 
 the public ways, with his madrigals for the bcautifid women of his 
 select acquaintance ; but the buds of promise of the younger Low 
 (of a poetic family) were blighted by an ornithological error : 
 
 " 'T is morn, and the landscape is lovely to view, 
 The niglitingale warbles her song in the grove." 
 
 Weems had not yet appeared in the market, with his Court of 
 Hymen ; Clifton was pulmonary ; Wardell's declaration 
 
 " To the tuneful Apollo I now mean to hollow !" 
 
 Mras annunciatory — and nothing more ; and Searson, exotic by birth, 
 yet domesticated with us, having made vast struggles in his perilous 
 
182 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 journey toward Mount Parnassus, had already descended, with what 
 feelings is left to conjecture, by the poet's closing lines of his Vale- 
 dictory to his muse : 
 
 'Poets, like grass-hoppers, sing till they die, 
 Yet, in this world, some laugh, some sing, f 
 
 some cry.' 
 
 The Mohawk reviewers, as John Davis called the then critics of 
 our city, thought, with the old saying, that " where there is so much 
 smoke, there must be some fire.'' But it is no longer questionable, 
 that our Castalian font was often dry, and when otherwise, its stream 
 was rather a muddy rivulet than a spring of living waters. It needs 
 our faithful Lossing to clear up the difficulties of that doubtful period 
 of patriotism and of poetry. 
 
 There were enough enlightened minds and generous hearts to 
 recognize the merits of Colles. lie stood before the community as a 
 kind of miniature edition of Count Rumford. Projectors, with new 
 inventions, sought his opinions. Garnett, of New-Jersey, a clever 
 man, and in literary communion with the poet Akenside, conversed 
 with him on the most cfTective impulse secured by the sails of the 
 windmill. Williamson queried him on the electric powers of the 
 gymnotus ; Blanchard, the aeronaut, on the aeriform currents of our 
 atmosphere ; and Mitchill unfolded to him his theory of septic acid and 
 how the Python produced pestilence. "When Perkins arrived among 
 us, armed with his tractors, and fortified by the credentials of a score 
 of bishops and other dignitaries of the Church of England, in behalf 
 of their saving efficacy, Colles, who meddled a little with physic, had 
 nearly been entrapped by that infamous impostor, who assumed the 
 ability to cure yellow fever by his metallic points, during its preva- 
 lence in 1799. The death of Perkins himself, on the third day of 
 his illness, by the epidemic, while in full use of his remedial agent, 
 was too convincing evidence of the absurdity of his means, for Colles 
 longer to prosecute inquiries into the nature of the tractors and their 
 mesmeric influence. Yet after all this sort of Caleb Quotem occupa- 
 tion, it was demonstrable that Colles, in feelings or in thmights, never 
 dismounted from the hobby he first rode : water and water-courses. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CHRISTOPHER COLLBS. 183 
 
 canals and aqueducts, were ever present to his mind : he could not 
 visit Spuytenduy vel without thinking of his dear Bronx ; the very 
 flow from the spout of his tea-pot advised him of hydraulics and lock 
 navigation. 
 
 I knew Colles well for a long period, and I, in my way, pro re 
 nata, administered to him an occasional dose. On the old principle 
 that misery loves company, I illustrated to him, from occurrences 
 around him, that genius and poverty were often associates, as in the 
 case of Oliver Evans, and told him what Bard had long ago told me, 
 that the accomplished architect of the spire of our venerable church of 
 St. Paul, died penniless, and in a hospital — but what has now-a-days 
 become a creed in some brains, that like cures like, had no altera^ 
 tive influence in the present instance. Like other lovers of mathe- 
 matics, he was fond of music, and versed in hymnology : he revelled 
 with Toplady, and shed tears with Newton. When oppressed 
 with inward sorrows he read Euler and Maclaurin, and occa- 
 sionally, when without a meal, he summoned his ideality in cal- 
 culating the safest means to sustain a bank currency. Like some 
 political economists of the present day, he favored the notion that 
 that bank was safest which has no capital. Colles cherished the doc- 
 trine of signs, which he derived, I believe, from Culpepper. He was 
 wont to say that a disastrous star presided at his birth, and that if he 
 had been brought up a hatter, the people would have come into the 
 world without heads. 
 
 Erom this inadequate sketch it is sufficiently apparent that Colles 
 pursued knowledge under the most stubboi'n difficulties ; that through 
 life he struggled with adverse forces, and rarely experienced the en- 
 joyments of existence. His death took place in the fall of 1821, at the 
 advanced age of eighty-four years. John Pintard and myself had the 
 honor to be his only followers to the grave. The Eev, Dr. Creighton 
 (that worthy divine who recently declined a bishopric) officiated on 
 the mournful occasion. He lies in the Episcopal burial-ground in 
 Hudson street, but no mark designates the spot. Thus much of Colles, 
 and thus much was assuredly due to the memory of the man whose 
 investigations more than three quarters of a century ago promoted 
 the great internal policy which signalizes New- York, and finally ended 
 
184 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEMR. 
 
 in the erection of that immense undertaking, the Croton Aqueduct, a 
 demonstration worthy of the talents and renown of Major Douglass. 
 There was something very engaging in the physiognomy of CoUes. 
 He was naturally cheerful and buoyant ; at times pensive, yet free 
 from any corrosive melancholy. His ample front, his sparse white 
 locks, his cavernous gray eyes, with that weakness which often marks 
 old age, betokened a resigned spirit. To see him on an early morn- 
 ing visit, seated at liis small pine table, with his bowl of milk, his dry 
 bread and potato, offering up grace for the bounties he was favored 
 with, was a lesson to the ungrateful epicure, of edifying influence. 
 The cheerfulness and mellowness of his life are well expressed in the 
 words of Dyer, on another occasion : 
 
 ■ TuERE is a mood, 
 
 (I sing not to the vacant or the young,) 
 
 There is a kindly mood of melancholy 
 
 That wings the soul and points her to the skies." 
 
 If to his great and varied attainments Colles had added the practi- 
 cal functions of a school-master, or had he been more fortunate in his 
 fiscal relations, he might have been honored with the highest academic 
 distinction by some of our venerable collegiate institutions. 
 
5W^.%^vBy«'x 
 
 Vrc^^2^^<^:^^^Z^^^^. 
 
f a SciuttiM §irL 
 
 GBOBGB D. PEBNTTOM, 
 
 Beavtiful girl 1 I have wandered far 
 Toward the rising sun and the evening star; 
 I have roamed 'mid the northern wastes of snow 
 And strayed where the soft magnoUas blow, 
 But I never gazed on a face so bright 
 As thine, sweet spirit of young delight 
 
 Beautiful girl ! thou art bright and fair 
 
 As an angel shape in the moonlight air; 
 
 No shadow rests on thy brow of snow, 
 
 Save that of thy tresses drooping low. 
 
 Love's own dear light is wandering oft 
 
 O'er thy gentle hp of carmine soft. 
 
 Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glow 
 
 Of the warm blood melts through the virgin snow 
 
 Is sweetly blending in one bright dye, 
 
 The woven beauties of earth and sky. 
 
 Truth, holy truth, in its freshness dwells 
 
 Deep, deep in thy dark eyes' shaded wells. 
 
 And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam. 
 
 Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream ; 
 
 And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden's bowers, 
 
 And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers. 
 
 Beautiful girl 1 I have seen thee move, 
 A floating creature of joy and love. 
 As light as a mist on the sunrise gale. 
 Or the buoyant sway of a bridal vail. 
 
186 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Till I almost looked to see thee rise 
 
 Like a soaring thought to the free blue skies, 
 
 Or melt avray in the thin, blue air, 
 
 Like a vision of fancy painted there. 
 
 Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around, 
 
 Seems less a sound than a dream of sound ; 
 
 Softly and wildly its clear notes sweU, 
 
 Like tlie spirit-tones of a silver bell ; 
 
 And the lips whence tlie fairy music flows 
 
 Is to Fancy's eye like a speaking ros6 
 
 I'eautiftil, beautiful girll thou art 
 A vision of joy to the throbbing heart ; 
 A star sent down from the world of bliss, 
 And all undimmed by the shades of tliis,- 
 A rainbow pictured by Love's own son 
 On the clouds of being, beautiful one I 
 
 Beautiful girl ! 't is a wear}' year 
 
 Since thy sweet voice full on my ravished car- 
 
 'T is a long, long year of light and gloom 
 
 Since I gazed on thy young cheeks' lovely i):i)om; 
 
 Yet th)' gentle tones of music still 
 
 Through the holiest depths of memorj' thrill 
 
 Like tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird, 
 
 In the long-gone years of childhood heard. 
 
 And oft in my do.rk and lonely moods, 
 
 "When a demon wing o'er my spirit brood.s, 
 
 Thine image seems on my soul to break 
 
 Like the sweet young moon o'er a gloomy lake, 
 
 Filling its depths, as the sliadows flee, 
 
 "With beauty and love and melody. 
 
 Beautiftil girl ! thou art far away, 
 
 And I know not whore thy steps now stray ; 
 
 But oh I 't is sweet, it is very sweet, 
 
 In the fairy realms of dreams to greet 
 
 Tiiy cheek of ruse, thy brow of pearl. 
 
 And thy voice of music, beautiful girl ' 
 
A LIFE WITH ONE PASSION. 
 
 BY DONALD MAC LEOD. 
 
 Evert body who knows Dr. T , in a friendly way, knows 
 
 that his darling study is Psychology ; and this has always interested 
 me exceedingly, as I suppose it interests every artist. Lately, in our 
 conversations, we have been devoted, he as master and I as scholar, 
 to the observation of characters formed by the development of a single 
 passion, as avarice, ambition, love, etc. His close, analytical mind 
 finds great pleasure in following and noting accurately the course of 
 such a development, from its first exterior manifestation to its result ; 
 and -he holds that when the soul is once fiirly delivered up to the 
 dominance of a single passion, the principle of life itself becoiiies 
 involved, and that the end of the passion is only at the end of mortal 
 existence. 
 
 His anecdotes, thoroughly illustrative of his theory, are many and 
 of absorbing interest ; and I only endeavor to repeat one here because 
 the general reader is never likely to learn it from him. At the 
 same time, I am convinced of my own incapacity to analyze like him. 
 I will tell one story, however, that haunted me for a long time, and, as 
 I am not a physician, but only a story-teller, I shall tell it in my own 
 way. 
 
 Tliere is a young, beautiful woman, sitting among pillows and 
 cushions in an arm-chair, by an open window. The still atmosphere 
 is heavy with the scent of tube-roses, jessamines, heliotropes, and 
 other flowers of like powerful odor, which have always been her 
 
188 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 favorites. Filled as the air is with these rich fragrances, she adds 
 to them that of pastiles, burning on the chimney-piece, and her hand- 
 kerchief is wet with extracts of violets. Her skin is white, but not 
 transparent ; it reminds you most of cream-laid note paper. Tlie eyes 
 are lazy, full, and the color of the double English violets. The hair 
 is blond, an ashy Ijlond, and has scarcely a wave in it ; it could not be 
 made to curl, but lies in rich, heavy, almost damp bands, about the 
 face. Her form, though delicate, is thoroughly developed ; the flesh 
 firm, the outlines as if chiseled, growing thin now, except the throat 
 and bust, and the hands and feet, which are very small, but rounded 
 and plump, with dimples at the joints. She wears a pale blue silk 
 robe de chambre, opening in front to show an under-dress of white 
 watered silk. On the table beside her is a bottle and glass of heavy, 
 rich Portugal wine, pure juice, which leaves a spoonful of sediment in 
 every glass. 
 
 Except to taste this, or to inhale the odors, as the light air throws 
 them occasionally through the window, or to respire the violet from 
 the handkerchief, she seldom raises her head from where it reclines, 
 thrown back upon the cushions, in which position she looks passion- 
 ately and dreamily at her husband's portrait, which hangs upon the 
 wall before her. 
 
 The portrait exhibits a man of twenty-six or seven, somewha' 
 sallow, thin, with heavy, wavy, chestnut hair, and large brown eyes 
 not -without some fierceness in them. There is nothing remarkablt 
 about the face except the intense redness of the lips — the lady has 
 that also — so red that you fancy the painter a bad chooser of colors ; 
 yet they say the likeness is perfect. 
 
 Tliose are all the accessories which need be mentioned. Let the 
 lady tell her ovm story : 
 
 My fathor died before my birth; my mother perished in bringing 
 me, her only child, into the world. They left me a large fortune; and 
 my guardians were well-bred, very ordinary, every-day, well-to-<lo 
 people. 
 
 The first thing I ever loved, except strong perfumes and flowers, 
 was a bird, an English bulfinch, which seemed to be very fond of 
 
ANTEROS. 189 
 
 me, until one day, when I was about twelve or thirteen, it flew to a 
 young girl who was visiting me, and refused to come back when I 
 called it. When it did come, at last, I killed it in my hand. 
 
 I remember my nurse very well, and a pretty French maid who 
 attended me afterward ; but I do n't think I cared much about either. 
 I do n't think that I loved any thing much except the bird that 1 
 crushed in my hand ; at least, until I got to be eighteen. 
 
 I was, of course, as is the case generally in New- York, taken into 
 society quite young — at sixteen, I think — and I saw a good deal of it. 
 I was rich, and I may say it now, beautiful, so that I did not lack 
 suitors who professed the profoundest devotion for me. Some of 
 them were pleasant, one or two handsome and fascinating men, and I 
 often wondered at the existence of my utter indifference for them all. 
 By-and-by I won the reputation of a cold, unaffectionate^girl, and those 
 who were really worthy began to leave me to myself, and none 
 remained but those who thought only of my fortune. Cold and 
 unaffectionate ! Ah! if they could have seen the ceaseless agoi>ies of 
 tears into which I burst in my own room ; if they could have seen 
 my arms trying to wind themselves round my own body, or felt the 
 thrills and yearnings of the unknown passion that convulsed me with 
 its power, that was consuming my heart ! 
 
 There was a large party given on my eighteenth birth-day, and it 
 took its usual course. I have forgotten all about it until, about the 
 middle of it, I saw a young man standing in a corner looking at me. 
 As I met his look an indescribable thrill passed through me, and I felt 
 flxint for a moment. My impulse was to rise and clasp him in my 
 arms. He haunted me and frightened me, yet I felt a strange desire 
 to get near him. When he came, at last, introduced by my guardian 
 as Mr. Mark Winston, I had scarcely strength or self-possession to 
 bow. He asked me to dance and I refused, I know not why ; I never 
 cared for that amusement, yet I had never refused any one before. 
 Then he sat down and talked to me a little while, but the shrinking 
 still remained, and I answered I know not how or what. But he 
 dropped a glove beside me, and when he had gone. I picked it up, 
 and put it into my bosom ; and when I was alone, I knew that I loved 
 him, and that that love was my life. . 
 
190 TDE ATLANTIC SOCVEXIR. 
 
 Mark "Winston was a Carolinian, and had brought no letters to the 
 North, except to my guardian, so that our house was almost his only 
 visiting-place. There was a pleasant, lively girl, niece to my guar 
 dian, staying with us then, aiid our party commonly consisted of the 
 old peoi^le, Jklark, Mary Lee, and myself. The spring came on and 
 passed away, and in the latter part of it, we went to a country-seat at 
 New-Eochelle. 
 
 Every hour my passion grew stronger ; every hour it destroyed 
 some minor characteristic of my nature, and advanced toward its 
 end, the absorption of all my nature into itself Still I shunned him. 
 inexplicably to myself; I craved to be near him, to hear him, to 
 watch him, to touch him with my dress in passing; but when he 
 came to me, a positive fear wpuld take hold on me, and I would feel 
 almost ill. I" stole from him ; stole his gloves, his handkerchief; I 
 would have done any act of meanness ; I have picked the pockets of 
 his coat when it hung in the hall. Once, noticing that the ribbon of 
 his watch was worn out, Mary Lee gave him another, which he put 
 on ; and in doing so, he broke the crystal of his watch, and carried it 
 up to his room. But for this, I would have fainted, or else sprung 
 upon her ; but tfiis gave me a gleam of light. When he returned to 
 the drawing-room, I went up stairs, procured another ribbon, and 
 went into his room. I took her ribbon and tore it to pieces with my 
 hands and teeth, and carried it out and stamped it into the black soil 
 of the garden ; but that wlych he had worn I had already in my 
 bosom, and I treasured that and the gloves and the handkerchief, and 
 whatever else of him I had, and kissed them, and sat looking at them 
 in my lap, and slept with them in my bosom through the long nights. 
 Yet for all this I could get no nearer to him. 
 
 At last I thought that he began to pay his addresses to :NLary Lto, 
 and then I recognized that love had not eaten up all my nature, fur 
 hate and rage still existed. Oh ! what weary, weary weeks I spent 
 in watching them ! ITow softly I crawled down stairs ! How stealth- 
 ily I stole bihin.l them in their walks ! How I watched thenj con 
 versing in the drawing-room. 
 
 On Thursday, the seventh of .Time — 1 had bought an almanac, 
 and 1 used to mark the days on which 1 sjiw him — on Thursday, the 
 
ANTER03. 191 
 
 seventh of June, I saw him come up the avenue, and heard him enter 
 the house. He did not mount the stairs, but passed into the dra-sv- 
 ing-room, and I knew that Mary Lee was there alone. I went to my 
 dressing-table, and swallowed from a flafon a glass of Cologne-water. 
 Then, when the shudder and tremor had passed over, I went gently 
 down, and saw the door half open. The door was in the middle of 
 the room; when partially open, you saw a huge mirror, which 
 reflected every thing in the room: they sat behind it. Half-way 
 down the stairs, I heard his voice, soft, low, pleading, tender : God ! 
 how long had*this been going on 1 My satin slippers made no noise, 
 and I reached the half open door and saw them in the glass ; he with 
 her hand in his ; I watched them there for a thousand centuries ; and 
 I heard him say, " Do, dear Mary ; do promise for to-morrow ;" and 
 I heard her answer, in a timid, gentle voice, which seemed to me full 
 of love, " No, Mark, I dare not." 
 
 Again he plead to her, and then — my eyes upon the mirror — 
 then he took her hand and kissed it. I saw him do it. 
 
 I struck the door open — my hand was black for two weeks — 
 and went in to where he still held her hand, and stood before them, 
 and struck my foot upon the ground. 
 
 Mary Lee ran out of the room. 
 
 "So," I said to Mark Winston, "you come here for that, do 
 youl" 
 
 He looked at me amazedly. 
 
 "You even must be base and dishonorable, you even can not 
 respect the sanctity of a friend's house ; and you call yourself gentle- 
 man." 
 
 He grew white, a kind of ashy white ; and his eyes grew three 
 shades darker, and burnt like living coals with rage. I feared him 
 not, and said : 
 
 "And to love a thing like Mary Lee !" 
 
 Then the fierceness passed instantly from his eyes ; and a flood of 
 unutterable passion flowed — I saw it flow — into them, and he said : 
 
 " I was begging her to intercede with you, Louise, I never loved 
 any but you. But you are so cold, so unaflectionate, so incapable of 
 loving, so " 
 
192 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEXIR. 
 
 I sank down upon the floor, and clasped his knees, and said, 
 " Mark, I love you, and have loved you, and will love you to eter- 
 nity." 
 
 I remember my sitting upon his knees, with his strong arms, like 
 mighty cords, binding my bosom upon his. And then came that wild 
 rain of kisses, of consuming, devouring kisses, on my hair and eyes 
 and forehead, and quicker and faster on my lips and neck. I ftxinted 
 in his arms, on his convulsed bosom and impassioned, throbbing 
 heart. At least I suppose I fainted, for I remember nothing until I 
 found myself upon a sofa, with Mark kneeling at my fett, holding my 
 hands in his, and his tears raining hotly upon them, faster and hotter 
 than his kisses. 
 
 We were married on the fifteenth of September, and went to our 
 home immediately — a nice country-house on the north shore of 
 Long-Island — that was our home. 
 
 I do n't remember that we ever read, or drew, or had any music, 
 or any thing else of that kind. I remember the walks in the forest or 
 on the shore, and the flowers that he was fond of, and the perfumes 
 he liked best, and the love that both of us had for the heavy lamp- 
 shades, ground simply and lined with rose-colored tissue paper. 
 
 I remember that I never before had taken particular care of my 
 person, except what is natural to any gentlewoman, but that now I 
 bathed twice every day, and studied every toilette, chiefly the morn- 
 ing and the night-dress, and used no perfume but tube-rose, helio- 
 trope, and violet, which were his favorites, and lived as in a dream — 
 a long, may -be a bad, wicked, cruel, passionate dream. 
 
 All that I know is, that I was separated from him, and the physi 
 ciuns said he was going to die ; and when I asked to see him, they 
 said, " No ; any body but you." lie grew worse and worse. 
 
 They had forbidden me to go near him. My presence alone, they 
 said, was injurious to him. They would not answer for his life, if I 
 were to insist on seeing him. So I kept away in my own chamber 
 while people were stirring in the house ; but, in the early morning, 
 when all was still, I used to creep to the door of his room, and crouch 
 do\n\ there and think of him. 
 
 Bv-and-lty this became unendurable, and I began to question 
 
ANTEROS. 193 
 
 v.hethcr that colcl-]3rowed, scientific, quiet man had a right to keep a 
 wife from her husband. I had heard so often, that, for a point of 
 medical interest, any point new or curious in their science, they 
 would not hesitate to destroy fifty lives to procure an elucidation, I 
 determined at least to see. So I questioned Mark's nurse. 
 
 " Does he suffer much, nurse f 
 
 " No, Ma'am ; or, at least, he makes no complaint. Only just lies 
 there, still and dreaming-like, and putting out his arms, and then fold- 
 ing them back round him again." 
 
 " Is he out of his mind at all 1" 
 
 " God bless you ! no. His eyes have no sparkle in them, and his 
 voice is as little as a child's, only deeper, like the church-organ, you 
 know, Ma'am, before they come to the loud part." 
 
 " But does he forget all his friends ?" 
 
 "He never speaks about them. Ma'am, although the doctor i<) 
 always a-mentioning them to him ; but while they talk about the7n, h^ 
 just lies there." 
 
 "About whom, then, does he talk?" 
 
 " O Ma'am, he hardly talks at all ; only lies still, except hi? 
 arms, and looks always like he was thinking of somewhat ; and when 
 he does speak, he never says but just only, ' Louise, Louise.' " 
 
 " Does he say ' Louise V That is my name." 
 
 " Why, bless you. Ma'am, he never speaks nor thinks of any body 
 but you. He calls always for you, and then, after he calls awhile, he 
 seems to think as you have come, and he folds his arms in so — " 
 here the nurse imitated the motion ; " not folding them up as the gen- 
 tlemen do, but kind of looking as if he were folding something else 
 up mto them ; and then he keeps a-saying ' Louise, Louise,' in a little, 
 low, soft voice, and by-and-by he falls asleep." 
 
 A new idea flashed upon me. Said I : 
 
 " Nurse, dear, they, the doctors, won't allow me to see him ; are 
 they cross with you 1 Let me see : how long have you been watching 
 him 1" 
 
 " Three nights now, Ma'am, on a stretch ; but if I was ever so 
 tired, Ma'am, I could n't let you go in." 
 
 13 
 
194 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 '• Oh ! yes, I know that ; but I want him well watched, and 1 am 
 ufraiJ that they don't take care of you," 
 
 " Oh ! yes, Ma'am, I get plenty to c'at, but, to tell you the truth, 
 Ma'am, I have always been used to a little drop of wine, and I haven't 
 had none." 
 
 '• Well, nurse, I will bring you some into the little dining-room, 
 and will call you when he gets asleep. Now go in and watch him." 
 
 She went into Mai'k's room, and I went to the sideboard, Mhere I 
 found several decanters full. I chose a small one, in order that she 
 might drink it all. But first, I took it up to my own room, and put 
 some laudanum in it ; and then I got some dry biscuit and anchovy 
 sauce to increase her thirst, and took it into the little dining-room. 
 
 It was nearl}- eleven then, and I undressed myself, but did not go 
 to bed. I thought constantly of Mark, and I put on the pale-blue 
 dressing-gown, in which he used to admire me, and I let the bands of 
 my hair, which were very thick and heavy, fall down about my neck ; 
 and then I sat down before the clock, and thought about him and of 
 the day when he first told me how he loved me, and of the day on 
 which we were married. 
 
 When the clock struck one, I went down, peeped in, and saw the 
 nurse moving about the chimney-piece. Then I went back to my 
 room, sat do^\^l, and thought of Mark until two. Then I went down 
 again, and, as I slightly opened Mark's door, I saw the nurse dozing 
 in her arm-chair. I could not see Mark, for the door, half-opened, 
 only showed the foot of his bed ; but I heard him move and say 
 " Louise ;" and I shivered as I heard him. ^leantime his movement 
 or mine awakened the nurse, and she saw me. 
 
 I beckoned to her, and, after a glance at her eharge, she came out. 
 I saw that she was cold, for they allowed no fire in Mark's room ; and 
 I took her to the little dining-room, where a grate-full of coals was 
 lilazing, and made her take an arm-chair near the fire. Then I began 
 to talk to her ; but I made my remarks at long intervals, so that, 
 after a few moments, she fell back upon the cushions, and slept. 
 
 When I was assured of her slumber, I rose, and, woman that I am, 
 walked to the mirror. I saw that I was pale, and wondered what ho 
 ^•ould think of me. Tlien I went into his room, and stood beside 
 
ANTEROS. 105 
 
 nim. I had never before thought him handsome, but the pallor of his 
 skin made his eyes dark and full of languor ; the moisture upon his 
 hair gave it a gloss which it never had worn in health, and his lips 
 were full and crimson. To me, at that moment, he looked surpass- 
 ingly beautiful. 
 
 He saw me at once, and after Ave had gazed at each other for a 
 few moments, he put out his arms and said, " Louise, Louise ;" and I 
 sank down into his arms. 
 
 The lights in the room had burned out, and the first gray tints of 
 morning began to appear, when I felt a fearful shudder pass over 
 Mark's form, and he writhed himself free from my embrace. Then 
 he asked hoarsely for water. 
 
 I sprang up, gave him a di'ink, and then stood at his bedside. 
 
 His eyes were on fire ; his cheeks were covered with a burning 
 flush, and his hands trembled as he used them in gesticulation. 
 
 " Louise," he said, " I am dying." 
 
 Then an indefinable terror seized me, and I crouched down beside 
 the bed, but my eyes were fascinatedly fixed upon his, 
 
 " Louise, they told me, the doctors told me, that you were my 
 death ; they told me that your love had killed me ; and they wanted 
 me to quit you, Louise." 
 
 He put out his arms toward me, but I shrank from him with my 
 blood curdled. 
 
 " Louise, I mocked at them. I said you could not kill me, for you 
 had my life and soul in you as well as your own. God ! what a 
 pain!" 
 
 His form was thrown up from the bed in his agony, and then fell 
 down again. 
 
 " Mark, what can I do for you, darling ?" 
 
 " Did you speak, Louise ?" he said with a wild stare. " I saw 
 your lips move, but only heard your low, sweet voice saying, ' Mark, 
 Mark, I love you.' I hear it always. I feel your breath upon my 
 lips now. Come here, Louise. Quick !" 
 
 I bent toward him. His arms caught me in a fierce embrace, 
 and so he held me as if he would have pressed my very life into his 
 bosom, and he fastened his red lips on mine. 
 
rj6 TOE ATLANTIC SOrVENIR. 
 
 And there, in that clasp, the fires faded from his eyes, and his lips 
 froze there upon mine. 
 
 I CARE not for what the doctors tell me. Mark is dead, and I am 
 
 dying also; but slowly, too slowly ! 
 
%\)t lurial at larstrMir. 
 
 BT K. 8. CnlLTON, 
 
 " Nothing in his life 
 Became bim like the leaving it." Suakspeare. 
 
 ■^'iiAT sorrow is this that hath cast o'er the land 
 
 So wide-spread a shadow ? What bright star hath fled 
 From the heavens above us ? "Why stand men aghast, 
 
 Tlieir eyes bending earthward, as if Earth were dead? 
 Go look in yon coffin; the answer is plain, 
 
 Written there in that wan and immovable face : 
 It darkens the sunhght and thickens the air, 
 
 And robs the bright world of its manifold grace. 
 
 The fire is gone out in those cavernous eyes, 
 
 Which flashed like a coal at the blast of his thought ; 
 Those closed lips will part nevermore, though the world 
 
 For ages will ring with the lessons they taught. 
 Ay, well may'st thou mourn, like a Rachel, to-day, 
 
 Dear Goddess of Freedom, and weep by his grave ; 
 On thy altar were laid the first-fruits of his life ; 
 
 To thee the great toil of his manhood he gave. 
 
 No longer he looks as when, proudly erect, 
 
 FTe gazed on the rock of the stern Pilgrim race, 
 And summoned before him the ghost of the Past, 
 
 And talked with the Future itself face to face! 
 Words fell from his lips like the first sudden drops 
 
 That fall from a thunder-cloud — large, heavy, clear ; 
 And they purged men's minds as the prodigal showers 
 
 Purge the misty and slumberous atmosphere. 
 
19^ THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 From the soil of his own loved New-England he sprang 
 
 When her acres were drenched with the blood of the brave; 
 A nd back to her bosom returning to-day, 
 
 With his honors full-ripened, he sinks to the grave. 
 Never greater than when, (as the sun of his life, 
 
 Sloping westward, grew large,) humbly kissing the rod, 
 On the arms of the Angel of Faith and of Hcpe 
 
 He leaned for support, and went home to his GoD. 
 
Jl f ittnrg llartiithm. 
 
 BY c. r. BRIOOa. 
 
 A LITTLE EPISODE IS THE LIFE OP A GENTLEMAN -WHO WAS AMBITIOUS OF DISTHfOTIOl? ! COM- 
 PILED FEOM PAPERS ■WHICH WEKE DISCOVERED IX HIS DESK, AFTER HE HAD LEFT BOMB 
 ON A TOITB THEOUGH EFEOPK 
 
 The subject of this brief memoir, which must be restricted to 
 twelve pages of the present volume, was the son of wealthy but honest 
 parents ; at least they had never been convicted of larceny, nor of any 
 other crime. We mention the fact of their honesty for the reason 
 that there is a prevalent opinion among a certain class, that in this 
 country, where wealth is so* rarely inherited, it can not be honestly 
 obtained ; honesty and fair dealing not being supposed to be favor- 
 able to large gains. Though the flither was engaged in the most 
 respectable business of importing German dolls and other useful arti- 
 cles, and was one of the safest men down-town, he had enlarged views 
 for his son, and determined to give him what he had always felt the 
 need of himself — a thorough education ; that he might have a capi- 
 tal to start with, which no adverse circumstances could deprive him 
 of Bonds and stocks might prove worthless, banks might fail, and 
 merchandise depreciate in value ; but no changes in the market could 
 affect Latin and Greek ; and with a good stock of these commodities, 
 the father had no fears for his son. His reasons for attaching so 
 much importance to these valuable languages, could not have been the 
 wealth and importance which they have usually conferred upon those 
 •who possessed them in the greatest quantities ; but, whatever the rea- 
 sons were, they were all-sufficient in his opinion. After leaving college 
 with the degree of A.B., and as much knowledge as' young men usually 
 take from the halls of learning where they graduate, the subject of 
 
200 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 our memoir very sensibly took a wife, to aid him in combatting and 
 overcoming whatever obstacles he might encounter in his way through 
 the world. Having no leaning toward any particular profession, and 
 feeling quite indifTcront whether he earned his living by preaching the 
 Gospel, practising medicine, or promoting litigation, provided he could 
 distinguish himself, he hesitated a long time before he could prevail 
 upon himself what to do, and perhaps he would never have come 
 to any decision upon this important point, had not his father inti- 
 mated to him, at last, that he should shut off the supplies, unless his 
 son showed a disposition to do something for himself. Marvin, for 
 that happened to be his Christian name, suggested to his father 
 that a year or two spent in Europe might enable him to determine 
 what profession would be best adapted to the bent of his genius. But 
 the father did not see the force of the suggestion, whereupon the son 
 was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant thought, which put an end to 
 discussion and satisfied all parties. He would start a magazine, and 
 distinguish himself as Jeffrey, Brougham, Campbell, Sydney Smith, 
 Kit North, and other illustrious men had done before him, in the same 
 way, and make lots of money beside. Any of the learned professions 
 would require years of patient drudgery to gain respectability even, 
 but here was a plan, now, by which reputation and wealth could be 
 attained at a bound. 
 
 " Where there is a will there is a way," is an excellent maxim 
 when there is money to back it up, which happened to be the case 
 in this instance. Paper-makers, printers, binders, and all the opera- 
 tives whose aid is necessary to further a literary enterprise, are the 
 most amiable, obedient, and manageable of slaves, and always hail, 
 with encournging cheerfulness, every new attempt to establish a lite- 
 rary undertaking, when they are sure of their pay. Authors, too, 
 forget their caprices, suddenly grow industrious and obliging, genius 
 brightens up, and a thousand friends come f()rward with manuscripts 
 and advice, under similar circumstances, and with a similar contin- 
 gency. So the subject of this brief history found, and chuckled with 
 inward delight over the opening glories of his career, as he made his 
 preparations for issuing his first number. Tliere were drawbacks to 
 the business, to be sun — a back side to the canvas, which, it was con- 
 
A LITERARY MARTYRDOM. 201 
 
 soling to him to remember, none would see but himself. He would 
 become so prominent an object of popular esteem and curiosity, that 
 he foresaw many annoyances and inconveniences, fro'm being so con- 
 tinually invited to dine with this and that great man, to be compelled 
 to attend the dejeuners of renowned prima donnas, to join literary 
 coteries, being bothered for his autograph, and to accept conciliatory 
 and grateful offerings, from authors, artists, and actors ; all these 
 things, to a gentleman of his quiet and unostentatious habits, would 
 prove annoying ; but he heroically straightened hi« back for the bur- 
 then which was to descend upon his shoulders, and resolved to take 
 the bitter with the sweet of his new employment without grumbling. 
 His consolation and reward would be the consciousness of having ele- 
 vated the tone of popular sentiment, of enlarging the bounds of 
 human enjoyment, and of assisting in the development of American 
 genius, and rewarding native talent. Very likely other men may 
 have entertained some such feelings in embarking in similar enter- 
 prises, and they will readily comprehend the emotions of Mr. Smilax, 
 at this momentous period of his career. 
 
 Our twelve pages will not allow us the pleasure of giving the 
 world an account of the reception of the first number of the magazine, 
 nor permit us to chronicle the gradual change which took place in the 
 feelings of its proprietor and editor, as he day by day discovered he 
 had so wonderfully over-estimated the delights and profits of his 
 enterprise, and so ridiculously under-estimated its troubles and annoy- 
 ances. How could he have so deluded himself! Manuscripts poured 
 in upon him by the cart-load, and he was required to read every thing 
 he received, and give a critical opinion upon it the next day. If he 
 accepted an article, he did not thereby make a grateful friend ; but if 
 he refused one, he created an implacable enemy. Illustrious authors 
 did not manifest any of that feverish anxiety for his company to din- 
 ner that he had anticipated, unless he acted the part of Amphitryon 
 himself; and as for his autograph, the only applications he received 
 for it Avere from certain gentlemen who were anxious to have it on 
 the backs of notes, Avhich they wished to part with. 
 
 One day, as he sat in the little apartment, which was most 
 absurdly called his " sanctum," for it was as open to the inroads of 
 
202 THE ATLAKTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 impertinent people as an intelligence office, looking over a heap of 
 manuscripts with aching hoaJ and "wcary eyes, and thinking to himself 
 that the business of enlarging the boundaries of human enjoyment 
 was not half so agreeable an occupation as that of importing German 
 dolls would be, when he was diverted from his desponding thoughts 
 by the sudden apparition of a lady, accompanied by a small boy, who 
 carried a large loll under his arm. 
 
 " You are the editor, I presume ?" said the lady ; and, having been 
 assured of the correctness of her supposition, she seated herself in the 
 only chair which was vacant in the sanctum — all the other seats 
 being filled with bundles of manugcripts, which were waiting to be 
 returned to their authors, or consigned to the balaam-box. The lady 
 then lifted her veil, and taking the roll from the boy, pleasantly 
 informed the dismayed editor, for whom such visitors had long since 
 lost all novelty, that she wished to occupy a few minutes of his time 
 in reading a manuscript novel, which she desired his opinion of. 
 
 The editor declined the flivor she intended him, as courteously as 
 his temper would permit him to do ; but she insisted that he would 
 be charmed with the work, and she would permit him to publish it 
 in his magazine. He pointed to the heaps of manuscripts lying all 
 about him, on the shelves, on the tables, in baskets, on the floor, and 
 in the chairs, beside two or three green boxes, which were filled full 
 of accepted articles, waiting their turns to be published, and told her 
 they had all prior claims, which must first be attended to. 
 
 But ladies who have a point to carry are deaf to all arguments 
 which do not tend to further their purposes, and the strange authoress 
 only smiled more pleasantly than before, and tossing her ringlets 
 from her pale cheeks, said, in her persuasive voice, "Allow me to 
 read you one chapter? I am sure it will interest you." 
 
 " Madam," replied the beleaguered editor, " I have no doubt of 
 it; but what's the use? I could notiise the story if it pleased mo 
 never so much. And then I should only fool the greater regret in 
 being compelled to reject it." 
 
 "Ah! now," said the lady, "there is the most delightful character 
 in it, and a ghost, and a most mysterious personage. It would make 
 your magazine sell wonderfully. It is just the kind of story which 
 
A LITERARY MARTYKDOM. 203 
 
 every body says your magazine needs. Let me read you but one 
 chapter V 
 
 A pitcher of water and a tumbler were standing upon the table, 
 and the editor, taking up the pitcher, filled the tumbler full, 
 
 " There, Madam," said he, " you see that when a vessel is full it 
 will hold no more ; see, another drop and it overflows. I am full, 
 my room is full, desks, drawers, baskets, boxes, magazine, and all 
 are full. I can receive no more." 
 
 "Just one more will make no great difference, I am sure," said 
 the authoress, paying no other heed to the forcible illustration of the 
 editor, than to smile most benignly and patiently while he demon- 
 strated the simple fact. " Come, let me read my introductory chap- 
 ter, and I am sure you will want to read the rest yourself." 
 
 "Madam, I have been compelled to deny thousands of such 
 requests," said he, biting his lips. 
 
 " But a lady !" said she. " You might refuse to hear a gentleman, 
 but you would not refuse a lady '?" 
 
 The editor paused a moment, and he was ruined. He was natur- 
 ally tender-hearted, and he thought of his wife and his mother ; what 
 if either of them should ever be compelled to .solicit a favor from an 
 editor 1 and how would he feel to hear they had been refused ? 
 
 " Madam," said he, with a softened tone, " it is quite impossible 
 for me to hear you read your novel now ; but leave it with me, and 
 I will I'ead it through at my earliest leisure." 
 
 " I may depend upon you f she said half-doubtingly, as she depo- 
 sited the roll on his table. 
 
 " I pledge you my word as a gentleman," he said. 
 
 " I will call again soon," said the lady, who courtsied and smiled, 
 and then retired, followed by her page. 
 
 But she had scarcely left the sanctum when the wretched man, as 
 he took up the roll of manuscript, and tossed it upon a shelf, where 
 lay heaps of similar bundles, repented of what he had done. 
 
 " What a fool I was !" he exclaimed, as he glanced around him, 
 " to make that rash promise ! There is O'Mulligan, who will chal 
 lenge me if I do not read his essay on the Round Towers ; there is 
 the Reverend Doctor Slospoken, who will denounce me to hii congre 
 
204 THE ATLAXTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 gation, if I neglect his essay on Human Responsibilities ; Professor 
 Verdigriss will speak sneeringly of me to his class, if I am not pre- 
 pared with an opinion of his article ahout the Retrocession of Solar 
 Paradoxes; and Mrs. Winkle's Blighted Buds must be reviewed for 
 my next number. How am I to do all these things, and read that 
 woman's tremendous manuscript! I was a madman to make such a 
 promise ! The deuce take her ! But I will not be so caught again." 
 He gave strict orders that no woman, under any circumstances 
 whatever, should ever again be permitted to enter his sanctum ; and 
 after spending a few more hours at his dreary employment, he went 
 home to his wife, solacing himself with the recollection of his domes- 
 tic happiness, and repeating to himself a quatrain from some verses 
 which he had addressed to his Maria Jane before their marriage : 
 
 " Maria, on thy peaceful breast 
 The weary worker seeks rejwse, 
 And in thy fond affections blest 
 He finds a cure for all his woes." 
 
 "A cure for all his woes!" he repeated to himself, as he put his 
 night-key in the door, and bounding up-stairs into the boudoir of his 
 Maria, was suddenly arrested by discovering her in tears. 
 
 Maria Jane in tears ! The heart of Smila.x was smitten by the 
 sight, and his anxiety to learn the cause of her first sorrow may 
 readily be imagined by husbands who have had a similar experience 
 — and what husband has not 1 
 
 But he then learned that when a wife is most afflicted, there is 
 nothing the matter with her. Mrs. Smilax continued to weep, and 
 at every appeal of her husband, to enlighten him as to the cause of 
 her grief, she would only reply, " Nothing !" 
 
 But Smilax knew perfectly well that "nothing," in this case, meant 
 something dire and calamitous to his domestic peace. After a while, 
 the torrent of his wife's grief subsided into a sullen and reproachful 
 melancholy, more hard to endure than the most terrifying outbursts 
 of grief and passion. 
 
 Maria Jane was nut one of the Queen Catharine style <>f wives; 
 she calmly subsidril into the injured innocence state, and jursonated 
 
A LITERARY MARTYRDOM. 205 
 
 most effectively the character ol" a resigned saint, persevering in 
 her sad declaration that nothing liad happened — nothing ! She had 
 no complaints to malie. It would all be over soon ; and what was 
 her happiness, if he were only happy ! 
 
 Smilax went to his office the next day, a thoroughly wretched 
 man ; but his duties were too engrossing to permit him to dwell on 
 his domestic troubles. He had tried in vain to imagine the cause of 
 his wife's griefs, but he could not call to mind any circumstance 
 which could, in any manner, have awakened her jealousy, or given 
 her reason to shed a tear. What added to his distress was his 
 inability to consult with any of his friends in regard to the matter, or 
 ask advice as to the proper mode of procedure in such cases. Tlie 
 spirit of discontent had entered his paradise, and he was unhappy , 
 and that Avas all he knew about it. 
 
 The mail had brought him heaps of letters and manuscripts, all 
 of them requiring immediate attention; the printer had sent him 
 bundles of proofs, which must be read and returned at once ; and 
 O'Mulligan had threatened him with a scorching, in a rival magazine, 
 for not deciding on his manuscript sooner; and two clergymen, a 
 lady, a Polish lecturer, and halta-dozen suspicious-looking men of a 
 very miscellaneous character, were waiting in his ante-room, some to 
 learn his decision in regard to communications already sent, and 
 some to offer him essays and poems. It was a melting hot day ; all 
 the rest of the world had gone to the country or the sea-side ; but he 
 was forced to remain to make up his next number. The perspiration 
 rolled from his clouded brow, as he seated himself at his overburdened 
 desk, and thought of his duties. With a kind of grim desperation, he 
 took up the roll of manuscript which the lady had left him the day 
 before, and smiled scornfully, as he read the title, "A Pledge of 
 Affection. By Pattie Passionflower." 
 
 "Another vegetable name in literature !" he said to himself; "Pop- 
 pyflower would be better. I thought, when I received a poem from 
 Carry Cauliflower, that that particular form of literary disease had 
 come to an end ; but here is another." He ran his eye rapidly ovei 
 a few leaves of the manuscript — for he had karned the art of judging 
 of the character of a literary performance without reading it all 
 
206 THE ATLANTIC SOfVENIR. 
 
 through — and remorselessly writing a mystical word upon it, tied 
 up the bundle and threw it into the balaam-box, with a large heap of 
 other rejected oflorings to be returned to their owners. 
 
 This was, at first, a most painful thing for him to do ; for he had him- 
 self once been a contributor to a magazine, and he well knew the irrita- 
 ting anxiety which a young author fools fur the fate of his manuscript; 
 and he used to write soothing letters to the poor adventurers whose 
 bantlings he was compelled to reject ; but he had long since become 
 hardened to his duty, and rather felt himself the aggrieved and injured 
 party, when a manuscript was offered to him, which, after being at the 
 cost of reading, he Avas compelled to reject. " It is not my fault," 
 would Smilax say to himself; ' ' if they can't write better ; why should 
 I be unhappy about it 1" 
 
 Ah ! little did the public think or care, that, to obtain the one 
 tolerably good essay, which they would find fault with for not being 
 more brilliant, he had been obliged to read thi'ough four or five hun- 
 dred much worse ones, " "What does the world care about the trou- 
 bles or sufferings of any of its servants, who wear their lives out in 
 trying to give pleasure or instruction to others ? Not a straw ! Yet we 
 will be martyrs for the chance smile of approbation which the world 
 now and then bestows upon us — slaves of its whims," said Smilax 
 to himself, as he wended his way home that night, wearied with 
 his day's work, and halfdrcading to meet Maria Jane. The truth 
 was that she had neglected to give him the customary parting 
 kiss, which she had never forgotten to do before. " Forgotten !" 
 exclaimed Smilax bitterly in his thoughts ; " she did not forget it — 
 she did it on purpose ; she had her handkerchief to her eyes, and she 
 would not allow me to kiss her. I have broken my wife's heart ; but 
 how I did it I have not the ghost of an idea. I hope she has got over 
 it by this time, though." 
 
 But the faint hope was soon withered ; for, as he opened the door, 
 he heard a stifled sobbing, which he knew at once proceeded from 
 Maria Jane ; and worse and more ominous than all, the severe visage 
 of his mothor-in-law frowned freezingly upon him, as he entered the 
 room where the wife of his young afleetions lay sobbing hysterically 
 upon the sofa. Maria Jane had sent for her motlier, and Smilaj 
 
A LITERAEY MARTYRDOM. 207 
 
 knew that she would not say that " nothing was the matter," for that 
 is not the way in which mothers-in-law vent their reproaches. It was 
 a comfort to the distressed husband and editor to feel sure that he 
 would now know the worst, let it be what it might. And he was 
 perfectly correct in his assumptions ; for, as he mildly asked what 
 was the matter, the word "Monster !" fell upon his ear with a clear- 
 ness and distinctness of utterance that made him hop. 
 
 " Do n't, mother !" sobbed out Maria Jane ; " I can die, but I will 
 never reproach him." 
 
 What Smilax would have said, or might have said, if he had not 
 been rendered speechless by the strangeness of these proceedings, we 
 must leave the public to imagine. 
 
 " I do n't wonder at your silence," said his mother-in-law. " You 
 have killed this suffering angel, and made me childless." 
 
 Maria Jane, we may observe, was an only daughter, from which 
 the tender manner of her bringing up may be inferred. 
 
 " If I have killed her," said Smilax, meekly, " I am " 
 
 " I can't boar hypocrisy," said his mother in-law ; " I should think 
 much better of you if you confessed your villainy openly. Read that 
 letter, and save yourself the trouble of further dissimulation." 
 
 As the word "letter" was named, the suffering angel on the sofa 
 broke out in a fresh agony of hysterical sobs. 
 
 Smilax took the letter, and with a puzzled expression examined 
 the direction, which was to his wife ; the hand had a very familiar 
 look to him ; but, accustomed as he was to examining so many speci- 
 mens of handwriting daily, he had but a confused idea of its individual 
 character. He opened the letter with a trembling hand, and had read 
 but a few lines when, to the horror of his mother-in-law, he broke out 
 in a fit of the most obstreperous mirth. Unable to restrain his 
 laughter, he threw himself upon the floor and fairly roared, holding 
 on to his sides with both hands, and kicking his heels as though he 
 were in convulsions. 
 
 Maria Jane started up wildly, and her mother tried to look very 
 indignant, but felt that she must look very foolish. She knew she 
 had made a mistake ; and to be compelled to confess it to her son- 
 in-law, in whose eyes she had ever striven to appear immaculate, and 
 
208 THE ATLAN'TIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 not liable to any mistakes whatever, was enough to make her feel and 
 look very foolish. 
 
 It was a good while before Smilax could command himself long 
 enough to speak, but the moment he did, his wife leaped from the 
 sofa, threw her arms around his neck, and, if there had been a piano 
 in the room, she would have gone off with "Ah ! non yiunge!'" in a 
 manner that any prima donna might have envied. 
 
 To save the trouble of an explanation, we will give our readers a 
 copy of the letter which caused this domestic etneute, and leave it to 
 their own imaginations to do the rest. 
 
 [copy.] 
 " Dear Madam : 
 
 " Though a stranger to you, I am not to your husband ; and I do 
 not flatter myself that he would confide to you the kind of transac- 
 tions which such as I have with him ; and I would not now intrude 
 upon you, were it not for the peculiar circumstances in which I am 
 placed. I am a mother ; I believe that yoti are 7iot, and you may not 
 understand my feelings. But my oflspring must be provided for. *I 
 am not mercenary, yet I can not afford to part with the ' Pledge of 
 Affection' which I left with him yesterday, without pay. This I wish 
 you to say to him. After a long and most satisfactoi-y interview 
 which I had with him, when I returned to say this much, and ' nothing 
 more,' I was denied all access to him, and have ventured to request 
 you to act as my mediator with him. If my presence is disagreeable 
 to him, he has my address, and may drop me a line informing me of 
 his decision. The 'Pledge' may be sent back if he declines to pay. 
 
 " Most truly yours, 
 •'To Mbs. Smilax." "Pattie Passionflower. 
 
 This little affair proved the straw which broke the camel's back. 
 Smilax concluded the next morning that his martyrdom in the cause 
 of literature had been endured long enough. The delusive idea of 
 distinguishing himsilf by acting as a monthly nurse to other people's 
 literary bantlings, and of elevating popular taste by any such means, 
 was entirely dissipated. lie sold out to some body as deluded as he 
 
A LITERARY MARTYRDOM. 209 
 
 had been ; and soon after, the following advertisement in the morning 
 papers told the catastrophe of his literary career, and the total eclipse 
 of all his ambitious aspirations for distinction : 
 
 "Partnership Notice. — Mr. M. Smilax, Jr., having been ad- 
 mitted a partner of our house, the business of importing German 
 dolls will be conducted under the name of M. Smilax, Son & Co. 
 
 "Smilax & Co." 
 
 "After all," said Smilax to me, one day, as I met him coming out 
 of his broker's, where he had been looking over the stock list, with 
 the view of making a safe investment of his spare capital, " what a 
 precious delusion this love of distinction is ! What more should sen- 
 sible men like ourselves aspire to, than to be distinguished in their 
 own families as good husbands and fathers, and to have the satisfac- 
 tion of knowing they owe no man a dollar, which they can not pay on 
 demand ? That 's the only distinction worth striving for." 
 
 I am afraid there was a shade of sarcasm in the smile which passed 
 over my features in reply to these grovelling sentiments of my friend ; 
 for he immediately added with a slight blush : 
 
 " It is true that importing German dolls is not the noblest occupa- 
 tion in which a reasoning creature can engage ; but children must be 
 amused with dolls, as well as men with magazines, and why not 
 choose the business which affords the best returns ?" 
 
 I could only smile again, for arguments of this nature have but one 
 side to them ; and Smilax, feeling his triumph, changed the subject by 
 inviting me to a family dinner, with Maria Jane and the children. 
 
 14 
 
tots. 
 
 BY ALFBSD B. 8TBKET. 
 
 Whether pluming the mountain, edging the lake, eye-lashing tha 
 stream, roofing the waterfall, sprinkling the meadow, burying the 
 homestead, or darkening leagues of hill, plain, and valley, trees have 
 always " haunted me like a passion." Let me summon a few of 
 them, prime favorites, and familiar to the American forest. 
 
 The aspen — what soft, silver-gray tints on its leaves, how smooth 
 its mottled bark, its whole shape how delicate and sensitive ! You 
 may be sitting on the homestead lawn some summer noon, the trees 
 all motionless, and the hot air trembling over the surface of the 
 unstirred grass. Suddenly you will hear a fluttering like the unloos 
 ing of a rapid brook, and looking whence comes the sound, you will 
 see the aspen shaking as if falling to pieces, or the leaves were little 
 wings each striving to fly off". All this time the broad leaf of the 
 maple close by, does not even lift its pointed edges. This soft mur- 
 mur really sends a coolness through the sultry atmosphere; but 
 while your ear is drinking the music and your eye filled with the 
 tumultuous dancing, instantly both cease as if the tree were stricken 
 with a palsy, and the quiet leaves flash back the sunshine like so many 
 fairy mirrors. 
 
 Next the elm. How noble the lift and droop of its branches ! 
 With such graceful downward curves on either side, it has the shape 
 of the Greek vase. Such lavish foliage also, running down the trunk 
 to the very roots, as if a rich vine were wreathed around it ! And 
 what frame-works those branches shape, breaking the landscape 
 beyond into half-oval scenes which look through the chiaroscuro as 
 
212 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 if beheld through slightly shaded glass. And how finely the elm leans 
 over the brook — its native place — turning the water into ebony, and 
 forming a shelter for the cattle from the heat. It is scattered, too, 
 over the meadow, making shady nooks for the mowers at their noon 
 tide meal, shadowing also the farmer's gate and mantling his home 
 stead in an affluence of green. 
 
 Then the maple. What a splendid cupola of leaves it builds up 
 into the sky — an almost complete canopy from the summer shower. 
 It reddens brilliantly when the blue-bird tells us spring has come, 
 and, a few days later, its dropped fringes gleam in the fresh grass like 
 flakes of fire. And in autumn, too, its crimson is so rich, one might 
 term it the blush of the wood. 
 
 And the beech. How cheerfully its snow-spotted trunk looks 
 in the deep woods — how fresh the green of its regularly-scalloped 
 leaves ! At spring-tide the tips of its sprays feather out in the 
 glossiest and most delicate cream-satin, amid which the young leaf 
 glows like a speck of emerald. And in the fall what rich clusters of 
 fruit burthen the boughs! The pattering of the brown three-cor- 
 nered beech-nut upon the dead leaves is constant in the hazy, purple 
 days of our Indian summer, and makes a sweet music, almost con- 
 tinuous as the dripping of a rill, in the mournful forest. 
 
 The birch is a great favorite of mine. It reminds me of the 
 whistles of my boyhood. Its fragrant bark — what delight it was to 
 wrench it from the silvery wood for the shrill music I delighted in, 
 particularly by the hearth-stone of my home ! 
 
 " Conscience !" my aunt Katy. used to ejaculate, holding her ears ; 
 "is that whistling coming again? John, (John is my rame — John 
 Smith,) do, do stop !" 
 
 And when came a shriller blast, 
 
 " John, you little torment ! if you do n't stop, I '11 box your 
 ears !" 
 
 What splendid tassels the birch hangs out at the bidding of 
 April ! — tassels that Indian sachems were proud to wear at the most 
 honored feasts of their nation. 
 
 And into such rich gold is it transmuted by October, u light is 
 almost shed of its own within the sylvan recesses. The speckled 
 
TREES. 213 
 
 bark of the black birch is glossy and bright, but give me the beauty 
 of the white birch's coat. How like a shaft of ivory it gleams in the 
 daylight woods — how the flame of moonlight kindles it into columned 
 pearl ! 
 
 Did you ever, while wandering in the forest about the first of 
 June, have your eyes dazzled at a distance with what you supposed 
 to be a tree laden with snow? It was the dogwood. Glittering 
 in its white blossoms, each one spread over a broad leaf of the 
 brightest verdure, pointed gauze upon emerald, there stands the 
 pretty tree like a bride. The shadbush and cherry have dropped 
 their white honors a month before, but the dogwood keeps 
 company with the basswood and locust in brightening the last days 
 of spring with its floral beauty. Up in the soft blue it lifts its 
 wreathed crown, for it gathers its richest glow of blossom at its head, 
 and makes the forest bright as with silver chandeliers. 
 
 While admiring the dogwood, an odor of exquisite sweetness may 
 salute you ; and if at all conversant in tree-knowledge you will know 
 the censer dispensing this fragrance. But you will have to travel 
 some distance, and you will do it as the hound tracks the deer, by 
 scent, for the perfume fills the forest long before the tree catches 
 the eye. At length you see it — the basswood — clustered with 
 yellow blossoms, golden bells pouring out such strong, delicious fra- 
 grance, you realize the idea of Shelley : 
 
 " And the hyacinth, purple, and white, and blue, 
 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
 Of music so delicate, soft, and intense. 
 It was felt liko an odor within the sense." 
 
 And the deep hum, too, about it — an atmosphere of sound — the 
 festival of the bees surrounding the chalices so rich with honey. 
 
 I have mentioned the flowers of the locust and chestnut in con- 
 junction with the hasswood. Delicate pearl does the former hang 
 out amid the vivid green of its beautiful leaves, and sweet is that 
 pearl as the lips of the maiden you love. 
 
 And the chestnut — scattered thickly among its long, dark-green 
 leaves are strings of pale gold blossoms — haunts also of the revelling 
 
214 THE ATLANTIC SOrVE.VIR. 
 
 bee. Docs the school-boy ever forget "the days that he went" 
 truanting after the auburn fruit embedded in velvet within, but 
 without protected by porcupines of husks ? With what delight did 
 the young good-for-nothings pelt down those yellow husks to be 
 crushed open by indefatigable heels! Ah! the aurora of life — how 
 bright, how merry it is ! 
 
 For ever linked in the minds of these truants with the chestnut is 
 the walnut. How the green, smooth globes that insphere the fruit 
 make the eyes of the young vagabonds dance, and how eagerly they 
 mount to shake do^vn those globes, each fracturing at the fall, and 
 letting out the round ivories that in turn imprison the dark gold 
 meats ! 
 
 And now the oak, " the brave old oak," and so forth. Suppose 
 yourself in a wood ! Do you see that little brown vegetable cup 
 with a braided cover — there by the dead maple leaf and tuft of 
 crimson-headed moss? Yon robin just planted his foot upon and 
 cjovered it. And then do you see that towering tree whose head 
 seems nearly to touch the white cloud above it? Look! upon its 
 very apex there is a bird, seemingly the size of this wild pigeon on 
 the beech-tree, but in reality an eagle. A great many years have 
 intervened between the two objects, it is true, but you think twice 
 ere realizing that yon seamed, stern, sturdy oak once nestled in this 
 acorn. So of all trees, you say, from the seed. True again, but 
 none strikes you so forcibly in this contrast as the oak. And what a 
 tree it is ! First piercing the mould, a tiny needle that the ground- 
 squirrel, would destroy with a nibble, and then rearing grandly 
 toward the sun a -wreath of green to endure for ages. Docs the wild 
 wind dash upon it ? Its shakes its proud head, but no more bends 
 its whole shape than yon crag. Doth the arrowy sleet strike it? Its 
 leaves only make clicking music ; and as for the early snow, it bears 
 it up easily as a deer would fragments of kalmia-blossoms on his 
 antlers. IIow finely its dark green stands out from the lighter hues 
 of the beeches, birches, and maples ! And then how it keeps old 
 Time at a distance! Why, decades arc nothing to it. The child 
 gathers the violet at its foot; as a boy, he pockets its dropped 
 acorns ; a man, he looks at its height, towering up, towering up, and 
 
TREES. 215 
 
 makes it the emblem of his ambition. Years after, Avith white hairs 
 and palsied limbs, he totters at noontide to lie within its shade and 
 slumber, "perchance to dream" of that last sleep which can not be 
 distant, and which " knows no waking." But has the oak changed ? 
 Mocker of the storm, stern darer of the lightning, there he stands, the 
 same, and seemingly for ever. Challenger of Time, defier of earth's 
 changes, there he stands the pride of the forest, satirizing, in his mute 
 language, alike the variations of fortune and evanescence of man. 
 
 And he does all things in a grand, slow way, unlike other trees. 
 In spring-time, when the aspen has showed for a month its young 
 leaves of silver gray, when the beech has thrust forth its beau- 
 tiful feathers, when the maple has made a red rain of its glowing blos- 
 soms upon the forest floor, the oak still looks as he did when Janu- 
 ary was frowning upon his branches. When the aspen has elabor- 
 ated its small leaves into thick foliage, when the beech has spangled 
 itself over with emerald, when the maple has hung upon its slender 
 stems its broad pearl-lined verdure, no tint of green ujion the oak. 
 He stands yet in dark disdain, as if mourning the perished winter. 
 But at last, when the woodland is smiling in its fully-developed glory, 
 when the tardy blossoms of the locust and tulip-tree are drenching 
 the air with delicious sweetness, then stirs the oak. Little brown 
 things are scattered over his great boughs, which in due time become 
 long, deep-veined leaves ; and lo ! the regal oak has donned his 
 splendid robe. The summer passes, and the autumn comes. What 
 stands at the corner of yon wood, swathed in a mantle of the true 
 imperial? Crimsons, and yellows, and golden-browns are flashing all 
 around him, as though there were a carnival among the trees, but no 
 hue is brighter than that of the brave old oak in his robe of royal 
 purple. And he is in no more haste to let that robe of his go than 
 in putting it on. When the shrieking blasts have torn its mantle 
 from every other tree, the oak still clings to his, as if he said to those 
 shrieking blasts, " I defy your fury !" When the snow-bird comes 
 twittering among the woods to tell them the snow will shortly be 
 showering loose pearl all through their gaunt domains, the oak yet 
 holds to his mantle, blanched and tattered though it be. High amid 
 the snow-drifts, firm amid the blasts, the pale crackling leaves still 
 
216 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 cling, With nothing in the wide, bleak forests to keep them company 
 save here and there a shivering lingerer upon the beech-tree. Often 
 it is only when their successors come "to push them from their 
 stools" that the old leaves quit the gallant oak and lie do^vn tc 
 perish. So a health to the oak ! 
 
 We will merely touch, in passing, upon the horse-chestnut, with 
 its great glistening spring-buds bursting into cones of pearly, red- 
 spotted blossoms that almost cover its noble dome of foliage ; upon 
 the hemlock, with its masses of evergreen needles, and the cedar, with 
 its misty blue berries ; upon those tree-like shrubs — the hopple, with 
 its gigantic leaves serving as sylvan goblets at pio-nics ; the sumac, 
 with its clusters of splendid crimson ; the sassafras, diffusing from its 
 thick leaf a most delicious breath; the laurel, arching above the 
 brooks a roof radiant with immense bouquets of rose-touched snow, 
 and even garlanding the apex of the water-beech with its superb cha- 
 lices, while its younger sister, the ivy, crouches at the foot of the 
 tamarack and spruce, rich in red-streaked urns of blossoms ; and the 
 witch-hazel, smiling at winter, with its curled, sharp-cut flowers of 
 golden velvet. 
 
 We come now to the pine, of all my greatest favorite. 
 
 Ho ! ho ! the burly pine ! Hurrah ! hurrah for the pine ! The 
 oak may be king of the lowlands, but the pine is the king of the 
 hills — aye, and mountains too. 
 
 Ho ! ho ! the burly pine ! how he strikes his clubbed foot deep 
 into the cleft of the rock, or grasps its span with conscious power ! 
 There he lifts his haughty front like the warrior-monarch that he is. 
 No flinching about the pine, let the time bo ever so stormy. His 
 throne is the crag, and his crown is a good way up in the heavens, 
 and as for the clouds he tears them asunder sometimes, and 
 uses them for robes. Then hurrah again for the pine! say I. 
 Reader, did you ever hear him shout? Did you ever hear 
 thunder? — for there is a pine mountain on the upper Dela- 
 ware that out-roars, in a winter storm, all the thunder you 
 ever heard! Stern, deep, awfully deep, that roar makes the 
 heart quiver. It is an airqiinke of tremendous power. And his 
 single voice is by no me:iiis silvery when he is " in a breeze." When 
 
TREES. 211 
 
 the stern \Tarrior-king has aroused his energies to meet the onslaught 
 of the storm, the battle-cry he sends down the wind is heard above 
 all the voices of the greenwood. His robe streams out like a banner, 
 and so wild does he look, you would think he was about to dash him- 
 self from his throne of rock upon the valley beneath. But no ; his 
 great foot grasps more closely the crag, and when, after a while, the 
 tempest leaves him, how quietly he settles to his repose ! He adorns 
 his crown with a rich wreath caught from the sunset, and an hour 
 after, he wears the orbed moon as a splendid jewel upon his haughty 
 brow. The scented breeze of the soft evening breathes upon him, 
 and the grim warrior-king wakes his murmuring lute, and oh ! such 
 sounds — so sweet, so soothing ! Years that have passed live again 
 in the music ; tones long since hushed echo once more in the heart ; 
 faces that have turned to dust — but how loved in the old time! — 
 glimmer among the dusky boughs ; eyes that years ago closed on 
 earth to open in heaven smile kindly upon us. We lie down in the 
 dark Bhadow upon the mossy roots and are happy — happy in a sad, 
 sweet, tender tranquillity that purifies the soul, and while it makes us 
 coB^int with earth, fills us with love for heaven. 
 
girp Ht tht §xM d '^fittU |rMs/' 
 
 BY U. W. ROCKWELL. 
 
 " "Wht, he but sleeps: 
 
 If he he gone, he '11 make his grave a bed." 
 
 Thou art gone to thy rest 1 — like the wind of the ocean, 
 That dies on the breast of the blue heavmg wave, 
 
 So with thee life hath passed with its stormy commotiou, 
 And the last beams of sunset are bright on thy grave. 
 
 Sweet sunset! how oft with thy radiant fingers 
 Thou Shalt touch the sweet blossoms we strew on his tomb, 
 
 While the red-breast near by in the forest-top lingers, 
 And warbles his dkge m the soft evening gloom ! 
 
 Yet it is not unmeet that thou com'st near his dwelling, 
 O'erarch'd by the sweet sod, so fresh and so green, 
 
 "While the mild evening wnd from the valley is swelling, 
 And the haze-mantled forests look down on the scene. 
 
 Nor unwelcome thy song, little bird in the willow ! 
 
 ■VTho sing'st here so sweetly at night-fall and dawn; 
 For a fair head below lieth cold on its pillow, 
 
 And one half of hfe's glory and beauty is gone ! 
 
 Sing on, happy bu-d ! — while the night, fast descending, 
 Shuts in on the forest, and deepens its gloom : 
 
 The sigh of the breeze with thy sweet warble blending 
 Sliall make me still linger and muse at his toir>b. 
 
220 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Oh I wliat in my heart do these voices awaken, 
 That bids me look up from life's toil and unrest 
 
 To that home where the weary, and sad, and forsaken, 
 Are glad in the beautiful land of the blest? 
 
 And why, when each day brings a darker to-morrow, 
 Doth the path seem so bright that my darlmg hath trod 
 
 If it bo not that we, in hfe's moments of sorrow. 
 Learn to humble the spirit and lean upon God? 
 
%\t Muk k f itttaturt 
 
 BY SAMUEL 8. OOX. 
 
 It is an anachronism to date the connection of " Old Knick" with 
 literature from the establishment of the Magazine, which is thus play- 
 fully personified by its familiar readers. Long before the brothers 
 Clark rescued " Old Knick" from his bad fame, and gave him credit 
 and character, there were intimate relations existing between the 
 genius of type and the genius of " Knick." 
 
 Our votive offering upon the shrine where so many flowers, so 
 much fruitage, and such grateful incense has been so often offered 
 before, and malgre the terrors of the name, offered by such good and 
 genial souls, shall be an examination into this relationship between 
 the aforesaid genii. Before we have finished our analysis, it will be 
 found that " Old Knick" has had more to do with human literature 
 than we are apt to imagine, and that without him much of its mirth 
 and more of its tragedy would be wanting. 
 
 If we are to believe the authentic records of the past, we shall find 
 him, in the earliest times, inaugurating the typographical art. " He 
 is in league with the devil," said the learned Sorbonne at Paris, of 
 Dr. Faust, who had, under pretence of copying the Bible, sold the 
 first printed edition to the Parisians at sixty crowns a volume ; while 
 those " slow coaches," the clerks, sold manuscript copies at five huiv 
 dred ! And the astonished professors, not dreaming of printing, and 
 not considering the inconsistency of the devil becoming a pioneer col- 
 porteur, examined the quickly-produced copies, all minutely alike, and 
 declared, " Surely the devil is in this marvellous matter !" And when 
 Faust lowered his price, and multiplied his volumes, and as his r^^. 
 
222 THE ATLANTIC SOL'VENIR. 
 
 ink was observed to be peculiarly sanguine, they thought it best to 
 inform the magistrate against him, as a magician, who, with his own 
 blood, and by Satanic help, had multiplied Bibles beyond the power 
 of human handicraft. And the magistrate, with the profundity of 
 Justice Shallow, found that he was in league with the devil, and 
 ordered that he be made a public bonfire. Faust saved himself by 
 revealing his art to the Parisian parliament. The decision of Justice 
 Shallow was not wholly in error. There is much beside his judgment 
 to confirm the tradition. At this day there is none to deny that the 
 devil has much to do with printed thought ; if not with its form and 
 type, certainly with its essence and spirit. 
 
 This must be so necessarily. So long as the drama of life alter- 
 nates between good and evil, will the devil be a star among the 
 actors. Being the principle of evil, he will have more or less to do 
 with human nature, until that principle loses its place in the heart and 
 its power over the head. It is a restless principle ; ever busy at the 
 loom of life, weaving into the tissue its sombre strands, and unrolling 
 to the gaze its fantastic figures, which in letters become the mirror of 
 human vicissitude. 
 
 As our imperfect nature has no exemption from its temptations, 
 so every department of literature bears evidence of its influence. Is 
 it the lyric gush 1 The principle of evil sparkles in the ruby wine, 
 and melts with the amorous eye. Is it the stately drama? It plays 
 the prompter, and puts on the mask. Is it the grandeur of the epic? 
 It gives unity to the action, of which it is the hero ! 
 
 To analyze this element, it may be necessary — 
 
 First, to define what is meant by the Satanic element ; 
 
 Secondly, to trace it to its source and display its greatest exam- 
 ples in literature ; 
 
 And lastly, to discuss the good taste of their appearance in so 
 notorious a form. 
 
 I. It is hardly necessary that I should give a formal introduction 
 to a personage so well known as the subject of my paper. Most of 
 my readers are acquainted with him, at least by reputation. It may 
 not be necessary to search books to define him. lie can be found 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. 223 
 
 when and where you are disposed to look for him. Paracelsus stiffly 
 maintains that the air in summer is not so full of flies as it is with his 
 presence. The odium which hangs most heavily upon him is the 
 odium theologicum. We do not propose to take this view of him, 
 except so far as it may throw light upon his literary uses. A theolo- 
 gical view might include his abuses rather than his uses. 
 
 It may be more original, if not so interesting, to consider the 
 devil as of some use in the world. That his unprepossessing features 
 have often inoculated the young with wholesome fear will even yet 
 be stoutly maintained. Ever since the days of Luther, the catechisms 
 of Germany have been adorned with a frontispiece, representing him 
 with the appendages of horn, hoof, and forked tail ; and this was one 
 of the modes employed for teaching youth correct theological notions. 
 But the march of intellect, which is said to lick all the world into 
 shape, has licked the devil out. His horns are no longer a dilemma 
 to the sinner ; his claws no longer reach out after the wicked ; and 
 his tail is no longer unfolded to harrow up the soul ! Our intellect- 
 ual age has acted upon him as the crowing of the cock is said to act 
 upon ghosts — the visible presence vanishes before daylight. But it is 
 unphilosophical to affirm that he is not, because his visible form has 
 vanished. He may make his tracks in other people's shoes, and in 
 the multiplicity of his engagements he does not always cover them. 
 We may tell, from the slime he leaves behind, that a serpent went 
 that way, and not less certainly that the devil has been about by cer- 
 tain actions in human society. His horns are hid under many a 
 judge's wig ; his hoof is pinched by many a patent-leather boot ; and 
 his tail concealed by costliest broadcloth. And, my fine lady, he 
 does not disdain to hide in your dimpled smile, to wanton with your 
 ringlets, glitter in your ear-drops, nestle in your mufl", and shoot his 
 darts in your glances. 
 
 He has no particular profession or trade, though he can lend a 
 hand to all. He preaches, though he has never taken orders. He is 
 no lawyer, but who can sophisticate like him 1 He is no doctor, but 
 he often kills. He is no mechanic, but he glories in a glowing forge, 
 where implements of manifold deviltry are turned out. He is no 
 broker, but none of your old, sleek, plump cent-per-cents has such 
 
224 THE ATLANTIC SOCVEMR. 
 
 razors for so close a shave. Ho is no editor, but every one has hearJ 
 of the Satanic press. He is no tailor, but ever since he sat cross 
 legged over the first suit of fig-leaves, he has had a remarjcable run in 
 furnishing the disguises in which cant, humbug, duplicity, and villainy 
 appear. He is not in the mercantile line, strictly, but yet he is 
 
 " a merchant, too, 
 
 Who sells by the shortened yard ; 
 "Who keeps his accounts in a way of his own. 
 When he sells two ounces, he sets three down, 
 And charges two shillmgs as half-a-crown, 
 And proves by his clerk 't is true I" 
 
 In fact, he attends to no body's business, only because no body's busi- 
 ness is every body's business. The whirr of his unseen wings, as he 
 goes skurrying through the air, may be heard at any time by any 
 one who chooses to listen ! Any one who is after the devil will find 
 *he devil after him. 
 
 To define this ubiquitous personage is as difficult as to " paint 
 chaos, to take a portrait of Proteus, or to catch the figure of the 
 fleeting air," which is his principality. 
 
 But that would be a poor transcript of human thought in which 
 .,his element of evil were omitted. 
 
 Whether its introduction into literature has been of any benefit 
 to our race, we do not now consider. Even in poetry and fiction, 
 familiarity with its presence is by no means to be coveted. If the 
 devil is truly represented, he must be shown as a fiend of tact and 
 talent ; and then he is as certain to excite admiration as he is to 
 blaspheme ; and if, as an amiable devil, why the letter devil he is 
 made the worse devil he is ; for his character then would bo alto- 
 gether mistaken. If the bad passions are sought to be represented 
 in him, if he is portrayed as one seeking whom ho may doludo and 
 devour, there arc enough of his clan in the human mould, which the 
 varied pen of literature has delineated, and may yet delineate. 
 
 The spirit of evil may as well be illustrated indirectly in the 
 human character as in the direct Satanic character, for the reason that 
 the old rogue appears mcjrc at home when abroad, more easy in a 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. 225 
 
 counterfeit than in his genuine shape. But whether in the one or the 
 other ; whether in his own dun hide the devil plays his part before 
 the " bacon-brained" boors of the middle ages, in the " Mysteries ;" 
 or whether, as Appolyon, he wrestles with Bunyan ; or, as Astorath, 
 assaults Saint Anthony ; or plays the mischief with Faustus in Mar- 
 lowe ; or fills Dante's Inferno with his form ; or sits at the dreaming 
 ear of our first mother with Milton, whispering his wily wickedness ; 
 or hovers over Madrid on the mantle of Asmodeus ; or wings his 
 way with Byron's Cain to the nethermost abysses to look upon pre- 
 Adamite phantoms and the chaos of death ; or, with Goethe, dances 
 through the Walpurgis Night among the witches of the Brocken ; or 
 blurts out crazed blasphemy with Bailey's Festus ; or lures Beauty to 
 a noble sacrifice in Longfellow's Golden Legend; he is not more 
 certainly the principle of evil, and the antagonist of good, than when 
 he plays the hypocrite with Joseph Surface, murders noble natures 
 with the honesty of lago, harps on his humility with Heep, or em- 
 bodies the intense badness of Jeffrey Puncheons, or lubricates the 
 downward way with Oily Gammon, or teases and cheats simplicity 
 with Becky Sharp, or dishes out to poor school-boys molasses and 
 brimstone with the ladle of Mrs. Squeers ! 
 
 But my subject is large enough when limited to the analysis of 
 the Satanic element in literature, where Satan appears in person, and 
 not by proxy. The consideration of the use made of him by Dante, 
 Marlowe, Milton, Goethe, Byron, Southey, and Bailey, will afford 
 theme enough. Its discussion will imply an examination into the 
 original suggestions which these authors profited by in the delineation 
 of their several devils. 
 
 The Mosaic history of the evil spirit, his form in Eden, and the 
 
 consequences of his temptations are familiar. They are the germ 
 
 out of which nearly all diabolic literature has grown. Wherever 
 
 introduced, the arch-rebel tempts man to his fall by the alluring 
 
 fruits of pleasure and knowledge. Another Biblical account, nearly 
 
 contemporaneous with that of Moses, is that in which Satan is rej^re- 
 
 sentcd as asking of God the privilege to tempt Job. It represents 
 
 Satan, not as a fallen rebel, but as a tempter ; the more potent 
 
 because authorized by Jehovah ; or, as Bailey expresses it, as the 
 
 16 
 
226 TOE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 shadow of God himself. " There was a day when the sons of God 
 came to present themselves Ix'furc the Lord, and Satan came also." 
 He had been walking to and fro upon the.earth, and having scofTed 
 at Job's mtegrity, the Lord said unto Satan, " Behold, he is in thy 
 hand." This relation of Job has been made the scape-goat for the 
 bold blasphemy of Byron, the insane licentiousness of Bailey, and 
 the scofiing jeers of Goethe. 
 
 The nn^vritten literature of the earliest ages and rudest nations 
 has contained traditions as to the evil spirit. He takes various forms 
 and characteristics, according to the physical environment or condition 
 of the people. In the Indian mythology, the dominion of the Uni- 
 verse was divided, and even the powers of darkness had their castes. 
 The Indian Trinity consisted of Brahma, the Creator ; Vishnu, the 
 Preserver ; and Sheva, the Destroyer. Sheva was represented as a 
 black figure, with a terrible countenance. He is the only devil whom 
 literature has united in the holy bands of matrimony. If he is such 
 a monster devil, what must his wife be ? Her name was Goorga. 
 She was quite as black as her amiable husband, with forehead and 
 eyebrows dripping blood. The feminine taste is displayed by a 
 necklace of skulls, and ear-rings of -human bodies. At her zone hang 
 the hands of the giants whom she had slain. Quite an eligible match 
 for Sheva, and not unsuitable for any devil ! 
 
 The tropical sun of Africa dnguorreotyped him in blackest shades 
 as a divine devil, whose worship even yet holds the swart Ethiop in 
 thrall. In Scandinavia the grim spectres of the misty North were 
 servitors of the Great Evil One, whom to propitiate was accounted 
 wise devotion. The power of evil was very naturally feared by the 
 savage, and his religious instincts led him to give hostages and pay 
 homage to an enemy more formidable than the lion of the jungle and 
 more insidious than the serpent of the fens. 
 
 This profane idea of the devil is not unlike that of the more 
 refined nations of antiquity, of which it is the prototype. 
 
 The Greek classics might as well be without their heroes as their 
 Hades. Homer led Ulysses into the realms of Pluto. Thither 
 Euripidi's, in the Alcestis, and Hercules Furens, represents his heroes 
 • • 'l'W(viulin£;. Sophocles has shown tho son of Jupiter anil Alee 
 
THE SATANIO IN LITERATURE. 227 
 
 ft 
 
 mene carrying off the three-headed dog of hell. Similar marvellous 
 narratives formed the subject of two of the lost plays of ^Eschylus, 
 and the soul of his grand tragedy, the sublimest effort of the Grecian 
 tragic muse, is the man-loving and Jove-despising Prometheus, with 
 his will of adamant, unmoved amidst the thundei's and lightnings of 
 Almighty wrath ! 
 
 We find the prototype of Milton's Satan in this sullen and 
 implacable hater of heaven, ^schylus had a genius for painting with 
 a tei'rible grace. lie delighted to represent those old demi-gods — 
 those dark powers of primitive nature, who, warring against the 
 divine order, had been driven into Tartarus, beneath a better-regu- 
 lated world. The emperor among Titans, even as Satan among the 
 fallen angels, was Prometheus, half-fiend, yet benefactor of the 
 creature, though invincible in his endless hatred of the Creator. 
 The Titan suffers, with what a hopeless agony ! yet proud above all 
 pain — chained to the naked rock on the shore of the encircling 
 ocean, conscious that he holds the secret on which rests the Al- 
 mighty's throne ; and whether silent in the energy of his will, or 
 giving it expression to the^ condoling sea-nymphs and the wandering 
 lo ; and at last, when still braving the threats of Jove, and amidst 
 the storms of his unappeasable vengeance, he is swallowed up in 
 the chaotic abyss, still defiant, still exultant ! 
 
 Some have found in this demi-Satan a prototype of the sacrifice 
 of the Saviour. Prometheus suffered to give man perfection ; in 
 this he was like our Saviour. But he did this contrary to the will 
 of the Omxipotent ; and here the comparison fails. In one case the 
 throes of nature were sympathetic with the sacrifice of Deity. In the 
 other, they were Heaven's implements of torture ! The resemblance 
 between the chained Titan and the flillen son of the morning is so 
 striking that Milton must have taken it as his model of Satanic intel- 
 lectual energy. 
 
 The spirit of the Prometheus may be found lurking in nearly 
 every mythology and religion. 
 
 Although the province of the devil was well defined and limited 
 in the Christian dispensation, yet even in its earlier literature we find 
 a sect, who, having taken Prometheus as a type, erected a throne or. 
 
228 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEKIR. 
 
 earth for the power of hill. The Gnostics of the second century 
 held the doctrine of two i)rinci]>ks, from which proceeded all things ; 
 one a wise and benevolent Deity ; ana the other, a principle essen- 
 tially evil, Elxai and Saturninus propagated these doctrines in 
 Syria, and in the Greek language, and instituted an order whose 
 tenets utterly degraded the religion of Curist. Valentine of Egypt 
 formed them into a system, and evoked out of it, by some fanciful 
 angelic marriages, a Superior Power, called Demiurgus, from whose 
 forming hand our globe and our race issued, and to whom men were 
 enslaved by their evil passions. Christ came to this world to redeem 
 it from Demiurgus, and the contest was to rage until Demiurgus was 
 dethroned. 
 
 But another Gnostic branch held that the serpent by which our 
 first parents were deceived was either Christ himself or Sophia, the 
 perfect wisdom concealed under the serpent's form ; and serpents 
 became with them objects of Christian worship ! The sophistry of 
 Greece was thus renewed ; the distinctions between good and evil 
 were brushed away, and an admirable hint given to the nineteenth- 
 century lawyer, Bailey, of the Inner Temple, for his Festus, in which 
 he beatifies the Gnostic vision, and makes the Deity and the devil 
 to be one ! 
 
 In the dark ages the devil assimilated himself to the gross imagi- 
 nation of the ignorant, and walked forth in all the material deformity 
 of hoof, horns, claws, and tail. The medium by which he was 
 exhibited was the theologic drama called the Mysteries. The pil- 
 grims from the Holy Land were the actors. In later times, and even 
 up to the Reformation, a higher form of these mysteries obtained, 
 and greater attention was given to their composition. In these plays 
 the devil was a fiivorite, for he always raised the laugh. This theo- 
 logic stage usually consisted of three platforms, and the devil had 
 the lowest, the angels the next, and God the highest. On one side of 
 the lower platform was a ya\niing cave, from which the devil 
 ascended to delight and instruct the spectators. Never a king or 
 a baron gave to his subjects or retainers n gala where this rude repre- 
 sentation was omitted. Indeed, the devil became so common that 
 men ceased to regard him as other than a jolly good fellow ; and the 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. 229 
 
 actor who could growl his part most demoniacally won the applause of 
 the men and the smiles of the women. 
 
 The relics of this age are yet to be seen in Europe. Many an 
 ancient minster or chapel has its images over the door-way carved in 
 stone, bedaubed in canvas, or illuminated in missal, representing the 
 laughing prince of perdition. I remember one in Fribourg, Switzer- 
 land, where the devil appears with the head of a hog, and a basket- 
 ful of sinners at his back. He weiglis them in the scales, and while 
 good angels in vain strive to make tlie beam kick in fovor of heaven, 
 the satellites of sin strive on the other side, and that successfully. 
 When weighed, they are shovelled into a seething caldron, where 
 grinning imps stir them into a hotch-potch of slab hell-broth, with an 
 industry worthy of a better cause, and an indelicacy which would 
 shock a Parisian cuisine. 
 
 The coarseness of the dark ages disappeared, and with it this 
 ribald devil. But in cultivated minds there still lingered a terrible 
 form of evil. It was a reality even as late as Luther — a reality at 
 which the burly reformer hurled his ink-stand in the Wartburg, In 
 the fourteenth century, hell and purgatory were realities, ever present 
 to the eye of the Christian. The vices and follies of men had run 
 riot with a prodigality which called for a retribution ; and the stern 
 justice of Dante's intellect created an Inferno, where, with dreadful 
 distinctness, grim and gibbering fiends should add terror to the tor- 
 ments of the damned. At this time learning was just opening its 
 way out of the cloister to the sun-shine ; statuary began its mission 
 by carving a Madonna or a crucifix ; painting colored a missal, as 
 initiatory to the frescoes which now glorify the domes of the Italian 
 basilicas ; eloquence, waiting its Luther and Erasmus, spake in pane- 
 gyric of some favorite saint ; and history toyed at legends prepara- 
 tory to her more serious duties : then arose Dante, and with the 
 same, power with which he dared to scale a heaven of bliss, descended 
 to the abodes of despair. 
 
 Yet even his retributive morality, elevated for his age, partakes 
 somewhat of its coarseness. In his description of Satan he seems to 
 have been stricken dumb by the dread apparition, so that his pen 
 trembles in view of its awful office. The few etchings of Satan 
 
230 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 which ho gives, might have been then considered as sublime at the 
 Florentine court, and would be now, had not Milton far outstretched 
 him in the grandeur and boldness of the vision, and had not some of 
 the features been so grotesque as to be laughable. The first observes 
 Satan standing mid-breast in the icy lake of hell, his black banners 
 before him, and a cloud of night around him. Dante is in stature 
 more like a giant than the giants are his arms ! 
 
 " If he were beautiful 
 As he is hideous now, and yet did dare 
 
 To scowl upon his Maker well from him 
 
 May all our miserj- flow "' 
 
 He has three faces; one of vermilion, representing anger; one 
 between wan and yellow, representing envy ; the third black, repre- 
 senting gloom. Vast wings shoot forth under his shoulders, made, 
 like those of bats, without plumes, yet larger than any sails upon the 
 sea! He flaps them, and three cold winds come forth, freezing 
 Cocytus to its depth. His six eyes weep tears of bloody foam. At 
 every mouth he champs a sinner, bruising them as with ponderous 
 engine. One of these victims, honored as a special mouthful, is 
 Judas Iscariot, the skin of whose back is stripped up occasionally, by 
 way of variety. No dead Judas either, but extremely vital, for we 
 aie told that while his head is in the Satanic jaw he plies his feet 
 without ! The last view which Dante has, places his lordship upside 
 .down to his vision, which position certainly takes nothing from the 
 terrible grotesqueness of the scene ! 
 
 But as without the rude Mysteries we would have had no Dante, 
 so without Dante we should have had no Miltonic Satan. The seed 
 of one age becomes the blossom and fruit of another; for the black 
 art of the middle ages gave Goethe the seminal idea of his groat 
 drama. 
 
 The revival of learning found Europe full of legends of devilish 
 tricks with witches, wizards, warlocks, conjurers, magicians, astrolo- 
 gers, and others of that ilk. How men and women walked invisil)ly, 
 rode in tll(^ air on broomsticks, gibbered a universal language, raised 
 winds, disturbed tin* dead, and titrincnfi'd the living — arc they not 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATUKE. 231 
 
 written in the black-letter folios of the Magi, seldom to he conned 
 seriously in this matter-of-fact age ? It may now be thought very 
 undignified in Satan to condescend to such hocus-pocus whimsies as the 
 evil eye, magic circles, tipping tables, cabalistic words, changing a 
 truss of hay into a horse, producing the phantom of a deer-hunt in a 
 banqueting hall, saying the Lord's Prayer backward, and the like. 
 That credulous age has gone by, and we, vaunting our science^ sneer 
 at it; yes, we, in this age of table-tapping spiritualism! Our learned 
 judges who ridicule Lord Hale for his faith in witchcraft ; our savans 
 who smile at the idea of the protective horse-shoe, who can not see 
 the peculiar virtue in hanging a witch with a green withe, instead of 
 a rope, swallow whole tomes of gibberish revelations from silly and 
 lieing spirits, rapping out their ridicidous fanfironade on varnished 
 mahogany ! There was something horribly definite in the shapes 
 which peopled the medieval imagination. After beating around litera- 
 ture for dim intimations of spiritual devils, it is refreshing to come 
 upon the devil in fact and in form. Those two great eyes stare at 
 you ; the flame which breathes from mouth and nostril glares upon 
 you. There is the snaky hair and hardened horn, the dim hide and 
 shaggy back, the divided hoof and double vibrating tongue, the brim- 
 stone sm6ll and candles burning blue, as they wink and flicker. The 
 air grows hot, the heart beats as it burns, and the hair of the flesh 
 stands up, while in icy rills sensation chills to the bone ! Oh ! there 
 was in this a sturdy belief, unruffled by science, quite ravishing to 
 transcendental souls. There was then a happy propensity, especially 
 among the ignorant, to resolve every thing strange and wonderful 
 into devilism. A solution so convenient will commend itself to our 
 rapping circles, as well for its simplicity as for its agreement with 
 the maxim, that where the marvel is unaccountable, the devil is in it. 
 Beside, if not true, it is as good a solution as any yet submitted. 
 This is the way the ignorant people of the fifteenth century resolved 
 all the wonders of magic and the results of alchemy. The wooden 
 pigeon of Architus, the brazen serpent of Boetius, which hissed, the 
 golden birds of Leo, which sang, and the brazen head of Friar Bacon, 
 which spoke, were evidences of Satanic connection. The scholars anr^ 
 chemists of that time did not feel indignant, either, at the alli;^' 
 
232 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 for many of them, bedevilled by the madness which vanity, seclusion 
 and the fumes of an indigestible learning created, gave out in speeches 
 that, in their transmutation of metals, and in their search after the 
 elixir and the philosopher's stone, the assistance of his nether majesty 
 had been politely tendered. 
 
 It was out of this credulity that Dr. Faustus, the sorcerer, became 
 tfo intimate with the devil. Marlowe, one of Shakspeare's contempo 
 raries, first fixed this legend in the drama. But his Faust was a vul- 
 gar sorcerer, tempted by a poor devil to sell his soul for the ordinary 
 price of sensual pleasure and earthly glory ; and who, when the for 
 foit comes to be exacted, shrinks with very unhcroie whining. 
 
 Many German writers have attempted the same legend: they 
 failed. It was reserved for the great leader of the German choir, to 
 inspire, with perpetual life, this thrilling tradition. Goethe seized 
 upon it, not to gratify the curious, but to establish a truce between 
 the ideal of his soul and the actual of his life, which elements had 
 long warred in his bosom with no determinate purpose or goodly 
 end! He travels with his devil along the dusty pathways of life, 
 penetrates into its purlieus of vice, even becomes licentious, blasphe- 
 mous, and vulgar in holding the mirror up to its changeful scenes, 
 revels in the wine-cups of the Rhine, and runs the whole round of 
 human pleasure and knowledge; but at last, guided by the gentle 
 spirit of Margaret, whose excellence, innocence. Christian ftuth, and 
 sensitive purity could not bear even the disguised presence of evil, 
 seeks in her an ideal so ethereally pure and consolingly serene, even 
 amid the prisons and tortures of earth, that the seraphs of God wel- 
 come her with transporting minstrelsy on the golden lyres, as if she 
 were the very essence of Gonhood and grace ! Tliis ideal is the object 
 of the devil's hate. Faust would woo her to himself; but Heaven at 
 last divides them ; for Faust hath sold himself to the devil, and the 
 sweet presence of Margaret could never dwell, save in unrest, near 
 the dark companion of her love. 
 
 The story of Faust is every one's own experience. We burn for 
 more pleasure, knowledge, and power. The fiend promises them if 
 we will sell to him our souls, and then the strife begins. 
 
 Solomon has bc-i-n eallfd llie Faust <»f Scripture. He foinid the 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. 233 
 
 vanity of pleasure, knowledge, and power, when he had become their 
 bondman. "A genuine and generous attachment might have placed 
 happiness by means of the affections once more within reach of the 
 oriental monarch. But the presence of three hundred wives and 
 seven hundred concubines deprived him of even that contingency." 
 Mephistopheles, the caustic and cynical voluptuary, could have wished 
 for no better subject. " If an overgrown library can produce a sur- 
 feit of knowledge, an overstocked seraglio will more certainly bring 
 an atrophy of the affections. When reason, feeling, and conscience 
 are ill at ease, to fall back upon sensual indulgence for a remedy is to 
 take a roll in the gutter by way of a medicated mud-bath !" 
 
 To this recreation the sated scholar, Faust, is invited by Mephis- 
 topheles, and in the course of their companionship, the character of 
 Mephistopheles, as "the best and only genuine devil of modern 
 times," is revealed. It is this character we now propose to discuss. 
 
 Mej)histopheles is not the devil of horn and hoof; for he expressly 
 repudiates the use of such signs of his calling. He says of these 
 appendages, that they would prejudice him in society; shrewdly 
 implying that he could get into many a man's graces in a fashionable 
 doublet who would cut his acquaintance if he swished a tail ! Carlyle 
 has said, " Goethe's devil is a cultivated personage, acquainted with 
 modern sciences ; he sneers at witchcraft and the black art while 
 employing them." He has the manners of your modern gentleman ; 
 can swagger and debate, drink and poetize, swear and pray, smoke 
 and philosophize. He is a diplomatist, and can lie with "distin- 
 guished consideration." He is a politician, and can talk and trim in 
 a bar-room with as easy a tact as in the study of the scholar. He is 
 a sneering, scoffing devil, sharp at sarcasm, quick to the ridiculous, 
 appreciative of the rascally, loves a lie as an Englishman does beef, 
 or a Spaniard a bull-fight ; and has altogether the coolest inventive 
 malignity, mingled with the most infernal meanness ever embodied in 
 literature. He is perfectly at home in a pew, can say most gracefully 
 his grace, and dusts his knees after devotion with great demureness. 
 He believes in himself, and is true to no one else but himself, which 
 makes him consistently flilse to all. 
 
 His first appearance when he asks the Lord, with great self com 
 
234 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 placency, leave to guide Faust in his own way, and offers to bet with 
 the Almighty that he will win, is about as frigid a piece of blasphe- 
 mous mockery ai can be found. Obtaining and expressing great 
 thankfulness for the privilege, he goes off from the presence of the 
 Almighty and his angels with the remark, " I like to see the ancient 
 one" (or old gentleman) " occasionally. It 's quite civil in so great a 
 Lord to talk with the devil himself" It is this ultimate, impudent 
 depravity, " logical life with moral death," which makes him so fasci- 
 nating to the skeptics of Germany. Yet, if need be, he can hide this 
 repulsiveness. You may keep him company for weeks and never 
 have a hint of hell or a sniff of brimstone. He may be with you 
 without your knowledge, seeing without being seen, hearing without 
 being heard, coming in without leave, and leaving without noise ; can 
 be shut neither in nor out ; is seen when he is not known, and is 
 known when he is not seen : so that he is the more potent in his allure- 
 ments and dangerous in his designs, because he is so complete in his 
 duplicity. As Spenser was called the poet's poet, so may Mephisto- 
 pheles be called the devil's devil. He assumes the form of a poodle 
 or a gentleman at will ; goes off in thin air, or takes substantial form ; 
 sings songs with the jovial; talks like an institution with a "we;" 
 argues philosophy with the pedantic, and plays the Satanic all the 
 time. 
 
 One of his many sides is the comical. He has his fun, but it is a 
 diabolical fun. In the wine-cellar, at Leipzig, is a drinking party, 
 loud in carousal and deep in their cups. The devil would show Faust 
 with what little wit and much content life may fly away ; and in the 
 guise of travellers they join the party. Ho snigs song, furnishes 
 liquor by boring a hole in the edge of the table, draws from it wine, 
 some of which, spilt by an awkward reveller, turns to flame. Then, 
 indeed, is dismay ; then ensues a fight, in which, of course, the devil 
 gets the best; after which ho transports, by his necromancy, the 
 carousing company into a paradise of beauty, where, amid flowers 
 and fruit they revel, plucking luscious grapes with avidity, which, as 
 the illusion is dispelled, they find, for grapes, each other's noses. 
 
 It is said that the devil has a hand in all the fun and frolic of life. 
 Tl)cre is some rea-^on for the assi-rtion. Tiie eonfe'^sion mav not be 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. 235 
 
 3reditable ; but an analysis of the most comical characters of Shake- 
 speare or Dickens will reveal a large alloy of deviltry. Mischief is 
 first cousin to Momus. " Old Knick" always has fun at his " table." 
 There is an infirmity in our nature which likes this flavor of sin in the 
 wine of life ; it may be because it prefers the joking to the earnest 
 devil. Many never think of him without a chuckle, or talk of him 
 without a joke. The majority will enjoy the Devil's Drive of Byron 
 better than his Lucifer, and the Devil's Thoughts with Coleridge much 
 better than Satan's speeches to his fallen comrades. Coleridge has 
 happily seen the laughing side, and catches this view of him when he 
 
 sings, 
 
 " Froji his brimstone bed at break of day 
 . A-walking the devil is gone, 
 To visit his snug little farm, the earth, 
 And see how his stock goes on. 
 
 " Over the hill and over the dale. 
 And he went over the plain. 
 And backward and forward he switched his long tail, 
 As a gentleman switches his cane, 
 
 " He saw a lawyer killing a viper 
 
 On a dung-hill hard by his own stable ; 
 And the devil smiled, for it put him in mind 
 Of Cain and lus brother Abel. 
 
 " He saw an apothecary on a white horse 
 Kide by on his vocations, 
 And the devil thought of his old friend, 
 Death in the Revelations. 
 
 *' He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 
 A cottage of gentility, 
 And the devil did grin, for his darling sin 
 Is pride which apes humility. 
 
 " He peeped into a rich bookseller's shop. 
 Quoth he, 'We are both of one college; 
 For I sate myself, like a cormorant, once 
 Hard by the tree of knowledge.' " 
 
236 THE ATLANTIC SOCVEXIR. 
 
 Byron took up this strain, and tried to handle it similarly, but he had 
 less hunior than spleen. His devil drove with him into London, 
 visited the booksellers, the Lords and Commons, and found so much 
 geniality, that he went back delighted to his meal of homicides done 
 in ragout, and a rebel or two in an Irish stew, and sausages made of 
 a self-slain Jew. 
 
 But no author has combined, in this jolly devil, such a variety of 
 diabolic attributes as Goethe. It was necessary that life be exhibited 
 in all its phases, and to omit laughter would have been a sad depriva- 
 tion. Having bound Faust in a contract signed with his own blood, he 
 runs with him the round of transient joy, takes him through the rack- 
 ing experiences of love, hampers his mind with denial, harrows it with 
 doubt, proves to him the emptiness of pleasure, and drives him to 
 despair, and would drive us also, but for the heavenly vision of Mar- 
 garet, whose life, like the prayers of Dante's Beatrice, buoy the soul 
 upward to the Source of Love and Light ! whose life leaps from the 
 dark drama like a silver cascade from a gloomy Alpine gorge, white 
 in purity, spanned by the iris of Hope, and singing like a seraph of 
 Joy. 
 
 The Satan of Milton is so familiar that it needs no analysis in 
 order to compare him with this sneering skeptic of Goethe. The 
 former is epical, the latter dramatic. The former is a higher reach 
 of genius. It is transcendental. The Satan of Milton, like the witches 
 of Macbeth or the Tempest, is supernatural. The scenery and con- 
 duct belongs not to our sphere, the earth. Mephistopheles is entirely 
 at home among men. The Satan of Milton is vast, vague, uncertain, 
 " floating many a rood ;" a conception, not a form of matter ; a sha- 
 dowy phantom towering sublime like Tenerifie, with features scarred 
 with the thunder of God's vengeance. Mephistopheles is a worldling, 
 a changeling, a schemer, with no very determinate means, but takes 
 any to a bad end. 
 
 " So monarcliB, wlicn their politics grow Btale, 
 Change measures, and by novelty prevaiL" 
 
 The Satan of Milton in intellectual massiveness is only equalled by 
 his moral obliquity. He eml)odios a will more than Promethwin 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. 23" 
 
 Mephistopheles seems to say, " I -would," or '• I may ;" Satan, " I 
 
 WILL !" 
 
 Napoleon coped with destiny, and read in the stars his horoscope ; 
 and he moved on to its fulfillment as the cannon-ball which he sped, 
 regardless of the ruin it made, Talleyrand played with men and 
 associated with women, and, like the Vicar of Bray, by a mobility in 
 duplicity, retained his place under every form of government. Bona- 
 parte was more like Satan ; Talleyrand, Mephistopheles. Mephisto- 
 pheles copes with man, and laughs over his success in human weak- 
 ness ; Satan copes with God, and energizes, by his nervous oratory, 
 the myriads of hell to rise against the Omnipresent in arms. The 
 one shirks and dodges through life ; the other rises above life, defies 
 Death and conquers Despair. 
 
 In Mephistopheles we have a dove in gentleness, if need be ; a ser- 
 pent in cunning at all times ; but he never rise, 'o that lofty daring 
 in which the heroic element consists. " But Satan' i^ might intellectual 
 is victorious over all extremities of pain ; amid agonies unutterable, 
 he delineates, resolves, and even exults. Against the sword of Mich- 
 ael, the thunder of Jehovah, the flaming lake, and the marl burning 
 with solid fire ; against the prospect of an eternity of unintermittent 
 misery, his spirit bears up unbroken, resting on its own innate ener- 
 gies, requiring no support from any thing external, nor even from 
 hope itself!" 
 
 Satan and Mephistopheles are neither old wives' devils, such as 
 those of Tasso and Klopstock ; they are not vast, well-defined ma- 
 chines, munching Iscariots^ like Dante's Satan; not allegorico-mys- 
 tico-sophistico-metaphysical devils, like Bailey's Lucifer, hungering 
 and thirsting after unrighteousness, and striving to reconcile good 
 with evil, and to educe purity out of pollution. 
 
 There is a fascination both in Satan and in Mephistopheles, which 
 belongs not to the heroes of Byron and Bailey. Byron reflects in his 
 Lucifer his own morbid doubtings, and reviles God with a bitterness 
 of spirit which deserves the reprobation of the good. Bailey, in his 
 Festus, loses all regard for the properties of the diabolic. His devil 
 falls in love in one place ; in another, scolds the damned like a fish- 
 woman, reproves his under-fiends for laziness, telling them that the^ 
 
239 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 <lo not cam enough to pay for the caloric that burns them ; mingles 
 love and lust ; loses sight of the distinctions between the moral and 
 the intellectual, and ends his medley with the triumph of sensibility 
 over reason and the endevilment of God Almightt. 
 
 Suppose proclamation were made fur a groat congress in Pande- 
 monium. The infernal palace of Dis is lighted with the lurid flames ; 
 the hissing of the serpents, the wail of the lost, and the surging of the 
 liquid lake ceases for the occasion. Suddenly the smoke of the pit 
 clears away, the seats of the Satanic senators are revealed, and the ' 
 roll is called. Sheva, the black destroyer of Ind, answers for him- 
 self and queen ; Prometheus, the Titanic heaven-hater, and Demiur- 
 gus, the gnostic world-king of evil, are there ! The arch-fiend of the 
 Mysteries exalts his horn, and stamps with his iron hoof! The three- 
 faced Emperor of Dante, with his mouthful of sinners, sends a tem- 
 pest from his mighty wings to announce his presence ! The leering 
 Mcphistopheles swaggers to his seat with a devil-may-care air ! And 
 Lucifer, Moloch, and Belial, and Beelzebub, and all the devils of 
 romance, tradition, and history, fill the hall. But the great leader 
 appears not yet ! Suspense reigns in the abyss ! Far off his coming 
 shines ! And Satan, the self-elected king of all, strides proudly to the 
 highest seat ! Then go up the shouts which shake hell's concave ! 
 
 No caucus for speaker is needed now. No wrangle for the pre- 
 miership ; for no voice is heard till the ruined archangel has first spo- 
 ken and commanded. lie overtops them all, even as Jove the gods 
 of Olympus, " in mien and gesture proudly eminent !" 
 
 Other languages have had worse specimens of depravity in their 
 literature than ours. France, in her licentiousness, Germany, in her 
 skepticism, Italy, in her abandonment, have more of the elements of 
 positive evil ; ^iut it was reserved for the English muse to produce 
 this unrivalled genius of evil; and while we deplore that industry 
 intellect, and will are associated with so much badness, yet, thanks 
 to John Milton, the freeman of English intellect, at once heroic and 
 holy, he has created an impassable gulf between evil and good, and 
 testing human action by thi-se most radical distinctions, sings a " Para 
 disc Ili'gained" from the thraldom of Satan ! 
 
 Thus much fur our analysis of the Satanic element of literaturQ 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. 239 
 
 There is much only hinted, more unsaid. My limits allow no excur- 
 sions into the fields of theology. Nor have I introspected the human 
 heart, to find its legions of devils, who harbor along its sinuous ave- 
 nues," and revel in its chambers of imagery. "We may feel bold at 
 the idea that the material devil has disappeared ; may draw a reliev- 
 ing sigh that all these creations we have considered are but the fig- 
 ments of the imagination ; but this one fact reniams as palpable as 
 granite, that there is a devil, all the more real because viewless, all 
 the more subtle because concealed, all the more dangerous because he 
 hides in our hearts, befools our senses, and makes his hell in our own 
 unhappiness. His is a spiritual existence, and therefore a more ter- 
 rible reality ! 
 
 Is, then, the " Paradise Regained " but a song 1 And shall the 
 fact ever be a Paradise Lost — lost — lost for ever ! Shall those mys- 
 terious relations of the soul to evil, emblemed in these creations of 
 literature, continue ? Shall the soul for ever " lacerate itself with 
 sin and misery, like a captive bird against the iron limits which 
 necessity has drawn around it ?" We answer fearfully. Yes ; yet 
 hopefully, iVb ! 
 
 Fearfully, Yes; for while the human intellect is prostituted 
 through print, there is the most enduring of wrongs, the most irre- 
 vocable of evils. It is the angel of light, fallen, and eclipsed of 
 his glory, and dragging other angels with him. Wit, fancy, talent, 
 humor, judgment, and genius join in some gifted mind with the cun- 
 ning craft of deviltry, and an influence like that of a leprous spot 
 enters and defiles the soul for ever. 
 
 Hopefully, No ; for as the age grows brighter and warmer, a 
 kindlier philosophy bedews the lip of song, and a holier spirit en- 
 kindles the fire of enthusiasm. The works of those who refuse conse- 
 cration at the font of purity, who would wanton with lictiutiousness 
 and error, will be thrown aside among the rubbish of dullness and 
 duncery. The splendors of genius will not save them from the 
 eclipses of neglect. This idolatry of the Satanic will pass away, and 
 the prince of the power of the air will in vain seek for his old alli- 
 ance with the genius of print, so long as virtue is regarded as better 
 
240 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIK. 
 
 than ability, and godliness than gain. Shall the evil one for ever 
 haunt humanity 1 Hopefully, no ! no ! no ! 
 
 I have an Italian painting which is emblematic of this contest be- 
 tween evil and good on the earth. It is a night scene on the shores 
 of Sicily. The artist stands amidst the broken columns and dis- 
 jointed arches of a villa, beautiful in its ruin, even as man in his fall. 
 He overlooks the blue sea. There is an unwonted blending of light 
 and shadow on earth, wave and sky. Light and shadow ? Rather 
 li[/hls and shadow ; for two lights reveal a scene of loveliness and 
 terror. Yon red and lurid light bursts from the top of ^tna in 
 eruption. Yon white and tranquil light gleams from the moon, 
 through rolling clouds of smoke — gleams in broken silver on the 
 wave, on the ruin, against the lining of the cloud, and mingling with 
 the lurid blaze, bepaints the mountain sides, the half hid villixges by 
 the shore, and interpenetrates the moving masses of smoke, which 
 the sea-breeze bears away from the peak to the inland. The chaste 
 light of heaven thus blends with the impure fires of earth, as the 
 good struggles with the evil. 
 
 Lo ! ships skim the sea, full-rigged and swift ; for interchange 
 goes on amidst the elemental strife. In the light which fills the rents 
 of the ruin, in the foreground, sits a rustic maiden in picturesque 
 ^vhite boddice and scarlet kirtle, blushing at the tale of love whis- 
 pered by the shepherd at her side ; for love survives, though polluted 
 Pompeiis perish ! The fire-mount rises from the sea, whose waves, 
 moonlit and musical, spring to kiss its throbbing feet and cool its 
 nxging fire ; for joy is not wholly hushed by the earthquake which 
 •'smacks its rumbling lips," eager to devour. The lights reveal, 
 xmidst the villages and through the smoke, many a spire of God's 
 '.hurch, pointing with silent emphasis upward. 
 
 But a pall overhangs the picture; yet through it the allegory 
 ihines. Tlie shadow of evil beclouds human destiny, yet through it 
 we see commerce knitting man to man by the amenities of inter- 
 course ; love blending heart to heart by her solaces of sweetness ; 
 joy making music on the sands of time ; and religion pointing out 
 the path of aspiration^ to a better home, where throes of earth and 
 
THE SATANIC IN LITERATURE. 241 
 
 the temptations of Satan come nevermore ! Through it shines the 
 queen of heaven, serene as faith, and beautiful as hope. 
 
 Etna's fires grow dim before the rising day, but that queen of 
 heaven, untainted by its impurity, sails away to smile on other lands. 
 The morning shows but the ashes of the wasted energies of the 
 night of boding. Wasted ? Oh ! no ; for even, its ashes may fruc- 
 tify the earth ; and it is well said, that in the ploughing of the earth- 
 quake, even as in the ploughing of grief, wrought by temptations, is 
 the agriculture of God. Without it no rich immortal vintage can be 
 gathered. And trials and temptations of the evil spirit, and the 
 literature which enshrines it, may last, like vEtna's fire, for a night ; 
 but hopefully the heart yearns for the joy which cometh in the 
 morning ! 
 
 16 
 
'immn IJlESIr ai €\)txxi Mlti. 
 
 BT 6E0KOE P. M0RBI8. 
 
 AiB. "J?oy'« TFt/fe.' 
 
 Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, 
 
 At whose call the muses rally ; 
 
 Of aU the nine none so divine 
 
 As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley. 
 
 She 'minds me of her native scenes, 
 
 "Where she was born among the cherries ; 
 Of peaches, plums, and nectarines. 
 
 Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries ! 
 
 Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Yalley. 
 
 * 
 
 IL 
 
 Jeannie Marsh ot Cherry Valley, 
 In whose name the muses rally ; 
 Of all the nine none so divine 
 As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley 
 A sylvan nymph with queenly grace. 
 
 An angel she in every feature ; 
 The sweet expression of the place, 
 
 A dimple in the smile of nature 1 
 
 Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley. 
 
^t Sttn-gial at |sdk. 
 
 BT BICHABD B. KIMBALU 
 
 Our young traveller — we have no means of ascertaining his 
 name, or who he was, possibly the author of "Views Afoot" — had 
 safely crossed the last torrent, which, the bridge having been swept 
 away a few days previous, was even now not altogether free from 
 danger. He had passed the boundary of the Valais, and, in fact, 
 stood upon the soil of Italy. To be sure, he did not at once behold 
 the deep blue of the sky, nor breathe the mild atmosphere, nor wit- 
 ness the exuberance of foliage and of flower, which belong under an 
 Italian sun. Nevertheless, the presence of the luxuriant chestnut, the 
 softer green of the grass, and the frequent appearance of the vine 
 itself, proved to our pedestrian, as he entered the little village of Isella, 
 that he was fast bidding adieu to the desolate majesty of the moun- 
 tain, and would soon enjoy a prospect of the loveliness of the plain. 
 
 There was nothing inviting about the place which the youth had 
 reached, save its romantic situation. At the j^resent time it was filled 
 with travellers in great variety, who had been detained by the over- 
 flowing of the "gallery" beyond, which rendered an advance impos- 
 sible. Tlie sole house of entertainment was a miserable and dirty 
 inn, now literally without provisions, if we may except a quantity of 
 onions and some fat bacon. It could, of course, afford no accommo- 
 dation for the hourly increasing additions to the company. Tlie only 
 building of decent appearance was the custom-house ; for Isella, being 
 the frontier town and on the Simplon route, the number of travellers 
 was large at certain seasons, and at this spot every species of luggage 
 underwent a close examination. Finding he could obtain nothing 
 
246 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 whatever at the tavern, the youth, without delaying to exchange cour- 
 tesies with any of his fellow voyageurs whom he encountered there, 
 turned suddenly away, and with the promptness and alacrity of an old 
 soldier, entered one of the meanly-built cottages which compose the 
 town, and soon procured half a loaf of black bread, some very poor 
 cheese, and a bottle of wine, so exceeding sour that, thirsty as he 
 was, it was not till he had been nearly choked by the coarse crumbs 
 he could bring himself to swallow it. He left the hut, making a 
 series of wry faces, but, after all, feeling much refreshed and quite 
 ready for adventure. The " gallery " was still filled with water ; yet 
 to a pedestrian, this might not prove an insurmountable obstacle ; so 
 he resolved, after reclaiming his knapsack at the custom-house, and 
 with another glance at the surrounding scenery, to hasten on his way. 
 "Who will blame our hero 1 What to him — young, eager, and enthu- 
 siastic — was the crowd which pressed around the inn? What to 
 him was the look of interest displayed by many a fair girl, as he 
 passed, this way and that, unconscious 1 He was entering Italy for 
 the first time. But he did not hasten on his way ; he staid more 
 than one good hour at this unpromising, wretched place. Notwith- 
 standing the sun began to decline, and kept sinking and sinking 
 toward the west, still he remained quietly on the same spot where he 
 stopped — as he thought but for a moment — just after leaving the 
 officers of the customs, with his knapsack in his hand. 
 
 It was before a sun-dial : a dial not remarkable in its appearance, 
 an ordinary dial, but having some letters engraved on it, which 
 attracted his attention, and lie paused to read them. Tlie lines made 
 such an impression on him that he put down his knapsack, drew out 
 his memorandum-book, and seated himself a few steps aside to copy 
 the inscription. It was as follows : 
 
 "Tons' A tomando il sol, I'ombra smarritta; 
 Ma non piu retoraa I'cti fuggita.'' 
 
 Tlio vanished shadow returns when returns tho sun 
 But fugitive Lifo returns never again. 
 
THE SUN-DIAL OF ISELLA. 24 T 
 
 While the youth sat for a moment, engrossed with reflections 
 which the words suggested, two persons approached the dial, and 
 stopped before it. They were husband and wife, refined in appear- 
 ance, and considerably past the prime of life. They stood quite still 
 for two or three minutes, their eyes fixed on the inscription. The 
 woman was the first to speak. Turning her face full on her husband, 
 though still retaining his arm, she exclaimed : " Now I know why you 
 left the young people at Martigny to follow us in the morning ; I 
 have not forgotten this spot ; I have not forgotten that thirty years 
 ago this day" — and tears started to her eyes as she spoke — "you and 
 I were here, in this very place, reading these same lines : impulsive, 
 vivacious, and very happy ; we were just married ; these lines struck 
 me as full of sentiment, but it never occurred to me that they con- 
 veyed a moral lesson, for a moral lesson just then seemed quite out 
 of place. So I thought, at least, when, with serious, almost solemn, 
 look, you said to me, ' No, it returns no more again ! Let us live so 
 that we shall never have one regret that it does not return ; let us 
 live so that, growing wiser and happier each day, to go back to yes- 
 terday would only be a lessening of our joys.' But I did not forget 
 what you said, Walter," she added, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " You did not, Maude," replied her husband gently ; " and here 
 we stand, before this mute monitor, to thank God that we did not 
 pass it unheeded. Thirty years seem compressed into a day," he con- 
 tinued in a less serious tone ; " indeed I do not feel one hour older." 
 
 " Neither do I," responded the wife ; " and as for you, your heart 
 positively seems younger than on the morning you spoke so seriously." 
 Tliere was an interchange of affectionate looks, when she said to him, 
 "And yet, Walter, how insensibly events steal upon us ! What agency 
 is at work, unseen, unfelt, and unperceived, till we are taken by sur- 
 prise by what is accomplished 1 Do you not think" 
 
 " Holloa, there ! is there any thing worth seeing up yonder ?" 
 echoed from a coarse voice below, so startlingly that our youth lost 
 the remainder of the sentence. At the same moment, from another 
 
248 THE ATLANTIC 80UTEKIR. 
 
 direction, appeared a party of young fellows, evidently students ; and 
 the lovers walked quietly away. 
 
 The young men came up in groat glee. One read the inscription 
 aloud, two or three gesticulating vigorously to his emphasis. Vocife- 
 rous plaudits followed the performance. " Bravo !" cried one, " thoso 
 
 lines are worthy of the old 'Many-Sided' himself; not unlike" 
 
 " Our subject, gentlemen, is Time," broke in another with an oratori- 
 cal tone ; " a very important one, when you consider how long we 
 may be kept here, subjected to such entertainment as is served up for 
 us at the Inferno over the way. Nevertheless it is my duty to cau 
 tion you. Beware of impatience. Do well and wait. Let it be 
 your consolation that time flies swiftly ; for what says Horatius Flac- 
 cus? 
 
 " ' Efieu, fugaces, Poslhume, Fosthume, labuntur annil^ 
 
 ' To-morrow will be one day after to-day, 
 
 and 
 One more day carries us a day farther on.' 
 
 That shall be the mscription on my sun-dial, when I erect one. But 
 I am growing tedious ; I perceive it myself; I beg pardon ibr inter- 
 rupting some body, who was about to say something. Pray, proceed." 
 " Good people," harangued another of the group, mounting a largo 
 stone for a rostrum, " permit me to arouse you to a sense of your 
 unhappy condition. You arc noglectcrs of the present ; while you 
 spend your precious moments here, Alfieri Fioralfi is cooking his 
 last onion. Carpe diem. You doubt, you gainsay, you deny abso- 
 lutely, you don't budge, one of you, after that onion. You are 
 'chinking of Godot's soups and Stein's fricandeaus. "NVliat a mistake ! 
 what a fatal error ! Listen to me. Look not behind ; the past is 
 monumental salt ; ' a living dog is better than a dead lion ;' so the pre- 
 sent living and breathing onion is worth more than a kitchen-full of 
 have-beens, whether roasted, stewed, or fried! All which Master 
 Schiller (catching the thought from me) indifll-rently well parajdirases 
 as follows : 
 
 " 'PiUENDS, fairer times linve been, 
 
 TVlio can deny, llian wo ouraelves have seen, 
 
THE SUN-DIAL OF ISELLA. 249 
 
 And an old race of more majestic worth ? 
 Were History silent on the Past, in sooth, 
 A thousand stones would witness of the truth, 
 "Which men disbury from the womb of earth 
 But yet that race, if more endowed than ours, 
 Is past ! No joy to death can glory give ; 
 But we, we are, to us the breathing hours ; 
 They have the best who live I' " 
 
 Immense applause succeeded the recitative, and with a general 
 shout of 
 
 " Huzza for' the omnipotent Now I" 
 
 the party went frolicking on their way. 
 
 These had scax'cely left before another company appeared, com- 
 posed of tourists, who had evidently made each other's acquaintance 
 en route, and their plans coinciding, were going on together. There 
 was a handsome girl among them, with a stylish figure, black 
 hair, and dark eyes, who was particularly demonstrative in praise 
 of the inscription. 
 
 " Italian !" she exclaimed ; " we are really, then, in Italy — in 
 •Italy !" 
 
 " You are, Mademoiselle," said a young man, with as much ad- 
 miration in his look as he dared to manifest ; " this is the frontier." 
 
 " Indeed ! oh ! how happy I am ! in Italy at last ! My dreams 
 so soon to be realized ! I can scarcely contain myself with delight ! 
 And these lines : I must have a new title in my common-place book ; 
 here it is ; your pencil a moment : Sun-DiaV — and the inscription 
 was copied. " How admirable ! how appropriate ! ' Time, the run- 
 away.' Ah ! yes ! he is a runaway ; and how he keeps us chasing 
 after him !" 
 
 While the fair one, in the exuberance of life and health, was 
 giving play to her elastic spirits, a young girl, very pale, with hollow 
 cheeks, attenuated f)rm, and weak step, leaning on the arm of 
 
250 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 ner father, came up and stood behind the group — a victim of con- 
 sumption doubtless, on her way to a more genial climate, and — a 
 grave. The eye of the invalid rested on the dial. Word by word 
 she seemed to take in what was written. She did not speak, but 
 with a gentle sigh, and a look mournful yet placid, she turned aside, 
 and parent and child proceeded. 
 
 Moanwliilc the other young lady was running on as vivaciously as 
 ever. 
 
 ""Well," she continued, "now that I have one inscription, I wish 
 I could find another." 
 
 "Allow me to furnish one," said the young man before named; 
 " I took it from the dial at Ununa : 
 
 " ' VuLNERANT omnes, ultima necat'; 
 All wound, the last slays." 
 
 He pronounced these words in a tone so pointed that the hand- 
 some girl, although evidently used to compliment, blushed, and asked, 
 hastily, "Where is Ununa? My geography at this instant fails me." 
 
 " It is on the Spanish frontier," replied the other. 
 
 " You have been in Spain, then ?" said the handsome girl, fixing 
 her eyes on her admirer with a glance of deejior interest than she had 
 hitherto manifested. " Oh ! how I want to go to Spain ! I must go to 
 
 Spain, before we return — the country of" The company were' 
 
 walking on, and the rest of the conversation was lost. 
 
 " What can it be yon party were gazing at ?" said one of two 
 Tery solemn personages who now drew near, in charge of a courier. 
 
 "A sun-dial. Messieurs — a very famous one — erected by Cliarles 
 the Great when he conquered the Alps ; to show, as you perceive, 
 the hour of the day, and also to indicate when the weather is cloudy." 
 
 "Indeed! is it possible? You will please render the lines for 
 us?" 
 
 " With pleasure, Messieurs ; very famous lines th«\v are — written 
 
THE SUN-DIAL OF ISELLA. 251 
 
 by the poet Alpheus. It's Italian — Italian, Messieurs." And the 
 courier proceeded to translate them thus : 
 
 " "When you see the sun, you see the shadow ; 
 But Tune goes along, and no body is the tnser I" 
 
 " Exceedingly impresslTe," said one of the solemn faces. 
 " Exceedingly," echoed the other. 
 
 At this moment the president of the Bank in street, a 
 
 little in advance of his family, to show his leading position, reached 
 the spot. 
 
 " Strange," he exclaimed, " that in these old countries they should 
 have introduced so few modern improvements !" Turning to his 
 daughter, he demanded " The English of those words ?" It was given 
 pretty correctly, for the young lady had "attended" to the modem 
 languages. 
 
 " Now, then," said the bank president, " this is absolutely untrue. 
 Any body knows that the sun comes round every day ; and any body 
 ought to know, too, that in cloudy weather the shadow do n't come. 
 Ridiculous! Preposterous! All stuff! This machine may do well 
 enough here, but I hardly think it would answer for a rainy day 
 at the bank. Our notary would not know when to protest." 
 
 " But, father," said the daughter, timidly, " how do we ascertain 
 when we have the true time except by the sun ? and how else can 
 we correct our time 1" 
 
 " Child !" replied the financier, in an authoritative tone, " I am 
 astonished at this display of your ignorance after such an education 
 as you have received. How do we correct our timel By the 
 
 chronometer, to be sure !" And the president of the Bank in 
 
 — - street strode on. 
 
 The next comer was a pragmatical old gentleman, having in hiS' 
 charge, as pupils, two young scions, who appeared particularly to dis- 
 
252 THE ATLANTIC SDLVENIIl. 
 
 relish the restraint which their senior attempted to impose, and the 
 mstruction with which he was continually endeavoring to cram them. 
 " Ha ! a sun-dial," said the old fellow ; '* an excellent opportunity 
 for investigating t!ie subject of dials ! They are of great antiquity — 
 very great antiquity. The first we have any account of is the dial 
 of Ahaz, of which we read in the Second of Kings, and on which the 
 shadow went ten degrees backward, as a sign to King Ilezekiah ; and 
 in this connection I deem it proper to observe that the miracle waa 
 probably effected by means of refraction, performed on the atmo- 
 sphere by the agency of clouds or vapors rather than by an inter- 
 ruption of the course of the earth or any of the heavenly bodies. 
 I will remark about the dial, first, as to its antiquity. Ahaz began 
 his reign just four hundred years before Alexander, and twelve after 
 the foundation of Rome. How long the dial was in use before the time 
 of Ahaz, we know not; without doubt a consideraltle period. Some 
 writers insist that Anaximenes, the Milesian, four hundred years be- 
 fore Christ, was the first who made a sun-dial. Others bestow this 
 honor on his countryman, Thales, who lived two hundred years 
 earlier. I will not now speak of Aristarchus, nor of Papyrius Cursor, 
 and others named in history as having made dials ; for the moderns 
 have brought dialling to much greater perfection. Opportunity, how- 
 ever, is wanting, else I would give you a lecture on this rigidly 
 mathematical science. Nevertheless, if you will lend me your 
 crayon, I will teach you how to construct the common dial, referring 
 you, at the same time, for more special scientific information, to the 
 works of Rivard, De Parcieux, Dom. Bcdos dc Cclles, Joseph Blaise 
 Gamier, Gravesande, Emerson, Martin, and Leadbeatcr. Now for a 
 
 gnomonic figure. Let A, B, C represent" 
 
 " Tom ! I say, Tom ! what the deuce are you loitering there for ? 
 We are having lots of fun up this way." 
 
 Whereat the two youths, in the most abrupt manner, took to 
 their heels, leaving pencil and paper in the hand -of the astonished 
 preceptor, who, slowly shaking his head, but without a word of com- 
 ment, walked reluctantly forward. 
 
THE SUN-DIAL OF ISELLA. 253 
 
 Almost immediately after, the author of passed the spot. 
 
 His person was known to our youth, who watched the movements 
 of the man of celebrity with considerable interest. A glance was 
 given at the dial, the lines were I'apidly transferred to his note-book, 
 while he muttered, half aloud, "A good motto for the heading of a 
 chapter. It may do for an article. Strange, often as I have been 
 here, this should have escaped me." It seemed to our young traveller, 
 as the author walked away, as if his heart had been taken out, and an 
 artificial one put in its place. 
 
 A SOLITARY and sad-looking figure paused before the dial, and 
 raising his eyes to heaven, said something about "a day's march 
 nearer home," and pursued his course. 
 
 The young pedestrian fell into a reverie. " It is even so," he said 
 to himself; " the world is a mirror which reflects one's own thoughts, 
 and feelings, and hopes, and fears, and character, and disposition. 
 Hence the great truth : ' Seek and ye shall find.' No matter what 
 one seeks, a supply always follows the demand." 
 
 The youth was startled from his day-dream by the vigorous and 
 healthful voice of a man, in the prime of life, who, with a companion, 
 had approached the dial unobserved, and was in his turn reading the 
 inscription. 
 
 " Very neat," he exclaimed ; " the Italians have a most delicate 
 way of expressing a sentiment ; but after all, this does not compare 
 with our straightforward and forcible English proverb : 
 
 " ' Time and tide wait for no man I' " 
 
 So it seems, thought the youth ; for, starting hastily to his feet, 
 he threw his knapsack over his shoulder, and was presently hid from 
 sight by an abrupt bend in the road just below the village. 
 
X. 
 
 ,..^ 
 
 \\>» .>v. VSJ -^ 
 
 ^^oAP'P^' 
 
f Irt (3^ntprox's %\xV$-'^t$l 
 
 BT H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 
 With his swarthy, grave commanders, 
 
 I forget in what campaign, 
 
 Long besieged in mud and rain 
 Some old frontier town of Flanders. 
 
 Up and down the dreary camp, 
 In great boots of Spanish leather, 
 
 Striding with a measured tramp, 
 
 These Hidalgos, dull and damp. 
 
 Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. 
 
 Thus, as to and fro they went. 
 Over upland and through hollow, 
 
 Giving their impatience vent. 
 
 Perched upon the Emperor's tent, 
 In her nest they spied a swallow. 
 
 Tes, it was a swallow's nest. 
 
 Built of clay and ban- of horses' 
 Mane or tail, or dragon's crest. 
 Found on hedge-rows, east or west, 
 After skirmish of the forces. 
 
 Then an old Hidalgo said. 
 
 As he twirled his gray mustachio, 
 " Sure this swallow over-head 
 Thinks our Emperor's tent a shed, 
 And our Emperor but a Macho ! ' * 
 
 • Maoiio, tho Spanish for mule. 
 
256 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Hearing his imperial name 
 
 Coupled vt-ith these words of malice, 
 Half in anger, half in shame, 
 Forth the great campaigner came, 
 Slowly from his canvas palace. 
 
 " Let no hand the bird molest," 
 
 Said he, solemnly, " nor hurt her I " 
 Adding then, by way of jest, 
 
 " GoLONDHiNA is my gnest ; 
 
 'T is the wife of some deserter ! " * 
 
 Swift as bow-string speeds a shaft. 
 
 Through the camp was spread the rumor 
 And the soldiers, as they quafifed 
 Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 
 At the Emperor's pleasant humor. 
 
 So, unharmed and unafraid, 
 
 There the swallow sat and brooded. 
 Till the constant cannonade 
 Through the walls a breach had made, 
 And the siege was thus concluded. 
 
 Then the army, elsewhere bent, 
 Struck its tents as if disbanding ; 
 
 Only not the Emperor's tent, 
 
 For he ordered ere ho went, 
 Very curtly, " Leave it standing ! " 
 
 And it stood there all alone. 
 
 Loosely flapping, torn and tattered. 
 Till the brood was fledged and flown. 
 Singing o'er those walls of stone. 
 That the cannon-shot had shattered. 
 
 * GoLONDXiif 0, In Spanish, means a swallow and a descrtt 
 
%xMm 0f t\)t ^att|t^ 
 
 BY T. B. THOKPB. 
 
 Of all our Indian tribes, none were more interesting or more 
 rudely destroyed than the Natchez. What is remembered of them 
 is calculated to make a deep impression upon the imagination, and to 
 t cause regret that some historian had not preserved a truthful history 
 of this singular people. In the early traditions of the Mexicans, pre- 
 served to us in their hieroglyphical paintings, there is presented the 
 wonderful spectacle of families and nations, from innate impulses, 
 moving from "the North," and, ever restless, wandering over an 
 inioccupied continent in search of homes. It is evident that the same 
 wisdom that confounded the primitive language at Babel, and scattered 
 the swarming millions of Asia, impelled the early occupants of our 
 continent to move onward like advancing waves of the sea. 
 
 In these strange migrations, some chief must have separated from 
 the parent multitude, and turned his flice with his followers toward 
 the South-west ; and finally reaching the delectable lands of all the 
 valley of the lower Mississippi, there established what was afterwards 
 luiown as the tribe of the Natchez. 
 
 The country selected is of surpassing loveliness ; for, from the pre- 
 cipitous bluff that so unexpectedly frowns down apon the Mississippi, 
 inland, to where the nation erected its great mound, is one continuous 
 undulation of picturesque scenery, originally enriched with groves of 
 live oaks and magnolias. It was really a fairy land, and enough of 
 the primitive forest still remains to give the sanction of truth to the 
 most florid description of it preserved in legendary lore. 
 
 There can not be a doubt, that st the time these nomadics took 
 
 It 
 
25S THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 pos^fc'siiioii of their adopted homes, that the surrounding country was 
 comparatively without inhabitants ; for the savage and warlike nations 
 which lived in the neighborhood never would have permitted the Nat- 
 chez, when iu their infancy, to occupy lands, which afterward oven 
 they defended more by moral than by physical force. 
 
 As fire-worshippers, the Natchez displayed their Oriental origiu, 
 and they were more sincere in this most poetic of all idolatries than 
 the magi of the East. They possessed a tradition which, unlike the 
 traditions of any other nation, gallantly ascribed the salvation of their 
 race to a woman. This was, that after the destruction of all the inha- 
 bitants of the earth, save a single family, which family was about to 
 die because of the continued darkness of the heavens, a young girl, 
 inspired with the wish to save her race, threw herself into the fire which 
 was used as a light ; and that no sooner was her body consumed, than 
 rihe arose in the East, surrounded with such surpassing glory that heij 
 form could not be looked upon : thus enshrined, she became the chief, 
 her nearest female relation being elected her successor. Hence was 
 established the worship of the sun, and the living sacrifice of the sacred 
 fire, together with the belief, that so long as it blazed upon their altars, 
 tlio Natchez would be powerful and happy. 
 
 The Sun, a female sovereign, was absolute iu power. The rewards 
 of the chase, and of the cultivation of the soil, were placed under her 
 charge, implying, that they were the results of her genial rays, and 
 through her, as if direct from the hands of Providence, they were dis- 
 tributed among the people. 
 
 The Natchez must have rapidly increased after their cstablislmieut 
 "11 the banks of the Mississippi ; for their tradition was, that in the 
 first century of their settlement, they erected those monuments of 
 industry ou which to erect their temples and bury their dead, the 
 remains of which are so much admired to this day. Tlieir great work 
 was built upon a hill, where they believed fire foil from the sun, indi- 
 cating that their wanderings were at an end. This series of mounds, 
 the most remarkable in the valley of the Mississippi, jiave been almost 
 entirely overlooked by the curious in such relies of ancient days. 
 
 A natural hillock was levelled upon the top, and used as the foun- 
 dations of the mounds, the only example known. Upon a base thus 
 
TRADITIONS OF THE NATCHEZ. 259 
 
 prepared was raised the grand elevation for the great temple of the 
 Sun, and the inferior works used for defence, and the graves of the 
 nobles. In examining these singular ruins, now covered with trees of 
 a century's growth, it is not difficult to conceive them rising in their 
 perfection from the open plain, their summits smoking with sacrificial 
 fires, and covered with priests and people. It was only upon the 
 great mound, and at the festival of fruits, that the Sun showed herself 
 to the multitude. Attired in robes of white cotton, adorned with 
 feathers, and her breast glistening with various brilliant stones, she 
 assisted in the early greeting of her supposed ancestor, and as the god 
 of day ascended in the East, and shot his bright rays across the land- 
 scape, they first of all fell uj)on the sacred priestess, and were reflected 
 back in ten thousand rays, which were regarded by the worshippers, 
 as a recognition of sympathy and acknowledged relationship. 
 
 According to the belief of the Natchez, the extinction of the fires 
 of the temple would be the signal for their destruction ; thus having 
 it would seem, with some other nations mentioned in history, a fore- 
 boding of their extermination. A brief period before the French 
 invaded their homes, by some accident this fearful catastrophe hap- 
 pened, and the nation was consequently suffering from superstitious 
 depression. It was therefore that they fell a comparatively easy prey 
 to the superior arms and discipline of the European invader. 
 
 Ill their struggle for existence, after an obstinate defence, they were 
 first driven from the banks of the river, but again rallying, they 
 gathered for their final struggle at the base of the great mound. As 
 soon as the tribe thought themselves sufficiently prepared, they pro- 
 voked attack, and their last great battle took place. The Sun-Chief 
 was killed, and the survivors, believing that the dark prophecy that 
 rested upon the Natchez had been fulfilled, as a crowd of fl)^ng fugi- 
 tives retreated west of the Mississippi, and after various misfortunes, 
 were lost, or became absorbed among the Oumas, the Tensas, and 
 other friendly tribes. 
 
 The enlightened mind, in speaking of the Natchez, explains their 
 destruction upon philosophical reasons. It was the weak giving wa}' 
 to the strong ; but their fate appealed to more sympathising and more 
 Imaginative hearts, who have softened the story of their ruin, stripped 
 
2G0 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 It of its harsher features, and left it so interwoven with golden light, 
 that we half forget the unwelcome truth, and think hopefully of the 
 departed. The Southern Indians of our day, when sitting beside their 
 " council fires," and speaking of the times that are past, tell us : 
 
 That a young Natchez chief, famed for his virtue and bravery, 
 became enamored of a beautiful maiden, and that his passion was 
 returned. His interviews were stolen ones, and few and far between. 
 On one occasion, when the young chief was keeping his night-watch 
 c^•er the sacred fire of the temple, he heard the plaintive song of a 
 day-bird ; and flying to the neighboring groves, there met his mistress, 
 and exchanged the solemn vows of eternal love. Koturning to the 
 temple, the young chief, to his horror, discovered that the flame had 
 expired in his, unconsciously to him long absence, and the altars, 
 which had ever glowed with living fire, were cold. 
 
 Alarm filled the young warrior's breast ; despair was impressed 
 upon his features ; and as the sun illumined the hills, and made the 
 homes of the Natchez glisten in its refreshing, and to them sacred 
 radiance, there was no response of ascending sacrifice, and the chief 
 priests rushed with precipitation to the temple, to learn the cause. 
 
 Terrible indeed were the wailings that ascended from the soul- 
 stricken worshippers. It was deemed that a curse had fallen upon the 
 nation ; that its speedy extinction was shadowed forth ; and amidst 
 the excitement, by order of the great Sun, the young maiden was sacri 
 ficed, not only as a propitiation, but that her surpassing beauty should 
 no longer tempt the guardians of the sacred altars to neglect their 
 vigils. 
 
 The young chief was doomed to make expiation in fiistings and 
 prayers ; and after due ceremonies, he was imprisoned in the centre 
 of the great mound, there to remain until he wooed back the lost fire 
 from heaven. It was in vain that he essayed the comparatively easy 
 task of lighting the proper combustibles by rapid friction. Over- 
 whelmed by religious fear, his strength of arm appeared to have 
 departed; and even when, from long and patient labor, the fire was 
 about to descend, a tear of regret for the memory of his mistress would 
 fill upon the just-igniting wood, and leave his interminable task to bw 
 again renewed. 
 
TRADITIONS OF THE NATCHEZ. 2Gi 
 
 Although years, yea, centuries, have passed away ; although the 
 entrance to the great mound has crumbled undistinguishably into the 
 surrounding mass, and huge trees have usurped the places of the 
 ascents and the altars, yet the old Indians, in their day-dreams, visit 
 the young chief, who is still in the centre of the mound, perseveringly 
 engaged in his labor — and confidently assert, that when he recovers 
 liie sacred fire, he will again appear at the altar, and that the Natchez, 
 in all their former glory, will take possession of their now desolated 
 homes. 
 

I'm §mm^ mt 
 
 BT JOHN e. SAXE. 
 
 My days pass pleasantly away, 
 
 My nights are blest with sweetest si ?ep, 
 I feel no symptoms of decay, 
 
 I have no cause to mourn nor weep, 
 My foes are impotent and shy, 
 
 Mj' friends are neither false nor cold ; 
 And yet, of late, I often sigh, 
 
 I 'ra growing old ! 
 
 ' My growing talk of olden times, 
 
 My growing thirst for early news, 
 My growing apathy to rhymes, 
 
 My growing love of easy shoes, 
 My growing hata of crowds and noise, 
 
 My growing fear of taking cold, 
 All whisper in the plainest voice, 
 I 'm growing old I 
 
 I 'm gro-sving fonder of my staff, 
 I 'm growing dimmer in the eyes, 
 
 I 'm growing fainter in my laugh, 
 I 'm growing deeper in my sighs, 
 
 I 'm growing careless of my dress, 
 I 'm growing frugal of my gold, 
 
 I 'm growing wise. I 'm growing — yes^ 
 I 'm growing old ! 
 
264 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 I .see it in my changing tafite, 
 I see it in my changing hair, 
 
 I see it in my growing waist, 
 I see it in my growing heir ; 
 
 A tliousand signs proclaim the truth, 
 As plain as truth was ever told, 
 
 Tlxat even in my vaunted youth, 
 I 'm growing old I 
 
 Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
 The tale in my reluctant ears, 
 
 And every boon the Hours bequeath, 
 But makes me debtor to the Years! 
 
 E'en Flattery's honied words declare 
 The secret she would fain withhold, 
 
 And tells me in " How young you are I" 
 I 'm growing old 1 
 
 Tlianks for the years, whose rapid flight 
 
 My sombre muse too sadly sings ! 
 Thanks for the gleams of golden light 
 That tint the darkness of their wings I 
 Tlio light that beams from out the sky, 
 Those heavenly mansions to unfold, 
 Where all are blest, and none may sigh, 
 "I 'm growing old." 
 
^ktunb %m. 
 
 K E B H A N 
 
 The finest moral trait in Kean was a certain spirit, tenacity of 
 purpose, and lofty confidence in himself, whi"-.h differed widely from 
 presumption or conceit : a kind of instinctive faith, that no force of 
 circumstances or prescription ever quenched. This quality, more 
 easily felt than described, seems the prerogative of genius in all 
 departments of life, and is often the only explicable inspiration that 
 sustains it amid discomfiture and privation. It runs, like a thread 
 of gold, through the dark and tangled web of Kean's career — lends 
 something of dignity to the most abject moment of his life, and 
 redeems from absolute degradation his moments of most entire self- 
 abandonment. Thus, when an obscure and provincial actor, perform- 
 ing Alexander the Great, he replied indignantly to the sarcasm of an 
 auditor in the stage-box, who called him Alexander the Little : " Yes, 
 Sir, with a great soul !" and exultingly told his wife, after his first 
 great success in London, in reply to her anxious inquiry what Lord 
 
 Essex thought of him : " D n Lord Essex, the pit rose to me ;" 
 
 he felt that the appeal of genius was universal, and that which 
 stirred in his blood demanded the response of humanity. This con- 
 sciousness of natural gifts made him spurn the least encroachment 
 upon his self respect, however poverty weighed him down, and long 
 before fame justified to the world his claims. He rushed for ever 
 away from the house of his earliest protector, because of a careless 
 remark of one of the company that disavowed his equality with the 
 children of the family. Whenever an inferior part was allotted him, 
 he fled to avoid the compromise of his feelings ; and after his triumph 
 
266 THE ATLANTIC SOLVENIR. 
 
 was achieved, poured a bowl of punch over the stage-manager's head 
 at Drury Lane, to punish his impertinent criticisms at the first 
 rehearsal. The same proud independence led him to avoid the social 
 honors of rank. lie liked professional and literary men because he 
 thought they truly relished and understood his art. The restraints, 
 the cold uniformity, and the absence of vivid interest in the circles 
 of the nobility, either oppressed or irritated him, and he chafed until 
 free to give vent to his humor, passion, and convivial tastes among 
 boon companions. 
 
 A fine audacity and that abhorrence of the conventional we find 
 in hunters, poets, and artists — the instinctive self-assertion of a 
 ivature assured that its own resources are its best and only reliable 
 means of success and enjoyment — thus underlaid Kean's wayward and 
 extravagant moods ; and while it essentially interfered with his popu- 
 larity as a man, it was a primary cause of his triumph as an actor ; 
 for no histrionic genius more clearly owed his success to the will. 
 In this regard he was a species of Alfieri. The style he adopted, the 
 method he pursued, and the aim he cherished, were neither under- 
 stood nor encouraged until their own intrinsic and overwhelming 
 superiority won both the critics and the multitude. The taste in 
 England had been formed by Kemble and his school : dignity, 
 correctness, grave emphasis, and highly-finished elocution had become 
 the standard characteristics. Kean was a bold innovator upon this 
 system ; he trusted to nature more than to art, or rather endeavored 
 to fuse the two. Thus, while carefully giving the very shades of 
 manning to the words of Shakspeare, he endeavored to personify the 
 character — not according to an eloquent ideal, but with human 
 reality, as if the very life-blood of Othello and Lear, their tempera- 
 ments as well as their experience, had been vitally transferred to his 
 frame and brain. He seemed possessed with the character he repre- 
 sented ; and, throwing mere technical rules to the winds, identified 
 himself through passional sympathy, regulated by studious con- 
 templation, with the idiosyncrasies of those whose very natures 
 and being he aspired to embody and develop. 
 
 Kean obeyed the instinct of genius, when, in opposition to the 
 management at Drury Lane, arranging his d6biU, he exclaimed, 
 
EDMUND KEAN. 261 
 
 " Shylock or nothing !" In that peart there was scope for his intellec- 
 tual energy, opportunity to give those magical shades of intensity 
 and throw into those dark, acute features the infinite power of ex- 
 pression for which he was distinguished. A few weeks before that 
 memorable evening, his first-born son had died in a provincial town, 
 and in all the agony of his bereavement he had been obliged to act, 
 to gain money to defray the funeral expenses. Thence he had 
 gone up to town, and, owing to a misunderstanding of the contract, 
 for months endured the pressure of actual want and the heart-sickness 
 of hope deferred. The season was unpropitious, his spirits and 
 energy were depressed by fasting, affliction, and neglect. While he 
 was at rehearsal, his wife sold one of her few remaining articles 
 of apparel to obtain him a dinner, fortified by which he trudged 
 through the snow to the theatre. The series of triumphs succeeding 
 this memorable night are well known. The overpowering reality of 
 his personation gave Lord Byron a convulsive fit, caused an actress 
 to faint on the stage, and an old comedian to weep, replenished the 
 treasury of Drury Lane, electrified the United Kingdom, ushered in 
 a new theatrical era, and crowned him with sudden prosperity and 
 fame. His star, however, set in clouds ; his last appearance in Lon- 
 don was as melancholy as his first was brilliant ; alienated from his 
 family, the victim of excess — proud, sensitive, and turbulent — his 
 domestic troubles were only reconciled just before his death, which 
 came as a relief to himself and those with whom he was connected. 
 
 "While the histrionic achievements of Kean identify his name 
 with the progress of dramatic art, his actual life and habits pertain 
 rather to a sphere without the limits of civilization. A wild vein 
 belonged to his very nature, and seemed indicative of gipsy or savage 
 blood. It gleamed sometimes from his extraordinary eyes, when 
 acting, so as to appal, startle, and impress every class of observers. 
 A man once cried out in the pit at the demoniacal glare of his optics, 
 as Shylock meditating revenge on his creditor, " It is the devil !" 
 His poet-biographer compares him to the van-winged hero of Para- 
 dise Lost ; and West, the painter, declared he had never been so 
 haunted by the look of a human face as by that of Kean. Some- 
 thing of this peculiar trait also exhibited itself in his action and tones, 
 
268 THE ATf-ANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 aiid made his audience thrill with the fierce energy of his soul. But 
 while it thus subserved the purposes of art, and was, iu fact, an 
 element of his genius, it infected his private life with a reckless and 
 half-maniacal extravagance that was fostered by his addiction to 
 stimulants, an unprotected infancy, and the precarious and baffled 
 tenor of his youth and early manhood. 
 
 When we bring home to ourselves this erratic behavior, combined 
 with extreme vicissitudes of fortune, the career of Kean, as a man, 
 seems almost as remarkable as it was as an actor. A stage-Cupid at 
 two years of age, a circus-rider and harlequin, then an infant prodigy 
 reciting Rolla ; his very origin disputed ; now the slave of a capri- 
 cious, ignorant, and selfish woman ; and now the wayward protege of 
 a benevolent lady ; arranging Mother Goose for one manager, and 
 taking the part of a supernumerary for another; reduced to such 
 poverty as to travel on foot, his wife trudging wearily at his side, 
 and his boy clinging to his back ; at one time swimming a river with 
 his theatrical wardrobe in a bundle held by the teeth, and, at another, 
 for whole days, half-famished, and his wife praying at her lonely 
 vigils for a speedy release by death from hopeless suffl-ring ; to-day 
 dancing attendance, fur the hundredth time, at Drury Lane, to gain the 
 ear of the director, and known among the bystanders only as " the 
 little man with the capes ;" and to-morrow, the idol of the town, his 
 dressing-room besieged by lords — few chronicles in real life display 
 more vivid and sudden contrasts than the life of Kean. The mer- 
 curial temper that belonged to him was liable, at any moment, to be 
 excited by drink, sympathy, an idea, or an incident. One night it 
 induced him to disturb the quiet household where he lodged, by 
 jumping through a glass door ; another, to seize the heads of the 
 leaders attached to his majesty's mail-coach and attempt a wrestling- 
 match. In Dublin, it winged his flight for hours through the dusky 
 streets, with a mob of screaming constables at his heels. It inspired 
 him to engiige in midnight races on horseback. In more quiet mani 
 festations, it induced him to make a pet of a lion, and a sacred relic 
 of the finger-bonc of Cook ; and prompted him, to his wife's extreme 
 annoyance, to retire to bed in the costume of a monkey. At one 
 time it led him to muse for hours in a church-vard ; and, at another. 
 
EDMUND KEAN. 269 
 
 to try country-life on his estate at Bute, or haunt the " Red Lidn" 
 and the " Coal-Hole." In England it made him a volunteer jockey at 
 a race ; in Italy, a fascinating story-teller and mimic to the monks of 
 road-side convents ; and in America, caused him to be duly inaugurated 
 chief of a tribe of Indians. 
 
 There is no actor of whom such instances of arrogance toward 
 the public and individuals are related ; but it is to be observed that 
 they generally originated in exasperated feeling, caused by undeserved 
 neglect or gross misappreciation ; and charity will ever make allow- 
 ance for the inevitable results of an incongruous and homeless child- 
 hood. Kcan's father nearly ruined his son's physique by employing 
 him, at a tender age, to figure in pantomime ; timely surgical aid 
 having only saved his limbs from utter deformity. The redeeming 
 influences of his early years were the benevolent intervention of Dr. 
 Drury, who, recognizing his promise, sent him to Eton ; and the 
 patient teachings of Miss Tidswell, an actress of Drury Lane. That 
 he was born with a genius for the stage is evinced by the fact that 
 at the age of thirteen his Cato and Hamlet satisfied provincial 
 audiences ; and his recitation of Satan's Address to the Sun, from 
 Paradise Lost, won royal approbation at Windsor. His talent for 
 feigning served him occasionally more practical benefit than that 
 derived from its entertaining quality ; as, when he was released from 
 a rash engagement on board ship, as cabin-boy, for pretended deaf- 
 ness, and escaped the indignation of a London audience he wantonly 
 disappointed, by a well-acted dislocation of the shoulder. 
 
 If Kean's early circumstances were adverse to his moral, they 
 were, in many respects, highly favorable to his professional develop- 
 ment. The long apprenticeship he served to the stage, embracing 
 every grade of character and almost all functions of a player, made 
 him thoroughly at home on the boards, and induced much of his ease, 
 tact, and facility ; his circus experiences and habits of active life gave 
 both vigor and suppleness to his frame ; while the vagrant career he 
 led, brought him in- view of all kinds of character and phases of life, 
 by which he observantly profited to a degree that only those intimate 
 with him fully realized. While in this country, his genius excited 
 the intelligent admiration, and his recklessness the benevolent care of 
 
270 TMF. ATLANTIC SOCVKNIR. 
 
 a professional gentleman, who became his constant associate and 
 friend. From hin^ I learn that the versatility of Kean's accomplish- 
 ments was quite as remarkable as the intensity of his acting and the 
 extravagance of his moods. lie would often enchain an intellectual 
 circle at a fashionable party, by his exquisite vocalism, the eflfect of 
 which was inexplicable to those who listened to his limited and unmu- 
 sical voice ; or by the rich anecdotes or shrewd comments of his table- 
 talk; and when released from this to him intolerable social thral- 
 dom, work off the nervous reaction induced by so many hours of 
 restraint, by throwing half-a-dozen summersets with the celerity and 
 grace of a practised harlequin. lie was, indeed, a compact embodi- 
 ment of muscles and nerves ; his agility and strength were such that 
 his frame instantly obeyed his will from the bound of a gladiator to 
 the expressive restlessness of quivering fingers. His voice ranged 
 through every note and cadence of power and sensibility ; now by a 
 whisper of tenderness bringing tears from calluus men, and the next 
 moment, chilling their very hearts with the fierce tones of an impreca- 
 tion. But these remarkable physical endowments would have merely 
 subserved the narrow purposes of the athlete or the mimic, had they 
 not been united to a mind of extraordinary sagacity and a face of 
 unequalled expression ; by virtue of these he rendered them the instru- 
 ments of efficient art. The professors at Edinburgh were disap- 
 pointed, after seeing him perform and hearing him converse, to find 
 that he had no original theory of elocution to broach, and no striking 
 principles of oratory to advocate. His touches were a composite and 
 individual result, no more to be formally imparted than the glow of 
 poetry or the zest of wit; they grew out of profound observation 
 fused into a practical issue by the inspiration of genius. 
 
 O^leridgc said that to see Kean act was like reading Shakspcarc 
 by lightning. The spell of his penetrating eyes and half-Jewish phy- 
 siognomy was not more individual than his style of personation ; and 
 the attempt to transfer some of his points to another has almost inva- 
 riably produced an incongruous effect. Ilis oxjjilable temperament 
 was another secret of his magnetism and his foibles; while it enabled 
 him wondi-rfiilly to engage the sympathies of an audience, it rendered 
 him r.ohle to be overcome by the least moral or physical excitement, 
 
EDMUND KEAN. 211 
 
 and made him the slave of impulse. Regularly in New- York, every 
 afternoon, he seized the copy of an evening journal inimical to him, 
 Avith the tongs, rang for a servant, and sent it away in this manner; 
 while, at the same time, he scrupulously laid aside a guinea a week, 
 during the whole of his sojourn, to reward the faithful services of a 
 poor servant : often drawn by his kind guardian from a haunt of 
 debauchery, just in time to appear on the stage, he would, at others, 
 attire himself like a finished gentleman, mix in the most refined soci- 
 ety, and manifest a noble scorn of money, and an absolute reverence 
 for mental superiority, that excited involuntary respect. Kean, the 
 dissolute man, the inebriated boon companion, quoting Latin, the 
 generous and loyal friend, the funny mimic, and the great imperson- 
 ator of Shakspeare, seemed like so many different beings, with some- 
 thing identical in the eyes, voice, and stature : and as marvellous a 
 disparity marked his fortunes — it being scarcely credible that the 
 same man whose appearance brought a solitary sixpence to the Dum- 
 fries theatre, is he who, glittering with the ornaments of Garrick, filled 
 Drury Lane to suffocation for entire seasons ; or that the luxurious 
 apartments, crowded with men of note, are tenanted by him whose 
 wife for years kept vigils of penury. It is creditable to Kean's mag- 
 nanimity under these bewildering transitions, that he never played 
 the tyrant ; that he was uniformly kind to poor and inferior actors, 
 and manifested a spirit above envy. After seeing old Garcia perform 
 Otello in New- York, he sent him a costly gift in token of his admira- 
 tion ; he candidly acknowledged the superiority of Talma, and labored, 
 with genuine zeal, to commemorate the histrionic fame of Cooke. 
 
 It is common to speak of great acting or vocal ism as indescriba- 
 ble ; and, to a certain extent, this is doubtless true ; but distinctness 
 of style is characteristic of genius in all things, and an intellectual 
 observer can adequately report even the evanescent charms of dra- 
 matic personation when harmoniously conceived and efficiently embo- 
 died. Accordingly, we derive from the criticisms and reminiscences 
 of Kean's intelligent admirers, a very clear idea of his general merits. 
 It is obvious that these consisted of simplicity and earnestness ; that, 
 endowed with fiery passions and a sagacious intellect, he boldly under- 
 took to represent Shakspeare, not according to any prescriptive 
 
272 THE ATI-AXTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 model or rules of art, but through his individual reflection and sym 
 pathy. Like the great master of the written drama, he followed 
 closely the intimations of nature ; cast, as it were, self-consciousness 
 away, and assimilated the actual elements of human life with his own 
 action and expression. Hence the truth of his violent contrasts — the 
 light and shade of art. Hence the frequency and effect of his brief, 
 suggestive, and thrilling exclamations, that made a single word or 
 interjection reveal infinite woe, joy, surprise, or madness. It is for 
 the same reason, that, upon refined minds and earnest hearts, his act- 
 ing unfolded ever new beauty and truth, as described by Dana, whose 
 criticism, when Kean road, he exclaimed, "This man understands 
 me." By this firm, and, if we may so say, subtle yet instinctive 
 adherence to nature, a certain grandeur and effl'Ct, only yielded her 
 genuine votaries, seemed to invest and glorify the actor, so that his 
 most incidental attitudes and by-play wore a reality undiscoverable in 
 the most elaborate efforts of inferior performers. To the same prin- 
 ciple we ascribe his versatility. Each character was a distinct study. 
 Where his consciousness was at fault in suggesting the most authentic 
 manner, tone, or expression, he had recourse to observation ; he 
 reflected deeply, and appeared to identify himself, by the process, 
 with the being he was to enact, until his very soul became imbued 
 with the melancholy of Hamlet the insanity of Lear, and the mental 
 agony of Othello. 
 
Imul 
 
 BY CHABLKS O. KASTMAS. 
 
 " ' So,' muttered the dark and miising prince, unconscious of the throng, ' so perishes the Eica 
 of Iron. Low lies the last Baron that could control and command the people. The Age of Force 
 expires ■nith kiiiirhthood and deeds of arms. And over this dead great man I see the new cycl« 
 dawn. Ilflppy, henceforth, he who can plot, and scheme, and fawn, and smile.' " 
 
 "Last of the Baeons." 
 
 An'd so the Race of Iron passed — 
 
 So Barnet's bloody field 
 Saw, cold and still, its lion heart 
 
 Lie crushed with Warwick's shield ; 
 And when the victor's trumpet rang 
 
 Above his fallen head. 
 The age of knightly deeds had passed — 
 
 n!he Baron-power was dead. 
 
 Lord of a hundred baronies, 
 
 Chief of a mighty race, 
 His hghtest word the people's law, 
 
 The throne his knotted mace ; 
 Girt by liis more than royal host, 
 
 He heard his war-trump ring, 
 And towered among his barons bold, 
 
 Too proud to be a king. 
 
 But Time was working wondrous change, 
 
 And from his native realm 
 "Were passing fa.st the Barons' rule, 
 
 The haubert and the helm. 
 IS 
 
214 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 The land was dealt to nobles new, 
 And men of foreign birth, 
 
 And London loons were swarming round 
 The broad old Norman hearth. 
 
 His Age had perished, and the Race 
 
 That gave the Age renown 
 Fell with it, and the Castle bowed 
 
 In silence to the Town. 
 Low lay its great and mighty Chief| 
 
 Its last and noblest man. 
 And dawning o'er his broken brand 
 
 The Age of Trade began : 
 
 The Ago when Barter sneered at Birth, 
 
 And parchment pedigrees 
 Outweighed the names the Normans bore 
 
 Across the stormy seas ; 
 When shone no more the honest brow 
 
 Beneatli the burgonot. 
 And men began to fawn, and smile, 
 
 And cheat, and lie, and plot: 
 
 When knaves trod on the knightly heel, 
 
 And Avarice, like a rust. 
 Eat out the brave old chivalry, 
 
 And swords grew thick with dust ; 
 When churls and serfs grew fat with gaiiv 
 
 And villains bought the land. 
 And scorned the iron men of yore, 
 
 The battle-axe and brand. 
 
 The pen usurped the sword ; t^o loom, 
 
 The mace ; the plough, the spear ; 
 And Agriculture cut the grain 
 
 Where rang the battle cliocr ; 
 And men began to feel the rule 
 
 Of Trade, more potent grown 
 Than baron grim, or iron earl, 
 
 Or monarch on his throne. 
 
BARNET. 275 
 
 'T was best, perhaps : yet from the Agv 
 
 "When trick and traffic came ; 
 When knights turned knaves, and ladies faii 
 
 Grew false to woman's fame ; 
 The Age in mincing merchant-kings 
 
 And London tailors great ; ' 
 
 U'hen craft and cunning, fawn and fraud, 
 
 Began to rule the state : 
 
 We turn, great Baron ! to the men 
 
 Who crowned thy regal tunes, 
 Admire then- rude, gigantic strength, 
 
 And half forget their crimes. 
 The castle nursed a mighty race — 
 
 A race of Nature's mould ; 
 And worth meant something more than wealth, 
 
 And grandeur, more than gold. 
 
 Those monarch earls and lion lords, 
 
 And barons stout and brave. 
 Despised the crawling sycophant, 
 
 The sleek and cringing knave ; 
 Their grim baronial banners told 
 
 Of battles they had fought ; 
 Of glory passed from sire to son. 
 
 And not of titles bought ! 
 
 But trade and traffic, stock and steam, 
 
 The platter and the plough. 
 The mallet and the milliner 
 
 Are lord and lady now. 
 The Castle crowns the mousing mart, 
 
 The Palace sails the deep, 
 Ambition mounts to bantam hens, 
 
 And chivalry to sheep. 
 
 The Earl discusses early blues, 
 
 The Baron runs to seed, 
 And Fame combines a purgative^ 
 
 And SkiU invents a mead ; 
 
376 THE ATLAXTIC SOUVEKIR. 
 
 Nobility is slock ami starch. 
 And Greatness fat sirloin ; 
 
 And TVortb and Qu:ility mx- found 
 In calico and coin. 
 
fROM AN UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT 
 
 HAMILTON MTKBi 
 
 Baltus Van Kleeck left the world without disposing of that por- 
 tion of it which he claimed to own, and when his pretty daughter 
 Getty became, by operation of law, sole proprietress of several 
 square miles of the terrestrial globe, without any guardian or man 
 of business to guide or instruct her in its management, her position 
 was one of no little embarrassment. Not that she would have so 
 regarded it had she been left quite to herself in exercising her sove- 
 reignty, for Getty was an easy, good-natured soul, who said yes to 
 every body's advice, and to all applications for favors. 
 
 Not a tenant but would have had his rent lowered, or his house 
 repaired, or some privilege granted, or restriction removed, had it not 
 been for the perpetual interference of Aunt Becky, a shrivelled, 
 nervous old lady, who was kept in a continual state of excitement by 
 the fear that her niece would be imposed upon. 
 
 "Don't you do it, Getty!" were the words with which she 
 usually burst in upon these conferences, spectacles on nose, without 
 waiting to hear the specific subject of negotiation. 
 
 " I '11 tell you what. Aunt," said the heiress, one day, after one 
 of these interviews, from which the applicant had retired discomfited 
 by the very first gleam of Madame Becky's glasses, "I must have 
 an agent to manage these matters, for they are quite beyond my 
 comprehension. What with farms to hire, and farms to seU, and 
 
27S THE ATLANTIC SOU\TENIR. 
 
 Stock to be disposed of, mid rents to be collected, I shall go crazy ; I 
 know I shall. I must have an agent." 
 
 " What fur, then, would you have an agent ?" said the dame, in a 
 loud key, scowling meanwhile over the black rims of her spectacles. 
 " To cheat you out of every thing, and grow rich on your money, 
 hey?" 
 
 " No, Aunt ; some good, reliable man " 
 
 " Good, reliable fiddlestick, Getty !" 
 
 " I say no. Aunt," 
 
 " I say yes, child. He will charge you half for taking care of 
 your property ; and he '11 run away with the rest. Do n't talk to me 
 about agents." 
 
 Getty had never divested herself of the dread with which, from 
 childhood, she had regarded her scolding relative, and so, without 
 fully resolving either to carry or yield the point, she sought to escape 
 further altercation, at present, by not pressing it. 
 
 " i)at these repairs, aunt," she said, " which are so much needed 
 for these poor men 1" 
 
 " It is no such thing ! There arc no repairs wanted. Why, one 
 would think the houses and fences had all tumbled down the moment 
 poor Baltus was gone. It is no such thing, I say. They are well 
 enough. I have been in every house on the estate within a fortnight, 
 and they are well enough." 
 
 " But Mr. Jones, who has eight children, can 't make his rent out 
 of the farm." 
 
 " Let him give it up, then, to some one who can What business 
 has he with so many children ?" 
 
 "And Mr. Smith has lost one of his best oxen," 
 
 " He must take better care of his oxen, then. He need not 
 expect us to pay him for it ; I can tell him that." 
 
 " But I gave him ten dollars, at all events," replied Getty, not 
 without alarm. 
 
 "TVn dollars, child! Well now, did ever any body hear the 
 like of that ? Ten dollars to that idle, whimpering fellow ! Why, 
 Getty, you will be in the poor-house in a year, if that is the way 
 you are going on ; that you will. Ten dollars T 
 
A DUTCH BELLE. 219 
 
 Becky could hardly throw accent enough upon these two words 
 to express her appreciation of the magnitude of the waste. 
 
 " I dare say it was too much," said Getty, who had always been 
 accustomed to give way to her imperious aunt, and had not the 
 courage to disenthral herself from her tyranny, " but he told a very 
 pitiful story." 
 
 " Yes, yes ! they'll tell pitiful stories enough, if they can only find 
 any one silly enough to believe them. But I '11 see to it that there is 
 no more such throwing away of Baltus's money. Give me the key !" 
 
 Getty submissively took from a side-pocket a small bunch of 
 keys, and slipping the smallest off the steel-ring which held them 
 together, handed it to her aunt. No sooner, however, had she done 
 so than the absurdity of the command and compliance became 
 apparent to her, and, with rising wrath, she was about to recall her 
 act, when her eyes met the dark scowl of the old lady, and yielding 
 to the force of habit, she remained quiet. 
 
 Now Becky's conduct, harsh as it seemed, was altogether caused 
 by excessive anxiety for her niece's interest ; for she was, to the 
 full extent, as honest as she was crabbed. She felt her responsibility 
 as the only surviving adult relative of her brother, and as a sort 
 of natural guardian both of the heiress and her estates, a position 
 which she was by no means desirous of retaining longer than the wel- 
 fare of Gertrude required it. 
 
 Her only hope of relief from her selfimposed duties was in 
 seeing Gertrude married to some " stiddy, sober man ;" but on this 
 point she had a morbid anxiety even greater than that which related 
 to the property ; for she was in constant trepidation lest the heiress 
 should fall a victim to some needy fortune-hunter, in which class she 
 ranked all suitors who did not follow the plough, and wear homespun. 
 She even went so far as to question more than one presuming beau 
 as to his intentions ; and one timid young man who had been a whole 
 month accumulating courage enough to make a first call upon Ger- 
 trude, was so frightened by the fierce manner in which Aunt Becky 
 asked him what he wanted, that he only stammered out something 
 about having got into the wrong house, and retreated without ever 
 seeing the object of his hopes. 
 
280 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 Strangely enough too, although Getty knew her aunt's conduct in 
 this instance, and her general asperity toward gentlemen visitors, she 
 did not seem to resent it, or to be rendered at all unhappy by it ; 
 nay, she was even suspected of rejoicing at so easy a mode of escap- 
 ing the persecution of lovers. She was unwilling, however, that the 
 imputation of inhospitality or impoliteness should rest upon her 
 family ; and on this point she remonstrated with the duenna. 
 
 "Let the molly-yhacks stay at home, then," said* Becky. "What 
 business have they to come here ' sparking V Let them stay at home, 
 and when we want them wc '11 send for them." 
 
 How and when ILirry Vrail's acquaintance with Gertrude began, 
 it would be diificult to say ; but for several preceding years his hunt> 
 ing excursions had seemed to extend more often through her father's 
 forests than in any other direction ; and the silvery stream which 
 tinkled across the meadows of Mynheer "Van Kleeck afforded the 
 finest-flavored trout, in ILirry's estimation, of the whole country 
 around. It was natural enough for him, on these expeditions, to stop 
 occasionally and chat with old Baltus on his stoop ; and sometimes to 
 leave a tribute of his game with the proprietor of the domain on 
 which it was bagged. 
 
 If a string of finer fish than usual rewarded his afternoon's labors 
 the larger half was sure to be left at Baltus's door, despite all 
 resistance ; and then the servant was to be instructed in the art of 
 dressing them, and Getty was to be taught the mystery of cooking 
 them, in the way which should best preserve their flavor. 
 
 Sometimes, too, the fatigued youth could be induced, at the closo 
 of the day, to remain and see if his instructions were properly fol- 
 lowed, and at the bountiful board of the Dutchman, his seat chanced 
 ever to be beside that of Getty, who saw that he received of thf 
 choicest portions of his own gifts. How she loaded his plate, too, 
 with dainties drawn from dark closets, the key of which was seldom 
 turned, save on such occasions as this! How the thickest cream 
 filled the old-fashioned silver cream-pot to the brim, and was half- 
 emptied over Harry's strawberries, or on Harry's currants, whilo with 
 her own white hand, she pitched the largo wheaten slices, quoit-like, 
 
A DUTCH BELLE. 2S1 
 
 around his plate, enjoining upon him in the most approved fashion of 
 Dutch hospitality — to eat ! 
 
 Nor did Harry always find himself sufficiently refreshed to start 
 for home as soon as the evening meal was finished. From the table 
 to the long covered stoop was a natural and easy transition, for there 
 the air was fresh and cool ; and while Baltus planted himself, puffing, 
 in his favorite corner, and his silent vrow sat knitting and musing at 
 his side, and pussy, mireproved, now dandled the good dame's ball of 
 yarn in her paws, and now, tapping it fiercely, pursued it rolling far 
 across the floor ; while the swallows darted daringly inside the pillars, 
 and skimming close to the ceiling, flew chirping out at the farthest 
 opening, Harry and Getty chatted and laughed together, talking 
 only on common themes, it is true, yet at times in tones which might 
 have been mistaken, by one who had not caught the words, for tones 
 of love. 
 
 And there was a time, when yet Harry's father was alive, and was 
 a man of wealth, that the young man dreamed of love. It was pre- 
 sumptuous, he knew, in him, even then, to look up to one so fair and 
 pure as sweet Gertrude seemed to him, and one for whom so many 
 worthier than himself would be certain to aspire. Yet he could not 
 refrain from hoping, though with so faint a heart that he never found 
 courage to declare, or even most remotely to hint at, the love which 
 consumed him. But if, while he was the prospective heir of great 
 wealth, he felt thus unworthy of the object of his admiration, how 
 widely, hopelessly yawned the gulf of separation between them 
 when positive poverty became his lot ! With a pang of unspeakable 
 intensity, he dismissed the bright vision which had gilded his heart, 
 and sought no more to recall so painful and illusive a dream. 
 
 Yet, strangely enough, while he held himself thus unworthy of 
 Gertrude, and considered that his changed position precluded him 
 from the right to offer her his hand, he saw no such obstacles in the 
 way of his brilliant cousin Tom, now about to enter, with a victor's 
 stride, upon that field which he had so ingloriously relinquished. 
 
 A very young lawyer was Tom ; decidedly handsome, and pos- 
 sessing a moderate amount of talent, flanked by a Tuost immoderate 
 and inordinate vanity. But, in Harry's estimation, his merits were 
 
282 THE ATLANTIC SOtTVESIR. 
 
 SO many, and his fortunes so sure, that he might almost be entitled to 
 wed a princess ; and although he was incensed, he was not surprised 
 at the very confident tone in which the young disciple of Themis had 
 spoken of winning the beautiful Gertrude, if he chose. Harry 
 thought so himself: he had often thought of it before, and had won- 
 dered why his cousin had never seemed to notice this sparkling jewel 
 in his path, any more than if it were but commoft crystal. 
 
 But true love, even when hopeless, instinctively revolts at the 
 idea of seeing the beloved object won by another, however worthy ; 
 and Harry, although not without some upbraidings of conscience, had 
 carefully abstained from saying any thing which should set the cur- 
 rent of Tom's thoughts in the direction of the great prize he had dis- 
 covered. Very great, therefore, was his alarm, when his good grand- 
 sire had made his abrupt suggestion, and when Tom so coarsely and 
 ungraciously seemed to approve it. Yet he suppressed his great 
 grief, and replied truthfully to his cousin's inquiry, failing, in his 
 abundant charity, to perceive the utter selfislmess which had so 
 entirely overlooked himself, or any predilections which he might 
 entertain. 
 
 He even acceded to his friend's request to accompany him on his 
 first visit to Getty ; not because any formal introduction was needed, 
 for there had been a slight acquaintance existing between all the par- 
 ties from childhood, but because Tom thought it would serve to put 
 him at once on a better and more fiimiliar footing with the heiress. 
 And so it did. Getty was delighted to see the cousins, for the lonely 
 child had few visitors, and she appreciated the kindfiess which remem- 
 bered her bereavement and her isolation. So very amiable and cheer- 
 ful did she appear, so naturally gi-aceful and winning, especially when 
 conversing with Harry, with whom she was best acquainted, that Tom 
 was positively delighted with her, and on his return homeward, ho 
 announced his fixed determination to offer himself within a week. 
 
 " Won't she be astonished ?" he said. 
 
 "It will be rather abrupt," replied Harry. "She will hardly 
 expect it so soon." 
 
 " Very probable ; but when a thing is to be done, the sooner it is 
 accomplished the better. Beside, it would be scarcely fair to keep 
 '^'T in Rusponsft." 
 
A DUTCH BELLE. 283 
 
 " Perhaps you are right." 
 
 " I shall not hurry her to fix the day, you know, but I abhor long 
 courtships ; and these things can be as well settled in a week as in a 
 year." 
 
 " But if 
 
 " No, no ; a ' but' and an ' if are quite too much in one sentence. 
 I tell you I have no fears. She may possibly be engaged to some 
 boor ; but even then, Harry, I think it could be managed ; do n't 
 your 
 
 " I do not think she is engaged ; certainly not to any one unwor- 
 thy of her." 
 
 " Then we are on safe ground," said Tom, with hilarity. " She 
 seems a nice girl, and I have no doubt we shall get on capitally toge- 
 ther. She shall soon lead a different sort of life from her present 
 one, cooped up in an old brown farm-house, with a dragon to guard 
 her. . Won't she open her eyes when we go to the city, and when she 
 gets into New- York society ?" 
 
 Harry began to open his eyes a little, a very little, to his cousins' 
 character ; but the force of education was strong, and he had been 
 taught to believe Tom almost perfect : so his invincible good nature 
 was busy in meliorating the harsh views which he was at first dis- 
 posed to take of his conduct, and in inventing excuses for him. 
 Beside, he had a strong affection for Tom, which he believed to be 
 fully reciprocated, and he did not doubt that Getty would inspire him 
 with the same fervent love which his own heart had once felt, and 
 even now with difficulty suppressed. 
 
 He did not pursue the subject, nor return to it again, excepting 
 when compelled to do so by the other, whose exuberant spirits ran 
 wild in contemplation of the fortunate change which he was about to 
 make in his affairs, and who could not cease to wonder that he had 
 never before discovered such an obvious opportunity for his personal 
 advancement. The more he thought of his project, the more deeply 
 his heart was set upon it, and so bountifully was he supplied with 
 that quality of mind which Harry most lacked, self-esteem, that he 
 had no misgivings as to success. 
 
 * * ***** 
 
•284 THE ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. 
 
 " What has come over you, then, Getty, that you have been smg- 
 singing all the time, up stairs and down, for these two days — hey ?" 
 said Becky to her niece, on the afternoon of the second day after the 
 visit of the cousins Vrail. 
 
 " Oh ! nothing, aunty," said Gertrude, hesitating. " I often sing 
 like that ; do not I ?" 
 
 " Not often, I hope. I have counted these stitches three times, 
 and every time your ring-te-iddlety has made me forget how many 
 there are." 
 
 The dame's tone was severe ; and as Getty spied the old scowl 
 taking shape on her forehead, she retreated to her own room to sing 
 away the remainder of the evening by herself On the morrow, also, 
 her heart seemed equally light, and snatches of old songs were escap- 
 ing all day from her lips, making every room and closet vocal with 
 melody, as she flitted through them on various household duties. 
 Now and then a growl responded to some of these chirpings, silencing 
 them for a while only to break forth in some other quarter of the 
 house, more cheerily than ever. As evening drew nigh, her merri- 
 ment gradually subsided, and she withdrew to her own apartment in 
 a more thoughtful and pensive mood — not long, however, to remain 
 unsought. Her heart beat quickly, when, listening, she heard the 
 voice of a visitor below, and for quicker, when a servant-girl came up 
 and informed her that Mr. Vrail was in the parlor, and wished to 
 see her. 
 
 Startled but not surprised, with a fluttering heart and a flushed 
 face, she flew to the glass to add the last touch to the simple adorn- 
 ments of her person, and, although far from being vain, she could not 
 forbear contemplating a moment, with complacency, the sweet pio- 
 turc reflected by the faithful mirror. 
 
 She waited a little while for her agitation to subside ; for, with 
 that rapid breath and heightened color, and with something very like 
 a tear glistening in her eye, she was unwilling to meet her visitor; 
 but, while she waited, she received another and a more urgent sum- 
 mons. 
 
 "You had better come down. Miss Gertrude," said the girl, who 
 seemed to guess that her young mistress was expecting a not unwe) 
 
A DUTCH BELLE. 285 
 
 come visitor ; '" you head better come down, for your aunt Becky is 
 getting ready to go in and see the gentleman." 
 
 This announcement did not have a tendency to allay Miss Van 
 Kleeck's excitement, but it hastened her movements, and in a few 
 moments she was at the parlor-door, which she entered tremblingly, 
 and not the less beautiful for her fright. Her step had been agile, 
 but she stopped as if spell-bound just within the door-way, seemingly 
 unable to comprehend or reply to the very civil . " Good evening" 
 with which she was addressed by Mr. Thomas Vrail. 
 
 The changed expression of her countenance, so radiant on enter- 
 ing, so amazed and saddened now, did not foil to attract the notice of 
 that young gentleman, v/ho, sagely attributing it to the awe inspired 
 by his presence, at once condescendingly resolved to reassure the 
 heart of his charmer by his suavity. But, although Getty recovered 
 herself so far as to say " Good evening," and, after another considera- 
 ble pause, to ask her visitor to sit down, and then to sit down herself 
 on the farthest edge of the chair most remote from her companion, 
 she did not seem easily reassured. 
 
 Tom said it was a pleasant evening ; and Getty said " Yes," very, 
 very fointly. 
 
 Then Tom said it was a beautiful walk from his house to Miss 
 Van Kleeck's, and Getty again answered with a monosyllable, but this 
 time a little more distinctly. 
 
 "A very delightful walk," reiterated the suitor, " and one which I 
 hope I shall have the pleasure of taking frequently." 
 
 Miss Van Kleeck, thinking it necessary to say something in reply, 
 and, entirely failing to comprehend the drift of the remark, " hoped 
 so, too." 
 
 Tom now felt himself to be getting along fast, nay, with very rail- 
 road speed ; so he ventured to draw his seat a little nearer to Getty, 
 to her manifest trepidation, for her eyes turned quickly toward the 
 door, and she seemed to be contemplating flight. 
 
 But it was one of Tom's maxims to strike while the iron is hotj 
 and if he had been so well convinced of having made a favorable 
 impression on the evening of his first visit, he felt doubly sure now, 
 after the new encouragement he had received. 
 
2S6 THE ATLANTIC SOCVEKIR. 
 
 " I may be a little hasty, Miss Van Kleeck," he said, again slightly 
 lessening his distance from her, " but I have had the presumption to 
 imagine that I — that you — that I " 
 
 "Please not to come any nearer," said Getty, hastily, as her 
 suitor's chair exhibited still further signs of locomotion. 
 
 "Ah! certainly not, if you wish it," replied the lover very 
 blandly; "I mean, not at present; but allow me to hope that the 
 time will come, when you — when I — that is to say, when both of 
 us " 
 
 Tom stopped, for Gertrude had risen, and had taken a step toward 
 the door, with much appearance of agitation. 
 
 " I foar you do not understand me," he said hastily. 
 
 "I fear I do," she replied quickly and sensibly, "although it is 
 rather your manner than your words which express your meaning." 
 
 " Stay, then, and be assured that I am quite in earnest." 
 
 " I do not question your sincerity, Mr. Vrail 
 
 " That I have come here to offer you this hand," he continued, 
 extending certainly a very clean one, which bore evident marks of 
 recent scrubbing for its present service, but which the heiress 
 exhibited no haste to accept. 
 
 She had attained sufficient proximity to the door to feel certain 
 that her retreat could not be cut off, and her self-possession having in 
 some degree returned, she listened respectfully, and replied politely, 
 although with a tone of sadness. 
 
 " I will spare you any further avowal of your feelings, Mr. Vrail," 
 she began. 
 
 " Do not think of such a thing, dear Gertrude," he replied, still 
 unawakened from his hallucination, " I am proud to make profession 
 of my love for you." 
 
 " Will you listen to me a moment before I go ?" 
 
 "An hour ! a week ! nay, for ever !" 
 
 " I shall not detain you a minute." 
 
 " I assure you I an^ in no hurry !" 
 
 '■'lam. You are laboring under a mistake. We are nearly 
 strangers to each other, and you have scarcely the right to address 
 aie in the way you have done ; but if it were othi-rwiso I have only 
 
A DUTCH BELLE. 28t 
 
 to answer by declining your offer," she said, glancing at the hand and 
 arm which had remained projecting like a • pump-handle all this 
 while, with the evident expectation on the part of Thomas, whose 
 whole attitude was quite theatrical, that it was speedily to be seized 
 and clung to. 
 
 He now began to look astonished and alarmed, but he immedi- 
 ately rallied. 
 
 " Oh ! I see how it is !" he said ; " I have been rather abrupt, I 
 dare say ; but we will become better acquainted. I will call often to 
 see you, and then — why, Miss Van Kleeck — do rCt go .'" 
 
 Getty had now become angry. She left the room and her aston- 
 ished lover, but paused a moment outside the door, and said, with a 
 very pretty flush on her cheek, and a very bright sparkling in her eye : 
 
 " Call as often as you choose, Mr. Vrail, but I shall never see 
 you. You do not §eem to understand the plainest words, but I 
 assure you we shall never be better acquainted with each other than 
 we are now. Good evening." 
 
 So saying, Getty almost ran out of the outer room, shutting the 
 door after her with a haste which gave it quite the character of a 
 slam, and hurried up to her own apartment. 
 
 Tom's panoply of conceit, which was almost invulnerable, and 
 had withstood so much, only now gave way. 
 
 " I really believe she means to refuse me," he said, soliloquising. 
 " It is certainly very ridiculous ; but perhaps she may come back. 
 I will wait a little." 
 
 He did wait some minutes, listening earnestly, and was at length 
 gratified by the sound of approaching steps, which he advanced to 
 meet with great alacrity ; but what was his consternation on encouu 
 tering at the door the wrinkled and vinegary countenance of Dame 
 Becky, whose huge spectacles, as she stood confronting him a moment 
 in silence, glowered upon liim like the eyes of the great horned owl. 
 
 The lover retreated a step before this apparition. 
 
 " Do you want Getty ?" she said, at length, in a voice amazingly 
 slirill and sharp. 
 
 "I — yes, I should be happy to see her a few minutes if — 
 if you please." , 
 
288 THE ATLANTIC SOUVEXrS. 
 
 " But do you want her ? Do you want to marry her 1" she asked, 
 in still more of a scolding tone. 
 
 " Oh ! — ah ! — yes, madam," said Tom, attempting to win the old 
 woman by a fine speech ; " I am exceedingly proud to call myself an 
 admirer of your beautiful niece ; and I have indulged the hope that 
 we might find our tastes congenial to each other, and our hearts sym- 
 pathetic. May I count, dear madam, on your influence with Miss 
 Gertrude ?" 
 
 " No, you can 't ; and more than that, you can 't have her. So, 
 no more of that. You are the third this week !" 
 
 " Good gracious ! the third what, ma'am ?" 
 
 " No matter what ; you can 't have her. You understand, do n't 
 ydu?" 
 
 " Y — yes," said Tom, "I suppose I do." 
 
 " Very well, then — no oflTense meant," said Aunt Becky, now 
 trying to modify what might seem harsh in her language, by a touch 
 of politeness, but who still spoke in the same high key. " Wo n't 
 you sit down V 
 
 " No, I thank you," muttered Tom, now decidedly crest-fallen ; 
 *' I rather think it is time for me to go." 
 
 *' Good night, then," said Becky, following him to the door, as 
 closely as if he had been a burglar. " Take care of the dog .'" 
 
 "The deuce!" said Tom to himself, clutching his cane as he 
 walked off the stoop. " Is there a dog to be escaped too 1 I should n't 
 wonder if they should set him on me !" and he quickened his step 
 down the lane that led to the highway, and was soon out of sight 
 of the old farm-house, without even turning to take a last look at 
 the solitary light which gleamed like a beacon from Getty's room. 
 Alas ! alas ! no beacon of hope for him ! 
 
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