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 Porter Memorial Library, Machias. 
 
 The Library will be open from 2.30 to 5.3 
 and from 7 to 9 p. m., Sundays and legal holidaj 
 excepted. 
 
 All inhabitants of Machias shall be entitled t 
 take books from the Library, subject to the fo 
 lowing regulations : 
 
 Any person residing temporarily in Machias m£ 
 take books at the rate of 10 cents per week. 
 
 Non-residents at two dollars per year. ; 
 
 The time allowed for the retention of bool 
 shall be two weeks for each volume ; but when ar 
 book is in great demand, the time may be limite 
 to one week, or less than one week. 
 
 No person receiving a book from the Librai 
 shall lend it to any one not a member of the sam 
 household. 
 
 Persons holding books beyond the specified tim 
 shall pay two cents for each day's detention ; an 
 if detained five days beyond the time specified, th 
 book will be sent for and ten cents extra collecte 
 from the delinquent. No book shall be delivere 
 to any person whose penalties remain unpaid. ^ 
 
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 e^m^Mi^t^ 
 
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 . ■• . J J ,•* ' a ; 3' :> J J J 
 
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 1839. 
 

 •• i 
 
 • • •» 
 
 • • • 
 
 • 4 • 
 
 • • •• • 
 
THE 
 
 GARLAND; 
 
 FOR 
 
 A CHRISTMAS, NEW-YEAR, AND BIRTHDAY 
 
 PRESENT. 
 
 " So take my flower, and let its leaves 
 Beside thy heart be cherished near, 
 While that confiding heart receives 
 The thought it v/hispers to thine ear." 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JULIUS A. NOBLE. 
 
 1839. 
 
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 ^V" 
 
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PREFACJE. 
 
 This work consists of the choicest pieces 
 which have appeared in the several volumes 
 of the Token and Legendary ; it is hoped it 
 may not be found unworthy of a place, by 
 the side of the Annuals and Souvenirs of 
 the day. Many of the articles have had the 
 honour to attract the attention of, and extort 
 praise from European critics, and have been 
 republished \\dth some eclat in England, 
 France, and Germany. Nearly all of then? 
 
 iyi64487 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 have been favourably noticed in this country, 
 and have received a welcome at the hands 
 of those for whose pleasure or profit they 
 were more particularly composed. The 
 editor ventures to hope, that the gathering of 
 these flowers into a Garland, and this design- 
 ed as a gift, in some instances, perchance, 
 
 "fittoteU 
 Of things that words can ne'er disclose, 
 And nou^'ht beside reveal so well," 
 
 may not prove an unacceptable service to 
 those who, at the same time, have a relish for 
 works of taste, and a desire to cherish the 
 original literature of our country 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Page 
 
 The Gift, . - - . 
 
 9 
 
 The Soldier's Widow, 
 
 11 
 
 For a Lady's Album, - - - 
 
 13 
 
 Legend of the Notch, ... 
 
 15 
 
 Musings, - - . _ 
 
 52 
 
 Childhood, - - _ - 
 
 53 
 
 Some Passages in the Life of an Old Maid, 
 
 56 
 
 What is that, Mother 7 - - - 
 
 87 
 
 Seaman's Widow, . - - 
 
 - 89 
 
 Saturday Afternoon, - - . 
 
 117 
 
 Blind Boy, - - - . 
 
 - 118 
 
 1* 
 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Pago 
 
 Academic Grove _ . - - 134 
 
 Death, ------ 136 
 
 Surrender of Calais, - - - 137 
 
 Youthful Fancies, - - - 141 
 
 Italian Boulevard, « - - 142 
 
 Dreams of Boyhood, - - , - 148 
 
 Prairie on Fire, - - - - 150 
 
 To a Daughter of the late Governor Clinton, - 154 
 
 Joshua commanding the Sun and Moon to stand 
 
 still, ... - 155 
 
 Seabird's Tale, - - - - 158 
 
 Thanksgiving, - - - - - 1G2 
 
 Cottage Legend, - - - - 170 
 
 To the Sentmiental, - - - - 172 
 
 A Moonlight Adventure, - - - 181 
 
 The Lone Indian, - - _ - 184 
 
 Romance m Real Life, - - - 198 
 
 Connecticut River, . - - - 265 
 
 Field of the Grounded Arms, Saratoga, - 272 
 
 Autumn Musings, - - - - 274 
 
 To the Ice Mountain. ... 278 
 
CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 Page 
 
 The Mother's Grave, - - - - 279 
 
 Colonel Boone, .... 283 
 
 The Fair Pilgrim, - - - - 286 
 
 Waiting for the Harvesters, . . 293 
 
 To a Lady, with a Withered Leaf, - - 295 
 
 Voyage of the Philosophers, - . 297 
 
 The Twins, - - . - - 302 
 
 Catskill, ..... 309 
 
 Canvassing, . - - • .116 
 
 The Sentry Box, .... 169 
 Caroline and Isabel, .... 264 
 
 To my own Portrait, ... 10 
 
 Biography of Mrs. Hemans, - . - 325 
 
 The Charnel Ship, - - . . 328 
 

 
 
 THE GARLAND. 
 
 THE GIFT. 
 
 I COME with a gift. 'Tis a simple flower, 
 
 That perhaps may wile a weary hour, 
 
 And a spirit within a magic weaves 
 
 That may touch your heart from its simple leaves- 
 
 And if these should fail, it at least will be 
 
 A token of love from me to thee. 
 
 This for age. It will soothe unrest. 
 And freshen Ufe in the faintino- breast : 
 It will drop a balm in its thirsty springs. 
 As the lark sheds dew from its early wings — 
 'Tis a token that youth, though wild and gay, 
 Will never turn from the old away. 
 
10 THE GIFT. 
 
 This for the young. It vnQ. wake to birth 
 . A better feeluiw than idle rrnrth : 
 It will stir the heart to silent love, 
 As the twilight hushes the gentle dove — 
 'Tis a token of friendship's secret flow, 
 The flashing tide of the world below 
 
 This for the loved. It will take the place 
 
 Of the thrillinor tone and the beaming face ; 
 
 It will breathe of words that have passed his tongue, 
 
 And startle thoughts that to liim have sprung — 
 
 'Tis a token of aU the heart can keep 
 
 Of holy love in its fountains deep. 
 
 So, take my gift ! 'Tis a simple flower, 
 But perhaps 'twill wile a weary hour, 
 And the spirit that its light magic weaves 
 May touch your heart from its simple leaves — 
 And if these should fail, it at least will be 
 A token of love from me to thee. 
 
^3 -> ->3 ^ 
 
 :> 1 
 
1! 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 ^^^'^^^-^ .^i^^^*«^ 
 
 
 :blished Tjjt Saunders &: OtLejr, Conduit Street 
 
TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 
 
 TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 
 
 By Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 How is it that before mine eyes, 
 
 "While gazing on thy mien, 
 All my past years of life arise, 
 
 As in a mirror seen ? 
 "What spell within thee hath been shrined, 
 To image back my own deep mind ? 
 
 Even as a song of other times 
 Can trouble memory's springs ; 
 
 Even as a sound of vesper-chimes 
 Can wake departed things ; 
 
 Even as a scent of vernal flowers 
 
 Hath records fraught with vanished hours j 
 
 Such power is thine ! — they come, the dead. 
 From the grave's bondage free, 
 
 And smiling back the changed are led, 
 To look in love on thee ; 
 
 And voices that are music flown 
 
 Speak to me in the heart's full tone. 
 
 Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress, 
 The thoughts of happier years, 
 
 And a vain gush of tenderness 
 O'erflows in childlike tears j 
 
TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 
 
 A passion which I may not stay, 
 A sudden fount that must have way. 
 
 But thou, the while— oh ! almost strange, 
 
 Mine imaged self! it seems 
 That on tliTj brow of peace no change 
 
 Reflects my own swift dreams ; 
 Almost I marvel not to trace 
 Those lights and shadows in thy face. 
 
 To see thee calm, while powers thus deep, 
 
 Affection — Memory — Grief- 
 Pass o'er my soul as winds that sleep 
 
 O'er a frail aspen-leaf! 
 Oh ! that the quiet of thine eye 
 Might sink there when the storm goes by ! 
 
 Yet look thou still serenely on, 
 And if sweet friends there be, 
 
 That when my song and soul are gone 
 Shall seek my form in thee, 
 
 Tell them of One for whom 'twas best 
 
 To flee away and be at rest ! 
 
THE soldier's WIDOW. 11 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 Wo for my vine clad home ! 
 That it should ever be so dark to me, 
 With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree . 
 
 That I should ever come, 
 Fearing the lonely echo of a tread 
 Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead ! 
 
 Lead on ! my orphan boy ! 
 Thy home is not so desolate to thee — 
 And the low shiver in the linden tree 
 
 May bring to thee a joy ; 
 But, oh, how dark is the bright home before thee, 
 To her who with a joyous spixt bore thee ! 
 
 Lead on ! for thou art now 
 
 My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, 
 
 And the strong heart I lean'd upon is broken ; 
 
 And I have seen his brow. 
 The forehead of my upright one, and jusl^ 
 Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust. 
 
 ■s«s: 
 
12 THE soldier's WIDOW. 
 
 He will not meet thee there 
 Who blest thee at the eventide, my son ! 
 And when the shadows of the night steal on, 
 
 He wiU not call to prayer. 
 The lips that melted, giving thee to God, 
 Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! 
 
 Ay, my own boy ! thy sire 
 Is with the sleepers of the vaUey cast. 
 And the proud glory of my life hath past 
 
 With his high glance of fire. 
 Wo that the Unden and the vine should bloom, 
 And a just man be gather" d to the tomb ! 
 
 Why — bear them proudly, boy ! 
 It is the sword he girded to his tlugh — 
 It is the helm he wore in victory — 
 
 And shall we have no joy ? 
 For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died ! — 
 will forget my sorrow in my pride ! 
 
A 
 
 FOR A lady's album 13 
 
 FOR A LADY'S ALBUM. 
 
 BY JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 Grace is deceitful, and beauty vain. — Solomon. 
 
 Oh, say not, wisest of all the kings 
 
 That have risen on Israel's throne to reign ! 
 
 Say not, as one of your wisest things, 
 That grace is false, and beauty vain. 
 
 Your harem beauties resign ! resign 
 
 Their lasci-sious dance, their voluptuous song ! 
 
 To your garden come forth, among things di\ine, 
 And own you do grace and beauty wrong. 
 
 Is beauty vain because it will fade 1 
 
 Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light Tain ; 
 For this shall be lost in evening's shade. 
 
 And that in winter's sleety rain. 
 
 But earth's green mantle, pranked with flowers, 
 Is the couch where life with joy reposes ; 
 
 And heaven gives down, with its light and showers, 
 To regale them, fruits ; to deck them, roses. 
 
 2 
 
14 FOR A lady's album. 
 
 And while opening flowers in such beauty spreaa, 
 
 And ripening fruits so gracefully swing, 
 Say not, O king, as you just now said, 
 
 That beauty or grace is a wortliless thing. 
 
 This willow's lunbs, as they bend in the breeze 
 
 The dimpled face of the pool to kiss ; 
 Who, that has eyes and a heart, but sees 
 
 That there is beauty and grace in this ! 
 
 And do not these boughs all whisper of Him, 
 , Whose smile is the light that in green arrays them ; 
 Who sitteth, in peace, on the wave they skim. 
 
 And whose breath is the gentle wind that sways them ? 
 
 And are not the beauty and grace of youth. 
 Like those of this \\illow, the work of love ? 
 
 Do they not come, like the voice of truth. 
 
 That is heard all around us here, from above 7 
 
 Then say not, vvisest of all the kings 
 
 That have risen on Israel's throne to reign ! 
 
 Say not, as one of your wisest things. 
 That grace is false, and beauty vain. 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 15 
 
 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 BY SARAH J. HALE. 
 
 " He hewed the dark old woods away, 
 
 And gave the virgin fields to the day; 
 
 And the gourd, and the bean, beside his door, 
 
 Bloom'd where their flowers ne'er opened before; 
 
 And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye 
 
 Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky." — Bryant. 
 
 However we may boast of our advances in 
 knowledge, and improvements in the arts, since 
 the days of our fathers, the first settlers in New- 
 England, it is by no means certain that we have 
 advanced in the knowledge of our duties towards 
 heaven, or in the art of living more happily on 
 earth. Abundance does not alv/ays bring con- 
 tent, nor security peace. The passion for exces- 
 sive wealth, always the ruling one in an age of 
 speculation and trade, has a far more witherino- 
 influence on the tender and kindly feelings of our 
 nature, those soft emotions whose virtuous indul- 
 gence makes so large a portion of the heart's pure 
 
16 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 happiness, than have dangers, or privations, or 
 even poverty. That devotedness to one dear ob- 
 ject which constitutes the romance of love, is not 
 cherished where fortune is considered an indispen- 
 sable ingredient in the marriage contract ; nor is 
 the domestic miion of such cemented by that 
 mutual confidence, those kind, yet quiet atten- 
 tions, and reciprocal sacrifices to promote the hap- 
 piness of each other, which cause so much of the 
 real felicity of wedded life ; the felicity arising 
 from the certainti/ o^heing beloved. 
 
 Our ancestors must have enjoyed this. Nothing 
 brt that affection which is stronger than the fear 
 of death, that love which " woman's own fond 
 spirit" can only feel, could have induced her to 
 consent to share the dangers and distresses of the 
 wilderness. Her empire is the heart ; to rule there, 
 what will she not dare, or suffer ! The men had 
 a wider sphere of ambition. They intended to 
 found a nation whose faith should be pure, and 
 freedom unconquerable ; yet even then their dear- 
 est hopes must have centered in their o^vn families. 
 When husbands and fathers went armed to their 
 labours, and dared not venture from the sight of 
 their homes lest the enemy should surprise the 
 nelpless inmates, could they fail in love and fide- 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 17 
 
 lity to those they guarded so sedulously ? And 
 what smiles of gladness, gratitude, and attachment, 
 must have welcomed their return, from those who 
 were dependent on them, not only for support, but 
 for protection, for life ! 
 
 But, be all this as it may, neither riches nor 
 rank influenced the choice of Robert Wilson, when 
 he selected Mary Grant for his wife. Mary was 
 poor, and an orphan. Her father died on his pas- 
 sage to New-England, whither he was fleeing 
 from a persecution that had confiscated his pro- 
 perty, and for three long years held him confined 
 in a prison. He at length escaped, and with his 
 wife and child embarked, as he hoped and pray 
 ed, for a better world. His prayer was doubtless 
 answered in mercy, for his was not a constitution, 
 or mind, that could long have struggled with the 
 hardships of the wilderness ; and he died the day 
 before the vessel entered the harbour. His wife 
 survived him but two weeks, and the little weep- 
 ing Mary was thrown upon the charity of stran- 
 gers. They had kind hearts in those old times, 
 and, though their o^Ya portion was ever so small, 
 always imparted a share to the needy. Mary 
 found many willing to wipe away her tears and 
 shelter her from suflferings, and finally, in Cap- 
 
 2* 
 
18 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 tain Waldron and lady, protectors indulgent as 
 parents. They resided at Dover, New-Hampshire, 
 then considered as belonging to the Massachu- 
 setts, and found Mary, while on a visit at Boston, 
 carried her to their home, and treated her with 
 all the tenderness they could have shown their 
 own child. Captain Waldron was a man of con- 
 sequence in Dover, and his wife considered one 
 of the first women in the town ; and it was fre- 
 quently observed, that they would make quite a lady 
 of Mary. But the qualifications for ladies were not, 
 at that period, graduated on exactly the same scale 
 in Dover as at the present time. Mary was 
 thought to be well educated, yet she had never been 
 taught dancing, painting, nor embroidery, nor had 
 she studied French, music, nor Euclid. She could 
 read, however, as fluently as any modern fine lady j 
 and read too, with those tones of feeling that pe- 
 netrate the heart of the listener. Her voice had 
 music m its expression, and she sung so sweetly, 
 wo g-allant amateur could have preferred the piano 
 to the warblings of her "wood notes wild." 
 Moreover, Mary could sew, and knit, and spin, 
 and milk, and lay a table, and prepare a repast in 
 the very best style of any girl in the settlement, 
 and all before she was sixteen. Then natur^ 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 19 
 
 whose gifts are far more to be coveted than 
 those of fashion, or fortune, had been prodigal to 
 Mary. She was the fairest girl in the country ; 
 and many aged women, when gazing on her sweet 
 face, shook their heads, and prophesied she had 
 not long to remain in this dark world. Mary's . 
 beauty was not of the kind that is " unchanging- 
 ly bright ;" it was the loveliness of sentiment, the 
 benignity and purity of the spirit within, that gave 
 to her countenance its irresistible fascination. 
 Her chestnut hair, just touched with one golden 
 tint, curled around her lovely neck and fair fore- 
 head with a luxuriance and grace art cannot imi- 
 tate. The lily might, perhaps, have been thought 
 to have too much predominated in her complex- 
 ion, had not the least emotion called the blood so 
 quickly and eloquently to her cheek j and the 
 pensiveness in her soft blue eyes always changed 
 to the lustre of joy, when she welcomed a friend. 
 Yet Mary was rather inclined to pensiveness. 
 Perhaps the thought of her parents, whose deaths 
 she well remembered, or that feeling of desolation 
 and loneliness which will, at times, press on the 
 hearts of those who can claim no kindred tie, had 
 given to her countenance an expression of mild 
 sadness, and to her character a cast of seriousness, 
 
20 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 which, under happier auspices, she would not 
 have exhibited. Hers was just that kind of me- 
 lancholy which, in the aged, we call wisdom; 
 but which, when possessed by one so young and 
 fair, is often said to forebode brevity of life, or 
 misfortunes in the world ; and such, it had often 
 been predicted, would be the fate of Mary. But, 
 while she was invested with all those feminine 
 charms that have such an irresistible influence 
 over the hearts of men, it is not strange that she 
 should have been sought by many; nor that, 
 when young Robert Wilson had once seen and 
 known, he should have loved her. 
 
 Robert Wilson was from Salem. His father was 
 one of the first settlers of that ancient town ; a true 
 Puritan, steady and sturdy in his opposition to, 
 and abhorrence of, every tenet favourable to pre- 
 lacy, or popery. He was an ardent, enthusiastic, 
 and pious man ; but a very proud one. He was 
 proud of the sacrifices he had made, and the 
 persecutions he had endured, for conscience' sake ; 
 proud that he was accounted ashining light in the 
 colony ! And it is probable that the sway he was 
 permitted to exercise over the minds of those 
 among whom he there mingled, was more grati- 
 fying to his pride than the homage of his vassals 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 21 
 
 would have been, had he not, by his incorrigi- 
 ble nonconformity, forfeited the estate to which 
 he might have succeeded. He was proud too of 
 his son, and that was excusable ; Robert was such 
 a son as would justly make a parent glad, if not 
 proud. Robert had accompanied his father on a 
 journey through most of the settlements in the 
 colony, whither Mr. Wilson went to examine the 
 state of the churches, and endeavour to rouse 
 then- zeal and kindle their love. At Dover they 
 tarried several weeks, passing the time mostly 
 at the dwelling of Captain Waldron ; and if the 
 father-s eloquence failed to warm, or gain hearts, 
 the son's was more successful. But Robert gave 
 his own heart in exchange for Mary's. Mr. Wil- 
 son beheld their attachment with more compla- 
 cency than those who knew his pride would have 
 expected. Several reasons contributed to this. 
 The maiden's manners pleased him exceedingly ; 
 he saw her always industrious, and very attentive 
 to oblige ; and then he very much wished to have 
 Robert married. It was his favourite maxim, that 
 early marriages made men better citizens ; and 
 moreover there was a fine piece of land, on the 
 banks of the Cocheco, which Robert might have 
 for a farm. Some occurrences in Salem had lately 
 
22 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 chagrined and disgusted him; — the inhabitants 
 of Dover treated him with vast respect, and he 
 secretly indulged the intention of removing thi 
 ther himself, should his son be prospered. So 
 matters were soon arranged to the mutual satis- 
 faction of all parties. Robert's land was fixed 
 upon ; and, after he had accompanied his father 
 to Salem, and procured necessaries for beginning 
 in the world, he was to return, prepare a house 
 and the means of living, and then he might hope 
 for Mary's hand. It cannot be imagined that Ro- 
 bert, while his heart was with Mary, and he felt 
 " far from joy when far from her," would make 
 his stay at Salem a long one. He was soon seen 
 wending his way back to Dover, equipped to settle 
 in the forest. The appearance of his farm might 
 not have been exactly to the taste of the young 
 gentlemen of the present day. It lay in all the 
 wildness of nature, the tall trees tossing their 
 heads proudly in the wind, as if bidding defiance 
 to puny man, who was wishing to usurp the do- 
 minion they had held undisturbedly for thousands 
 of ages. And in the recesses of those dark old 
 woods, often lurked the insidious savage, more 
 terrific and blood-thirsty than the prowling lion, 
 or the crouchir>g^ tif^er. However, Robert Wilson 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 23 
 
 surveyed the trees, and thought of the Indians 
 without shrinking. He had a light heart, a strong 
 arm, a sharp axe, and a sure gun ; and the labours 
 and dangers besetting his path of life gave him no 
 more concern than would the obstruction of this- 
 tle do^^^l in his road to church. He was a tall, 
 finely formed young man of twenty-one, with eyes 
 as black as a thunder cloud, and their flash very 
 much like its lightning. His hair was black as his 
 eyes, and his rather dark complexion wore such 
 a glow of health, and his whole countenance and 
 demeanour so much of happiness and frank confi- 
 dence, that all who saw him prophesied, and in- 
 deed wished, success to the handsome and active 
 j'-Quth. Their wishes and his appeared likely to 
 be realized. In one year from the time of his 
 striking the first blow in the forest, his land began 
 to wear the appearance of a cultivated farm. The 
 trees had all disappeared from an area of twenty 
 acres, and its surface was covered and stumps 
 nearly all concealed by a luxuriant harvest. There 
 was the golden wheat, the " bearded rye," and 
 corn as tall and straight as a company of grena- 
 diers ; with pumpkins and squashes reposing on 
 the ground, and quietly ripening in the heats of 
 August. On a gentle swell in the middle of this 
 
24 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 plantation stood a small dwelling. I wish I could 
 with propriety call it a cottage, because to many 
 young ladies it would give such a romantic inte- 
 rest to my story — but truth compels me to confess 
 that, although doubtless prettier and more com- 
 fortable than many real cottages, it was not at all 
 like a cottage of the imagination. It was a build- 
 ing, twenty feet by twenty-four, formed of neatly 
 hewed logs, the roof covered with boards, the in- 
 side divided into tAvo apartments with one closet, 
 and the whole lighted by three small glass win- 
 dows. On either side of this dwelling rose a large 
 locust tree, and several small ones were in front, 
 purposely left standing for ornament ; and wild 
 rose bushes, and other flowering shrubs, had been 
 spared, or transplanted by Robert, to give addi- 
 tional beauty to his rural seat. Thick, dark fo- 
 rests, formed the boundary of vision on every 
 side ; but, in front of the house, the clearing had 
 extended to the Cocheco, whose bright waters 
 were seen dancing in the sunbeams, and afforded a 
 delightful relief to the eye, after it had dwelt on 
 the gloom of the surrounding wilderness. To one 
 always accustomed to the retreats of ease and opu- 
 lence, the wild place would doubtless have looked 
 dreary as a prison j but to Robert, who could al- 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 25 
 
 most call it the creation of his own hands, it was 
 a little paradise; and, when his bird of beauty 
 should be placed within his bower, he would not 
 have exchanged it for those stately halls his 
 mother had told him he was once destined to in- 
 habit. The wedding day at length arrived. It 
 had always been anticipated by Robert as one that 
 would bring unalloyed joy ; but Mary had often 
 felt a sadness, something like a foreboding of mis- 
 fortune, come over her mind whenever her mar- 
 riage was alluded to. She could not tell her o^vn 
 heart the cause of this melancholy ; it was not that 
 she was averse to the union, for she loved Robert 
 more than all the world besides ; nor that she 
 feared to dwell in the wilderness — there had not 
 for a long time, been an alarm from the Indians. 
 Why is it that, at times, a shadow will fall on the 
 spirit, which no efforts of the mind, no arguments 
 of reason can dispel ? 
 
 There were great preparations for the wedding. 
 Captain Waldron liked a parade ; and his wife 
 liked to talk ; and the marriage afforded a justifi- 
 able occasion to gain popularity by a hospitable 
 display. Three o'clock was the hour of ceremo- 
 ny ; then followed a feast ; and, lastly, all the 
 company who had horses, were to ride and escort 
 
 3 
 
¥' 
 
 26 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 the young couple to their dwelling. Of the wed- 
 ding dresses, I shall only say, that they were qnite 
 fashionable then, and would be very monstrous 
 now ; and a minute description of antiquated at- 
 tire ought not to occupy much of a story so li- 
 mited as this. The Reverend John Reyner offici- 
 ated at the ceremony ; and then the whole party 
 sat down to a long table crowned with an enor- 
 mous Indian pudding, — not made of Indians, as 
 an Englishman might suppose, but of Indian 
 meal, — and served up in a huge pewter platter. 
 The plates were of the same metal, all shining 
 like silver, from a recent scrubbing ; and then they 
 had roast beef, and lamb, and venison, and many 
 other good things, which they relished better for 
 seldom indulging in them. But they had no wine, 
 nor strong drink, in those days ; and, what would 
 be remarkable now, the host felt no mortification 
 from not having them to offer, nor his guests dis- 
 appointment in not having them to partake. 
 
 Robert's house stood about a mile and a half 
 from that of Captain Waldron's, and eighty rods 
 from any human habitation. The distance was 
 not great, but it was all wilderness ; and the road 
 was only cut and freed from the obstruction of 
 trees. No carriage could have rolled over the 
 
IW LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 rugged way; but that was no subject of regret, 
 as not a wheel vehicle, excepting great lumber 
 carts, had ever been seen in Dover. So the gen- 
 tlemen mounted their goodly steeds, and, each 
 gallantly taking a lady behind him, they set oif, 
 with the bridegroom and bride at the head of the 
 cavalcade, in great style, followed by the smiles 
 and benedictions of those who could not join for 
 lack of horses. Their progress was joyous and 
 rapid, till they entered the winding path of the 
 forest, where a more sober pace became necessa- 
 ry ; but Robert's horse, being accustomed to the 
 way, still pressed on at a rate that soon made him 
 several rods in advance of the party. The path, 
 just before entering the clearing, approached very 
 near the river ; this curve was made to avoid a 
 large rock, that stood like a wall on the north side 
 of the road, confining its width to a space barely 
 sufficient for a passage. Just as Robert was turn- 
 ing this rock, Mary, uttering a shriek, was either 
 torn, or fell from her seat, the horse springing for- 
 ward at the same instant ; and, while Robert, call- 
 ing on his wife, was attempting to rein his steed, a 
 gun was discharged by an Indian from behind the 
 rock. The ball struck the horse, as he reared high 
 from the effect of the rein, on the breast, and he 
 
28 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 fell backwards upon his rider. The report of the 
 gun was followed by a loud shout from the wed- 
 ding party, — not that they suspected the cause of 
 the firing, or its fatal consequences, — they sup- 
 posed Robert had reached his own house, and 
 fired his gun as the signal. Their shouts intimi- 
 dated the savages, who precipitately fled with their 
 prisoner, without even stopping to scalp her un- 
 fortunate husband. Tlie party rode joyously up 
 — ^but who can describe their consternation and 
 horror, on finding Robert stretched, apparently 
 lifeless, on the ground, covered with the blood of 
 his dying steed, which they mistook for his own j 
 while Mary was nowhere to be found ! Calami- 
 ties never fall with such an overwhelming force, 
 as when they surprise us in the midst of security 
 and happiness. From that company, lately so 
 gay, was now heard nothing but lamentations for 
 the sufferers, or execrations upon the enemy. The 
 men were all unarmed ; they could not, therefore, 
 Dursue the Indians, and endeavour to rescue Mary ; 
 Dut having ascertained Robert was still living, 
 they bore him back to the dwelling of Captain 
 Waldron, whence he had so lately gone in all the 
 pride of youth and joy. 
 There was no sleep that night in Dover. The in- 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 29 
 
 habitants seemed panic-struck. They crowded to 
 the fortified houses,— mothers pressing their chil- 
 dren closer to their bosoms, as they listened in 
 breathless terror, often fancying they heard the 
 stealthy tread of the savages ; and trembling in 
 agony, as they thought of their horrible yells. 
 But the night passed away without alarm, arj/i a 
 bright morning sun soon dissipated their imagi- 
 nary terrors. Robert had nearly recovered from 
 the effects of his fall ; and though his cheek was 
 pale, there was a sternness in his dark eye that 
 told his spirit was unquelled. It was his determi- 
 nation to seek his wife ; and several young men, 
 after they found his resolution could not be alter- 
 ed, volunteered to accompany him. Tliey went 
 tirst to the fatal rock ; from thence they followed 
 the Indians nearly a mile into the woods ; but for 
 a long time, no further traces could be found. 
 After searching many hours, they were joined by 
 a praying Indian, as he was called. Mendowit 
 learned the English language, and became con- 
 verted to Christianity, soon after the colonists set- 
 tled in Salem. He had received many favours from 
 the elder Mr. Wilson, and had loved Robert from 
 his infancy. He had lately wandered to Dover, 
 and spent his time in hunting and fishing around 
 
 3* 
 
3d LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 Robert's clearing. Mendowit soon discovered the 
 trail of the Indians. They had returned on their 
 own steps, after the departure of the wedding 
 party, and kept the narrow path tih it joined the 
 more open one ; and then they struck off through 
 the wilderness. After following about three miles, 
 their encampment was discovered. Mendowit 
 examined it attentively, as also the direction the 
 savages had taken. 
 
 " How many are there ?" asked Robert. 
 
 "Two, besides the captive j" replied Men- 
 dowit. 
 
 Robert's cheek became paler, as he stooped to 
 pluck from a bush a fragment of lace and gauze, 
 which he knew had belonged to Mary's bridal 
 dress. Placing the fragment in his bosom, he in- 
 quired where Mendowit thought the hostile In- 
 dians were retreating. 
 
 " They are IMohawks," returned the other ; " I 
 know by the track of their moccasins ; and they 
 will go to their tribe on the great river or the 
 lakes." 
 
 " They shall not !" exclaimed Robert, stamping 
 on the ground in fury. " I will pursue them ; I 
 will rescue Mary, or die with her. Mendowit, you 
 know the paths of the woods— will you go with 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 31 
 
 me?" and here lie enumerated several articles he 
 would give him, a gun, powder, &€. 
 
 "They will go through the hielden paths of the 
 Agiocochook," remarked the Indian, thoughtfully. 
 
 " We can overtake them before they reach the 
 White Mountains !" said Robert, eagerly. " You 
 shall have the best gun I can purchase in Boston, 
 Mendowit, and my horn full of powder, and a 
 new knife," These were powerful temptations to 
 the Indian ; but a more powerful one was the an- 
 cient and inveterate hatred he bore the MohaAvks. 
 Revenge is an inextinguishable passion in a red 
 man's breast. Mendowit -svas a christian, as far 
 as he could be, without ceasing to be an Indian ; 
 but his new principles could never eradicate his 
 early prejudices, nor subdue his ruling passion. 
 Now the]Mohawks had injured a christian friend, 
 and the indulgence of his hatred towards them 
 seemed a christian virtue. But there was an ob- 
 stacle to his accompanying Robert. Mendowit 
 concluded these Indians would retreat through 
 what is now called the Notch of the White Moun- 
 tains ; and of that pass he had a superstitious 
 dread. But Robert urged him with so many per- 
 suasions, suggesting also the certaintj'' of overta- 
 king the Mohawks long before they reached Agi- 
 
32 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH, 
 
 ocochook, that Mendowit finally consented. The 
 sun was just setting when this arrangement was 
 concluded. To follow the Indian trail during the 
 night, w^as impracticable ; and Robert, now there 
 seemed a possibility of recovering INIary, became 
 reasonable enough to listen to the advice of his 
 friends, and consent to stay till the ensuing morn- 
 ing. The night was mostly spent in preparations 
 for his adventure, or in listening to the advice of 
 those who thought themselves fully competent to 
 judge of the best method of proceeding in the at- 
 tack of Indians. 
 
 Some tried to dissuade tlie young husband from 
 the attempt to recover his wife by force ; as the 
 Indians, they averred, always murdered their pri- 
 soners when attacked. They said it would be best 
 to send a messenger to the Mohawks, who would 
 doubtless disclaim all knowledge of the violence, 
 which had, probably, been perpetrated by some 
 stragglers from their tribe, and negociate for the 
 release or ransom of the captive. 
 
 Robert's blood chilled at the suggestion that his 
 rashness might accelerate the death of his wife ; 
 but the negociation for her ransom, was uncertain, 
 and the period of her release might be distant. 
 He thought she could not long survive in captivi- 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 33 
 
 ty ; and he hoped to surprise her captors una- 
 wares, to free her, clasp her to his bosom, and hear 
 her sweet voice pronounce his name as that of her 
 dehverer. As the picture brightened beneath his 
 fancy, he started from his seat, and rushed out, to 
 see if the morning light might not be discovered. 
 It soon dawned ; and, completely equipped, the 
 Indian with his gun and tomahawk, Robert with 
 a double barrelled rifle, sword, and ammunition, 
 and each carrying a pack containing their provi- 
 sions and restoratives for Mary, they set off on an 
 expedition, fraught, doubtless, with more real 
 perils than the adventures of many proud knights, 
 whose deeds are recorded in historic legends, 
 and emblazoned on the escutcheons of their de- 
 scendants. Fame is certainly more dependent on 
 fortunate circmnstances than great achievements. 
 Had Robert Wilson lived in the days of chivalry, 
 his courage and constancy would have been the 
 theme of poets, and song of minstrels ; now, the 
 only record of his name, or even his existence, 
 will be this unpretending story. 
 
 They entered the deep forest, and, guided by 
 the traces of the retreating Indians, pressed for- 
 ward, at first, with all the speed they could urge. 
 But Mendowit soon checked his rapid pace, and 
 
34 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 represented to Robert that the two Mohawks were 
 perhaps scouts from a large party ; and that cau- 
 tion must be used, or they might unawares be 
 caught in an ambush. Robert's impatience would 
 never have submitted to this curb, could he, by 
 any means, have avoided it ; but, as he could not 
 quicken the pace of Mendowit, he was compelled 
 to conform to it. Cautiously, therefore, they jour- 
 neyed on, through the old woods, where a civi- 
 lized being had never before voluntarily ventured. 
 All was silence ; save when, at long intervals, the 
 cry of some solitary bird broke on the ear with 
 startling shrillness ; or perhaps a rustling among 
 the dry branches made the travellers pause in 
 breathless silence, till a deer, bounding across 
 their path, w^ould plunge into the opposite thicket ; 
 while they did not dare to send a bullet after 
 him, lest the report of their guns should alarm the 
 enemy, who might, even then, be lurking close 
 beside them. 
 
 There was, during the journey, a fearful appre- 
 hension, an undefinable horror on the heart and 
 mind of Robert, far more terrible than he would 
 have endured had he known Mary had ceased to 
 exist. The tortures she might be forced to under- 
 go, haunted his imagination till every sound 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 35 
 
 seemed to warn him to hasten to her relief; and the 
 delays and obstrnctions that were continually ari- 
 sing, made his blood boil with a fury he could 
 scarcely control. His impatience greatly surprised 
 Mendowit; who, with all the philosophic calmness 
 of a sage, would take his own time to examine the 
 traces of their fleeing foes, and calculate the dis- 
 tance they had gained, and the probable time when 
 they should overtake them. Tliis would have 
 been soon, had the Mohawks proceeded straight 
 forwards. But, as if anticipating pursuit, they 
 were continually practising to elude it. They 
 would often trace back their own footsteps, like 
 the doublings of a fox ; and, when following the 
 course of a river, travel in the Avater, and cross 
 and recross at p-laces which none but the sagacity 
 of a red m.an could have discovered. These sub- 
 tle movements satisfied Mendowit that there was 
 no large body of Indians at hand ; and, on the 
 morning of the fourth day, he announced that 
 they should soon see Mary. They were approach- 
 ing the mountains, and Mendowit seemed eager 
 to overtake the Indians before entering the defile 
 that led to the Notch. By the foot prints, they 
 ascertained Mary did not walk, probably could 
 not ; and Robert shuddered, and clenched his gun 
 
36 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 with a convulsive grasp, as, at each step, his eye 
 searched around in every penetrable direction, 
 dreading to meet a confirmation of his fears; yet 
 the sight of her mangled corse would scarcely 
 have added to his heart's agony. 
 
 The weather, which, ever since they left Dover, 
 and indeed for some time before, had been ex- 
 tremely dry and wann, now suddenly changed ; 
 and they seemed transported to another region. 
 Thick black masses of clouds enveloped the 
 mountains, and soon covered the whole horizon, 
 and the darkness of night came down at once ; 
 and then the wind rose, and, at intervals, swept 
 onward with the force of a tornado. It required 
 no effort of the imagination to fancy the old 
 woods were gi'oaning with apprehensions of some 
 terrible calamity. The trunks of the largest trees 
 uivered, and their lofty heads bent almost to the 
 ground, as the " mountain winds went sounding 
 by" from a chasm far more awful than the " Ron- 
 cesvalles strait." 
 
 " We must return," said Mendowit, pausing ; 
 " we cannot overtake them. The secret path of 
 Agiocochook, Mendowit must not tread." 
 
 "You must," returned Robert sternly, mista- 
 king the cause of his guide's reluctance; "but 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 37 
 
 you need not fight. Only show me the Mohawks, 
 and. be there two hundred, I will rescue Mary." 
 
 He was interrupted by a flash of lightning so 
 vivid, that, for a moment, the mountains and their 
 recesses seemed all revealed ; — their high heads, 
 that reached upwards to the heavens; their ya^Ti- 
 mg chasms and deep gullies; the huge rocks, 
 some fixed as earth's foundations, and others ap- 
 parently suspended in air, ready to topple on the 
 heads of those beneath ; the dark trees, with their 
 roots and fibres twisted amid the precipices, over 
 which they were bending, and clinging, as it were, 
 for safety. A tremendous peal of thunder follow- 
 ed ; its echoes reverberated through the trembling 
 mountains with a deafening roar, and then the 
 rain burst in torrents. 
 
 It was in vain to attempt moving forward, while 
 the wind and rain beat so furiously ; and Robert 
 asked the Indian where they could shelter. Men- 
 dowit replied by a motion towards the west side 
 of the mountain near which they stood, and be- 
 gan hastily to ascend. Robert followed. The 
 path was perilous, and required much caution 5 
 but the Indian appeared well acquainted with the 
 difficulties, and easily surmounted them, till he 
 reached a kind of cavern, m the side of a preci- 
 
 4 
 
38 LEGEND OF THE NOTCIT. 
 
 pice, which they both entered in safety. Tliey 
 were now sheltered from the peltings of the 
 storm, but not from its uproar. It seemed as if 
 air, fire, and water, were loosened to work their 
 pleasure on the shrinking and quaking earth. 
 The lightning, that shone in one continued glare; 
 the awful rolling of the thunder, that shook these 
 everlasting hills; the rain, that did not fall in 
 drops, but poured in large streams from the black 
 clouds ; the howling of the wind, as it raved 
 through the hollow passes ; the frequent and loud 
 crash of fallmg rocks and trees — all united to 
 give to the scene an awful sublimity, which the 
 soul could feel, but the pen can never describe. 
 Amid tliis wreck of matter, as it were, Robert 
 heeded not his own danger ; he thought only of 
 his wife. At every fresh burst of the tempest, 
 " oh, where is Mary now 1" came over his heart, 
 till his knees smote together, and larg« drops of 
 sweat started on his pale forehead. Then he would 
 rush to the narrow entrance of the cell, with 
 clenched hands, and look abroad, to see if there 
 was any abatement of the storm ; and then, in de- 
 spair, he would seek the furthest gloom of the ca- 
 vern, throw hnnself do^vn on the damp rock, close 
 bis eyeSjand endeavour to banish all thought from 
 
XEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 89 
 
 his mind. Thus passed the hours till after mid- 
 night; when, during a pause of the wind, a strange 
 noise was heard. It was not like a shriek, or cry 
 from any human voice, or the yell of a wild 
 beast; but a deep, dismal sound, thrilling the 
 listener like a warning call from some unearthly 
 being. 
 
 Robert started on his feet. A bright flash of 
 lightning showed him Mendowit rising from his 
 reciunbent posture : his hands were falling pow- 
 erless by his side, and his face expressed an inter- 
 nal agitation and terror which a red man rarely 
 exhibits. 
 
 I " It is the voice of the Abamocho"' said the 
 Indian, in a low tone, that evidently trembled. 
 "I have heard it once before. He calls for a vic- 
 tim." 
 
 " Where is he ?" demanded Robert^ unsheath- 
 ing his sword- 
 
 " He is the spirit of the dark land !" said Men- 
 dowit, shrinking down, as if to hide himself from 
 some dreaded object. " He rules over these moun- 
 tains ; he comes in the storm, and none whom he 
 marks for destruction can escape him." 
 
 Robert's whole soul had been so engrossed with 
 the idea of Mary, and how to rescue her, that 
 
40 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 scarcely a thought or care for any other human 
 being had entered his mind since leaving Dover. 
 The appalling noise he had just heard, and Men- 
 dowit's singular manner, now aroused his curi- 
 osity to inquire what so moved the Indian, when 
 alluding to the Agiocochook. Mendowit, after 
 heaving a deep sigh, replied, " These mountains 
 belong to Abamocho, the evil spirit. This spirit 
 always favours the Mohawks ; and it was to make 
 them a path, when they were fleeing before the 
 arrows of Tookenchosen, the great sachem of the 
 Massachusetts, ,that he rent the mountain asunder. 
 The evil spirit sat on a huge rock, on the highest 
 peak of the mountain ; and he beckoned for the 
 Mohawks to pass by, laying his hand on his 
 breast. They obeyed, and v.ent in safety j— but, 
 when Tookenchosen would have followed them, 
 the spirit spread his arms abroad, and great stones 
 and trees were hurled down upon the warriors, till 
 all perished except their chief. This was many, 
 many moons before the white men came ; but none 
 of our warriors dared venture to Agiocochook, to 
 bring away the bones of the slain. At last, my 
 father was sachem of Massachusetts. He was a 
 great chief. His tribe was more numerous than 
 ^he leaves of the summer forest. A thousand 
 
LEGEND or THE NOTCH. 41 
 
 warriors followed his steps ; and he said he would 
 bring back the bones of his fathers. He called 
 his young men ; and took me, that I might learn 
 the paths of the woods. I was a child then ; I 
 could not bend a warrior's bow— but they went not 
 to the fight" 
 
 He paused ; and Robert knew, by the tones of 
 his voice, that the recollections of . other years 
 pressed sadiy on his mind. After a few moments 
 of breathless silence, he resumed : 
 
 ^^ We came to Agiocochook. The storm was 
 loud as you now hear ; and in this very cave my 
 father and I passed the night. We heard the 
 voice of Abamocho. In the morning, we saw him 
 seated on his rock. He waved his arm for us to 
 be gone. I saw it, and trembled ; but my father 
 would not depart He sought all the secret 
 places ; but the bones of our fathers had perished. 
 We returned to our tribe ; but the evil spirit sent 
 a curse upon us. Sickness destroyed our young 
 men ; the Mohawks scalped our old men and chil- 
 dren ; my father fell by their arrows. I avenged 
 his death ; but I could not prevent the destruction 
 of my nation. Three times I journeyed to the 
 Agiocochook, with the powows, to appease Aba- 
 
42 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 mocho. We prayed to the Ketan, Avhen at home. 
 It availed not." 
 
 Agam he paused ; and Robert, who had hsten- 
 ed with intense interest to the story, inquired 
 where the remnant of his tribe dweh now. 
 
 " Young man," said Mendowit, rising with a 
 melancholy, but majestic air, while the lightning 
 showed his tall form, and the gray locks that waved 
 in thick masses over his venerable forehead; 
 " Young man, I once led a host more numerous 
 than the trees of yonder forest. I was chief of a 
 mighty nation — now Mendowit dwells alone. I 
 am the last of my tribe." As he ended, he sank 
 down, and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 Robert's life had been a laborious, but a very 
 happy one. He was naturally of a cheerful tem- 
 perament ; and seldom had his imagination dwelt 
 on the dark shades of human life. He had felt, as 
 youth and health are prone to feel, as if earth 
 were made purposely for the happiness of man, 
 and existence would never have an end. A few 
 hours had taught him solemn lessons of the vanity 
 and change of all created things. Without, and 
 around him, was the destroying tempest, dashing 
 to atoms the works of nature ; within was Men- 
 dowit, an image of moral desolation. 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 43 
 
 Robert sat down ; and, ^vhile the picture of hu- 
 man vicissitudes was present thus vividly and 
 mournfully to his mind, mingled with the thought 
 of his own heart-sickening disappointment, he 
 wept like an infant. The tears he shed were not 
 merely those of selfish regret. He WTpt the mi- 
 series to which man is exposed, till his mind was 
 insensibly drawn to ponder on the transgressions 
 that must have made such punishments necessa- 
 ry. And never had he breathed so contrite a 
 prayer as now came from his soul, humbled be- 
 fore that Almighty Power who alone can say to 
 the mourner, "peace!" — to the tempest, "be 
 still !" A sweet calm at length fell on Robert's 
 tossed mind, the calm of confidence, that all would 
 finally be found to have been ordered for the 
 best ; and he sunk into a profound sleep, from 
 which he did not awake till aroused by Men- 
 dowit. 
 
 It was late in the morning ; the storm had 
 ceased; and they sallied forth, to examine the 
 appearance without. An exhalation like smoke 
 arose from the dripping woods and wet grounds 
 beneath and around them, concealing most of the 
 devastations the storm had wrought. The clouds 
 moved slowly up the sides of the mountain, still 
 
44 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 entirely shrouding its tall peaks; but they did not 
 wear the threatening hue of the preceding ni^t. 
 They had discharged their contents, and their 
 lightened folds were now gradually melting, and 
 ready to disperse before the morning sun, though 
 its beams had not yet penetrated their dark 
 masses. The wind was entirely hushed, and not 
 a sound, except the solemn monotonous roar of a 
 distant waterfall, broke on the stillness. While 
 Robert was contrasting the almost breathless 
 tranquillity he now gazed upon, with the wild up- 
 roar he had so lately witnessed, Mendowit touch- 
 ed his shoulder ; and, looking round, he beheld 
 the features of the Indian distorted, while he 
 gazed and pointed upward towards a huge moun- 
 tain, that rose in the farthest distance before them. 
 Above its tall peak reposed a black cloud, and it 
 was the appearance of that cloud which so terri- 
 fied Mendowit. 
 
 " It is the Abamocho," said he, in a suppressed, 
 hollow tone. And certainly, by the aid of a little 
 imagination, it might be likened to a human form 
 of gigantic proportions. The dark face, drawn 
 against a cloud of lighter hue, was seen en pro- 
 file ; a projection, that might pass for an arm, 
 stretched forward to a vast distance ; and then a 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 45 
 
 shapeless mass, that the Indian might call a robe, 
 fell down and covered the surrounding precipice. 
 
 " Your evil genius," said Robert, half laughing, 
 as he looked alternately at his guide and the cloud, 
 " has, to my thinking, a most monstrous and evil- 
 looking nose." 
 
 "Hugh!" said Mendowit, inteiTupting him. 
 That part, which formed the arm of the spirit, 
 began slowly to move towards the body of the 
 cloud, incorporating with it in such a manner, 
 that the Indian might well be pardoned for think- 
 ing Abamocho had folded his hand on his breast. 
 
 Mendowit had held his breath suspended during 
 the movement of the cloud, and his deep aspira- 
 tion, as he emphatically said, "Abamocho is 
 pleased; we may now go in safety," sounded 
 like the breathing of a droA\aiing man when he 
 rises to the surface of the water. After hastily 
 refreshing themselves, they descended from their 
 retreat, and began their progress through the de- 
 file. The storm had obliterated all traces of the 
 Mohawks, but there were no diverging paths ; 
 those M'ho once entered the pass must proceed on- 
 ward. It was now that Robert saw the devasta- 
 tions of the storm. Their way was obstructed by 
 fallen trees, fragments of rock, deep gullies, and 
 
46 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 
 
 roaring waterfalls, pouring from the sides of the 
 mountain, and swelling the Saco, till its turbid 
 stream nearly flooded the whole valley. They 
 proceeded silently and cautiously for more than 
 an hour, when Mendowit suddenly paused, and, 
 whispering to Robert, " I scent the smoke of fire," 
 sunk on his hands and knees, and crept forward 
 as softly as a cat circumventing her prey. A few 
 rods distant lay a huge tree, uprooted by the late 
 storm; sheltered behind this, Mendowit half rose, 
 and, through the interstices of the roots, examined 
 the prospect before him. He soon signed for Ro- 
 bert to advance ; who, imitating the posture of his 
 guide, instantly crept forward, and, at a little dis- 
 tance before them, beheld— Mary. She, with the 
 two IVIohawks, was seated beneath a shelving 
 rock, whose projection had been their only shel- 
 ter from the storm. The height of the projection 
 did not allow them to stand upright ; but the In- 
 dians had kindled a fire, and were now partaking 
 their rude meal. Their backs were towards Ro- 
 bert, and their faces fronted their prisoner, who, 
 wrapped in a covering of skins, reclined against 
 a fragment of the rock. Just as Robert looked, 
 one of the Mohawks held some food towards Mary. 
 Bhe micovered her head, and, by a gesture, re- 
 
LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. 47 
 
 fused the morsel. Her cheek was so pale, and her 
 whole countenance looked so sunken, that Robert 
 thought her expiring. His heart and brain seem- 
 ed on fire, as his eyes flashed around, to see if 
 any advantage might be taken ere he rushed upon 
 the foe. At that moment, the Mohawks, uttering 
 a horrible cry, sprung upon their feet, and ran 
 towards him. He raised his gun; but Mendowit, 
 seizing his shoulder, drew him backwards, at the 
 same time, crying, " the mountain I the moun- 
 tain I" 
 
 Robert looked upward. Awful precipices, to 
 the height of more than two thousand feet, rose 
 above him. Near the highest pinnacle, and the 
 very one over which Abamocho had been seated, 
 the earth had been loosened by the violent rains, 
 Some slight cause, perhaps the sudden bursting 
 forth of a mountain spring, had given motion to 
 the mass ; and it was now moving forward, gather- 
 ing fresh strength from its progress, uprooting the 
 old trees, unbedding the ancient rocks, and all roll- 
 ing onwards with a force and velocity no human 
 barrier could oppose, no created power resist. One 
 glance told Robert that Mary must perish ; that 
 he could not save her. " But I will die with her !" 
 he exclaimed ; and shaking off the grasp of Men- 
 
48 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH. • 
 
 dowit as he would a feather, " Mary, oh Mary 1" 
 he continued, rushing towards her. She unco- 
 vered her head, made an effort to rise, and articu- 
 lated "Robert!" as he caught and clasped her to 
 his bosom. " Oh, Mary, must we die ?" he ex- 
 claimed. " We must, we must," she cried, as she 
 gazed on the rolling mountain in agonizing hor- 
 ror ; " why, why did you come ?" He replied not ; 
 but, leaning against the rock, pressed her closer 
 to his heart ; while she, clinging around his neck, 
 burst into a passion of tears, and, laying her head 
 on his bosom, sobbed like an infant. He bowed 
 his face upon her cold wet cheek, and breathed 
 one cry for mercy ; yet even then there was in 
 the hearts of both lovers a feeling of wild joy 
 in the thought that they should not be separated. 
 
 The mass came down, tearing, and crumbling, 
 and sweeping all before it ! The whole mountain 
 trembled, and the ground shook like an earth- 
 quake. The air was darkened by the shower of 
 water, stones, and branches of trees, crushed and 
 shivered to atoms ; while the blast swept by like 
 a whirlwind, and the crash and roar of the con- 
 vulsion were far more appallmg than the loudest 
 thunder. 
 
 It might have been one minute, or twenty— for 
 
LEGEND OS" THE NOTCH. 49 
 
 neither of the lovers took note of time — when, in 
 the hush as of death-Uke stillness that succeeded 
 the uproar, Robert looked around, and saw the 
 consuming storm had passed by. It had passed, 
 covering the valley, farther than the eye could 
 i€ach, with ruin. JVIasses of gi'anite, and shivered 
 tees, and mountain earth, were heaped high 
 around, filling the bed of the Saco, and exhibiting 
 an awful picture of the desolating track of the 
 avalanche. Only one little spot had escaped its 
 wrath, and there, safe, as if sheltered in the hollow 
 of His hand, v;ho notices the fall of a sparrow, 
 and locked in each other's arms, were Robert and 
 Mary! Beside them stood jMendowit — his gun 
 firmly clenched, and his quick eye rolling around 
 nim like a maniac. He had followed Robert, 
 though he did not intend it ; probably impelled by 
 that feeling which makes us loath to face danger 
 alone; and thus had escaped. The Mohawks 
 were doubtless crushed, as they never appeared 
 again. 
 
 Should the traveller to the "WTiite Mountains, 
 hereafter be curious to fix upon the spot v/here the 
 .overs are supposed to have stood during this con- 
 Yulsion of nature, he will find it near the small 
 >X)use that escaped destruction in the late event, 
 
 5 
 
50 LEGEND OF THE NOTCH, 
 
 which occurred in those mountains, similar to that 
 which we have described. 
 
 The feehngs of the three individuals, so mira- 
 culously preserved, cannot be portrayed. Robert 
 and ]Mary both wept for a long time ; and though 
 Mendowit did not shed tears, he preserved that 
 deep silence, which speaks the awe that the exhi- 
 bition of almighty power always impresses on the 
 heart of the child of nature. What a change the 
 mountain exhibited I Where the dark woods had 
 waved, perhaps for thousands of years, was now 
 a naked white rock, down which a furious torrent 
 dashed and foamed ; and as Robert gazed upon it 
 in wonder, the sun suddenly broke through the 
 clouds, shone on the summit of the mountain, and 
 on the spray of the waterfall, blending the rock 
 with all the colours of the rainbow. Mendowit 
 saw it, and a smile passed over his rigid features. 
 
 " Our homeward path will be prosperous," said 
 he ; and so it was. They made a litter for Mary ; 
 and they bore her on it by day, and her husband 
 sheltered her in his bosom by night, till they reach- 
 ed Dover. 
 
 Robert and ]\Iary lived long and happily, in 
 their dwelling on the banks of the Cocheco. In 
 all the subsequent attacks of the Indians on Do- 
 
LEGEND or THE NOTCH. 51 
 
 ver, they were unmolested ; and their devoted 
 affection, which continued imabated even to ex- 
 treme old age, was often ascribed to the dangers 
 they had suffered and escaped together. Men- 
 dowit thought himself richly repaid for his share 
 in the expedition. He had, besides a new rifle, 
 powder, and knife, both the guns of the Mohawks, 
 which he managed to carry to Dover, as trophies 
 of his complete success in tracking their paths. 
 And, moreover, he enjoyed, till the day of his 
 death, the friendship and protection of Robert and 
 Mary ; and, when he slept that deep, cold sleep, 
 which sooner or later will close the eyes of all 
 who dwell beneath the sun, they saw him laid 
 decently in the grave, and their tears fell at the 
 remembrance cf his virtues and his services. 
 
MUGINGS. 
 
 BY J. I -LELLAN. 
 
 How oft the summer gladness of the heart 
 Is all o'ercast by sorrow's \%intrj gloom ! 
 How oft is pleasure's gor^^ous ch&lice drugg'd 
 With misery ! and care' a niost bitter tears 
 Shed on the altar of oux joy ! — the sigh 
 Is oft the echo of the singer's miith, 
 And grief's half stLled sob will reach the ear 
 "With its sad tone, when hearts are beatuig high, 
 And man's rejoicing voice is mingUng with the sky. 
 
 The green, bright foliage in the woods of spring, 
 And the gay garlandc that hoar autumn hangs 
 High in his vast and solemn palaces, 
 Teach lessons to the erring pride of men. 
 Those delicate leaves, on which the sunbeams pou? 
 Their changing hues, and which the starry night 
 So gently succours with lier silvery dews, 
 Boast but a brief existence, — they all lay 
 Their pomp aside, and droop, aad q'uckly pass awa. 
 
 How beautiful is the swiftly p&si^ng light 
 lu the calm cloud of eve ! 'tis sweet to mai^ 
 
 2 
 
CHILDHOOD. 53 
 
 riiose colour'd folds float round the setting sun, 
 Like crimson drapery o'er a monarch's throne : 
 Yet I have seen a richer carmine flush 
 The snouy wMteness of consumption's cheek ; 
 And, wliile death' s chill was freezing life' s warm spring 
 I watch' d that soften' d glow, — it faded fast, 
 And lo J the spirit from its gentle shrine had past. 
 
 How delicate is the golden thread of life ! 
 How slightly broken ! — oft the whispering wind 
 That murmurs by man's morning path, doth sing 
 A mournful dirge above his midnight grave ; 
 And the sweet flowers that chann'd him in the spring. 
 Keep their lone watch beside his marble urn 
 Long ere the autumn time. How few the days 
 Allotted us to live ! — we yield our breath, 
 And soon our mourning brethren join with us in death. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 BY S. GRISWOLD GOODRICH. 
 
 When Winter takes its sullen flight, 
 And Spring reveals its rosy light, 
 The captive mountain stream, unbound, 
 First feebly steals along the ground, 
 
 5* 
 
§4 CHILDHOOD 
 
 And seeks its Mddcn path to screen 
 
 'Mid tangled trees and branches green. 
 
 But bolder soon its waters pla}; 
 
 Full in the light of open day • 
 
 Then whirl along in eddies deep, 
 
 And fling their murmurs down the steep. 
 
 Now full and free the gallant stream 
 
 Holds dalliance with the morning beam ; 
 
 Now throws aloft its gauzy spray 
 
 To see the form of Iris play ; 
 
 Now saunters where the lilies dip, 
 
 Kissing m turns each proffer' d hp ; 
 
 Now forward flies, like lover fleet, 
 
 Some kindred rivulet to meet, 
 
 That lingers in the valo below 
 
 And sighs with some fond stream to flow ; 
 
 And now, when evening throws its veil, 
 
 Of twilight dim, o'er hill and dale, 
 
 It pauses in its wild career. 
 
 Spreads smooth its surface broad and clear, 
 
 And hush'd in holy stillness lies, 
 
 Looking with rapture to the skies, 
 
 While deep within its bosom true, 
 
 Is traced Heaven's own wide world of blue 1 
 
 Child of the hills, where lightnings streak ! 
 Thy cradle is the azure peak. 
 
Faimed l^' JBJTOruvn,^^ . 
 
 JiTt^ax'ed' ^ S-S^Czmber 
 
 Thus stoTildthe pttre zaid the lovely :meet. 
 Stainless with stainless and sweet ^fn^Si\ sivreet. 
 
 JP117 
 
 a^MIILIDIErcfDdl)]!]) 
 
J 1/ <. i 
 
 « r « c < c 
 
CHILDHOOD. 55 
 
 "*rhy robes, the wreaths of morn that float, 
 Thy kiUaby, the thunder note ! 
 Born of the snow, by tempests fed, 
 In chasms rock'd, m forests bred, 
 Thy sport is o'er the rocks to leap ; 
 Thy dance, in caverns dark and deep j 
 Thy froUc, foaming wliite to run 
 And toss thy bubbles to the sun ! 
 Bright offspring of the cloud and storm ! 
 There's beauty in thy crystal form ; 
 Though wild and wayward thy career, 
 Thy face is fair, thy music dear ; 
 Thou art fond childhood's hnage fair, 
 "With full blue eye and sunny hair, 
 A thing of beauty and caprice ; 
 Now soft as summer's sighincr breeze. 
 Now wild as winds that wliirl on high, 
 A cloud of leaves to winter's sky ! 
 
 Sweet mountain stream ! I love to trace 
 TThee in thy pure and playful chase — 
 But more I love the beams that play 
 O'er childhood's light and laughing day ; 
 The filial love that beameth strong 
 In tearful eyes, through lashes long ; 
 The rainbow smile that often peers, 
 Its hisfxe through a cloud of tears ; 
 
56 SOME PASSAGES iX THE 
 
 The awe that on the young face steals 
 "When night its wondrous sky reveals ; 
 The high arch' d brow, with feeling fraught^ 
 The long fix'd gaze of living thought, 
 That tells us immortality 
 Is kindled in that bright blue eye — 
 These, these are beauties more divine, 
 Sweet mountain riMilet, than thine. 
 
 SOME PASSAGES 
 
 IN THE LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. 
 
 To M**** S*****. 
 
 You have often asked me, my dear young 
 friend, why, with fortmie and other advantages 
 such as mine, I have never relinquished the ap- 
 pellation of spinster, so discordant in the ears of 
 most of our sex. A few weeks' retirement in the 
 country leaves me sufficient leisure to gratify 
 your curiosity. The compUments, with which you 
 prefaced your request that I would narrate the 
 circumstances of my early life, were not entirely 
 lost upon me. Vanity, though it often changes 
 its form, is perhaps the last passion that deserts 
 us. Possibly some lingering remnant of th'.s feel • 
 
LIFE 0? AN OLD MAID. §7 
 
 lug, associated I hope with a desire to give plea- 
 sure, has prompted ms to recall fo? your gratifi- 
 cation, some events: over which time ha^j long 
 drav/n l veil. 
 
 The term " Old Maid" is, I know, by many 
 considered synonymous with " envy, malice, and 
 all uncliaritableness," yet in the full conscious- 
 ness of the odium of the title, I have deliberately 
 assumed it, for reasons of which I vWU constitute 
 you the judge; remarking however, en passant, 
 that though I consider my own reasons forrem.ain- 
 ing single, good and sufficient, I am by no means 
 desirous of persuading you to follow my example. 
 I have always thought that the wife and mother, 
 who properly performs the various duties of her 
 station, presents at once the most honourable, and 
 most interesting character, to which our sex can 
 aspire. My fancy has sometimes painted the 
 communion of interests, the chastened tenderness 
 of that connexion which 1 have never formed ; 
 and though I have never felt the yearnings of a 
 mother's love, I can well imagine its elevating 
 glow, its purifying influence. 
 
 \\liy then am I an old maid ? Yo:? shall know. 
 I v,-as the eldest daughter of a man of wealth and 
 consequence J consequence derived not merely 
 
58 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 from wealth, but from the dignity of worth. At 
 an early age I lost my mother, yet I was old 
 enough to appreciate the worth and value of her 
 character in some degree, and to feel the loss I 
 sustained in her death. The union of my parents 
 had been long and happy ; affection, and the most 
 perfect esteem, had softened the unavoidable evils 
 of life. The grief of my father vented itself not 
 in tears or lamentations, which his reason con- 
 demned as unmanly and enervating, but it was 
 not the less deep and sincere ; his manner, always 
 gentle, became more grave, Ms step lost some- 
 thing of its elasticity, his eye a portion of its 
 brightness; indifferent observers might have 
 thought him unaltered, but to those who loved 
 him it was evident that the sunshine of life was 
 gone. But, while life remained, he felt the vari- 
 ous duties that it involved, and he did not shrink 
 from them : in constant employment, in the edu- 
 cation of his children, he sought to fill the void the 
 death of their mother had created. My sister was 
 five years younger than myself, of a gay and 
 lively temper, and with a person that gave pro- 
 mise of exquisite beauty. But I will not detain 
 you with our childish years : time passed rapidly ; 
 I arrived to womanhood; and all the pleasures of 
 
LIFr OF AN OLD MAID. 59 
 
 ihe gay world were spread before me. I was 
 young, rich, and reputed handsome ; my educa- 
 tion had been carefully superintended by my fa- 
 ther, who, while he endeavoured to store my mind 
 with useful knowledge, had <-not neglected those 
 lighter accomplishments that adorn and polish the 
 female character. Youth is of itself so lovely, 
 that the deformity that renders its charms entirely 
 nugatory, must be hideous indeed. I was sur- 
 rounded by admirers ; the voice of flattery was 
 ever in my ears, and I pretend not that I was in- 
 sensible to its influence ; perhaps a sense, some- 
 what inordinate, of my own attractions did min- 
 gle with my thoughts ; accustomed to the lan- 
 guage of adulation, perhaps I mistook it for that 
 of truth. Life seemed to me a bright fairy gar- 
 den, glittering with sunshine and flowers j mme 
 had hitherto been all happiness, and misery was 
 but a name that brought with it no definite ideas. 
 . Marriage was a subject so often urged on my 
 attention, that it was im.possible my thoughts 
 should not frequently contemplate it. I looked 
 upon it, indeed, as an event that was sure to tak 
 place, and my fancy represented it as the crown 
 ing stone of my felicity. Among an extensive 
 acquaintance, instances of matrimonial unhappi- 
 
&> SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 ness were not wanting, but tliey failed to give me 
 an inifavonrable impression of the state ; my an- 
 ticipations were colom-ed rather from the happi- 
 ness I had seen subsisting between my own pa- 
 rents. But, while I thus contemplated the cer- 
 tainty, that, when a few years had been given to 
 gaiety and the world, the time would come, when 
 I should exchange them for the refined elegance 
 of my own fireside, I had as yet seen no one with 
 whom I wished to share it ; I entertained exalted 
 notions of perfection, to which none of those who 
 hovered around me attained. 
 
 There were, among my suitors, different shades 
 of excellence, but the highest point, to which any 
 one had arrived, fell far below my romantic expec- 
 tations. My imagination had united the most op- 
 posite virtues in one charming " beau ideal ;" not 
 knowing, silly girl, that providence has not be- 
 stowed upon any one a superiority over the rest 
 of mankind, and ignorant that the most striking 
 virtues are commonly balanced by some opposing 
 weakness. Tlie world went thus delightfully with 
 me, when, in my twenty-first year, an often urged 
 request to visit a sister of my mother, m New- 
 York, was repeated with so much earnestness, 
 that my father perceived it must either be accep^ 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID; 61" 
 
 ed, or my kind aunt seriously displeased. There 
 existed, in fact, no obstacle to its acceptance, 
 save in my fond father's unwillingness to part 
 with me. 
 
 My sister, now more than fifteen. Was anxioug 
 to try her skill in housekeeping; novelty for me 
 had its usual captivations ; the common routine 
 of my amusements had grown somewhat w^eari- 
 some ; in short, I was eager to go, and though my 
 tongue said it not, my eyes too plainly spoke my 
 wishes, to leave my father in doubt. 
 
 "I see, Cecilia," he said, one day, when the sub- 
 ject was under discussion, "how your inclina- 
 tions point ; and, I admit, at your age it is natu- 
 ral to seek variety. If you live to arrive at mine, 
 you will understand how unwillingly age relin- 
 quishes any of the few pleasures that remain ; 
 but go, my love ; the pleasure of your return will 
 compensate me for the parting pain." In gay 
 New- York, I saw the same scenes with different 
 actors ; my aunt, grateful for my compliance with 
 her request, omitted nothing that could contribute 
 to my amusement ; parties of pleasure occupied 
 all my time ; my father's wealth made me an ob- 
 ject of general attention, and my good opinion 
 of myself received every confirmation from the* 
 
 e 
 
62 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 flattering tongues around me. I was at this time 
 in imminent danger of becoming a heartless, tri- 
 fling being, a mere woman of fashion, when an 
 event occurred to rouse my dormant sensibilities, 
 to fix them all on one object, to awaken me to a 
 happiness never before experienced. 
 
 On a sailing party, one day, the heedlessness of 
 my gaiety precipitated me into the water. I must 
 inevitably have lost my life, but for the heroism 
 of a young gentleman of the party, who risked 
 his own life to preserve mine. This, I know, is a 
 standard incident in a novel, but such a thing 
 inay have happened in real life. In a novel, it 
 follows of course, that the heroine and her pre- 
 server are destined for each other ; I was no ex- 
 ception to the general rule in such cases. 
 
 I shall not describe Henry Middleton ; it is suffi- 
 cient to say I bestowed my heart upon him, with 
 all the devotedness of woman's love. Under the 
 disguise of gratitude, I fostered a passion the most 
 romantic, the most extravagant ; all that I had 
 deemed happiness before, became distasteful to 
 me • his presence only was capable of confer- 
 ring pleasure. Yet, wholly as this new sentiment 
 possessed me, I had not dared to give it a name, 
 even to my own. heart, until Middleton had utter- 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. 68 
 
 ed words too delightful to my ear. I had never 
 sought to analyze my feelings ; but when he told 
 me I was beloved, I murmured a confession, in 
 words that woman's instinct renders always 
 guarded. A solemn engagement was entered into 
 between us, provided, on my part, that the consent 
 of my father was obtained ; of this I had not a 
 doubt, and considered my future destiny as deci- 
 ded. Particular reasons, which Middleton dis- 
 closed to me, and of which I felt the force, indu- 
 ced him to wish the engagement concealed for a 
 certain time ; having expressly excepted my fa- 
 ther and sister from this arrangement, I cared not 
 for the concealment, though I should otherwise 
 with pride have avowed the object of my choice. 
 Meanwhile, I had considerably exceeded the 
 time allotted for my visit in New- York ; my fa- 
 ther had long been impatient for my return, and 
 a day was fixed for his departure from Boston to 
 conduct me home. I anticipated, with delight, the 
 introduction of Middleton to my father ; they 
 were personally strangers to each other ; but after 
 my escape from a watery grave, my father had 
 written to express his gratitude to Middleton, and 
 a regular correspondence had ensued between 
 them J he was well informed of the state of af- 
 
64 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 fairs between us, but had deferred his answer to 
 my lover's proposals, until he should meet him in 
 New- York. 
 
 I loved my father passionately, and the better, 
 I thhik, for my new passion ; I was, indeed, too 
 happy to harbour a thought other than kind to- 
 wards any being ; for the happy are always amia- 
 ble. When I found myself folded in my father's 
 arms, I fo?got every thing but him, and my happy 
 Boston home. A thousand questions I showered 
 upon him in a breath, and for a time, Middleton 
 was absent from my thoughts ; but for months he 
 had occupied them too exclusively, to suffer them 
 now long to atray ; my eyes began to turn in the 
 direction in v/hich *.e alv/ays came ; every rap at 
 the door mado my heart bound responsively, till 
 at last he entered, ?nd my father's hand was ex 
 tended to him in greeting ; my sight failed me, I 
 forgot to look for the impression produced on m] 
 father by his sight, or rather I dared not seek it 
 for the first time, a doubt, a fear, came over me, 
 and I was glad to fly to my room for composure. 
 n My father stayed some days in New-York, and 
 it was not until the evening preceding our depar- 
 ture, that he spoke to me of INIiddleton. I camiot 
 tell how I endured this suspense j from my fa 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. 65 
 
 ther's usual calm, grave manner, I could guess 
 nothing ; but my imagination, ever active, con- 
 jured up a thousand phantoms ; his gravity seem- 
 ed to me more than usual ; I thought Middleton 
 never appeared to so little advantage. I racked 
 my thoughts to discover if there could be any 
 thing in him to which my father could take excep- 
 tion. A thousand times was I on the point of intro- 
 ducing the subject, but as constantly his name died 
 on my tongue : an inexplicable fear haunted me ; 
 I dreaded something, I knew not what. 
 
 The evening, as I have said, preceding our de- 
 parture, my father came to my room ; 1 knew 
 that I was now to hear my fate ; the unnatural ex- 
 citement to which I had been wrought subsided, 
 and by a sudden revulsion of feeling, I became 
 perfectly calm. " You know, Cecilia," said my 
 father, in his calm, soft tone, " that Mr. Middle- 
 ton has asked my consent to address you ; are you 
 willing to be his wife ? have you maturely weigh- 
 ed his character ? can you think with satisfaction 
 of passing your whole life with him ? Are you 
 sufficiently assured of his principles and affection, 
 to leave for him the friends whose tenderness 
 you have experienced through your whole life, 
 whose affection can never fail ?" The solemnity 
 
 6* 
 
66 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 of my father's manner awed me, I buried my face 
 in my hands, and could only articulate, " Is he not 
 worthy to be beloved ?" 
 
 But why should I dwell upon scenes like this 7 
 is it the natural fondness, with which age looks 
 rback upon the time, when love and confidence are 
 ,cver springing fountains in the heart, and we dream 
 not that falsehood exists to change them to doubt 
 and distrust, or that age and apathy, with slow, 
 hut sure approach, shall freeze them to the source ? 
 I parted from my lover with my father's ratifica- 
 tion of our engagement ; although a doubt he had 
 expressed of Middleton's firmness and stability of 
 character, fbrmed some alloy to my happiness ; but 
 Tconsidered this suspicion unjust to my lover, and 
 unworthy of my father. 
 
 In Boston, I returned not to my usual course of 
 dissipation ; my mind was more seriously attu- 
 ned. I delighted in my o^vn thoughts, which 
 painted ihe happiness I was to enjoy with Mid- 
 flleton ; I sought no longer companions as gay 
 and thoughtless as I had formerly been, but en- 
 deavoured, in the society of my matron friends, 
 to fit myself for the duties I was shortly to assume. 
 The gay train of beaux which had formerly ho- 
 vered around me, renewed their attentions on my 
 
Life of an old maid. 6? 
 
 return, but I received them with a gravity thai 
 surprised them ; there was now but one tongue 
 whose flattery could charm me. Wearied with 
 compliments that no longer interested me, I long- 
 ed to declare my engagement, that it might form 
 a barrier between me and assiduities that dis^ist- 
 ed me. 
 
 Emily was now of an age to appear in general 
 society ; she had started into a most lovely girl, 
 and was fitted by her personal charms, which ex- 
 ceeded mine, and by the vivacity of her temper, 
 to take the place I was most willing to relinquish ; 
 my gay acquaintance, disgusted with my altered 
 manner, transferred their attentions to her ; the 
 new votary of pleasure excited general admira- 
 tion, and I was allowed quietly to retire into the 
 seclusion that was most agreeable to me. 
 
 I am conscious that my mind was not at this 
 time in a heahhfid state. Such inordinate devo- 
 tion to a mortal object, I feel now might have 
 l)een sinful ; it was too exclusive, too confined a 
 love; occupied in considering only my duty to this 
 one object, I was in danger of forgetting the 
 claims of society, and even of kindred ; I suffer- 
 ed my thoughts to dwell, with impatience, upon 
 any thing unconnected with Middleton ; to talk ol 
 
68 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 him to Emily, when she was at leisure to listen to 
 me, to write to him, and to count the days that 
 intervened between my letters from him, were my 
 principal occupations. Thus passed the summer. 
 Conmiunication between New- York and Boston 
 was not in my young days effected, as now, in 
 twenty-four hours. The journey was then of 
 some importance. Owing to this, and other cir- 
 cumstances of more weight, Middleton did not, as 
 I had hoped, visit Boston. 
 
 My disappointment, hoAvever severe, was si- 
 lent ; but not so with Emily ; she openly express- 
 ed her dissatisfaction ; she was anxious, she said, 
 to see this " Paragon," this " Phoenix." " He was 
 not," she thought, " a very ardent lover, or he 
 would have disregarded every obstacle that kept 
 him from the spot that contained his mistress." 
 These words, spoken in jest, sent a bitter pang 
 through my heart ; a love too apprehensive, as I 
 thought, had shadowed out some dim fears, which 
 her thoughtless words brought into too bold an 
 outline. 
 
 But these were only clouds passing across the 
 sun of my felicity ; the next morning a kind letter 
 from Middleton made every thing bright again. 
 At this time, a letter arrived from my aunt, plead- 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. C9 
 
 ing for my company again ; she was old, she 
 wrote, and childless, and needed the excitement 
 of youth and gaiety ; and she urged her claims 
 with the eloquence of age. My father said, when 
 he handed me the letter, " it is for you to decide, 
 my dear." I could not hesitate a moment to de- 
 cline the mvitation. 
 
 The following summer it was arranged that I 
 should seek another home ; I would not shorten 
 the time I could be with my father; and female 
 pride, or delicacy, whispered, « your lover should 
 seek you ; be not too forward, Cecilia." Not to 
 deny my aunt entirely, it was settled that Emily 
 should go to her. Pleased with the wild delight 
 she expressed, I busied myself joyfully with 
 the preparations for her departure ; a thousand 
 charges I gave her for Middleton— bade her 
 write me all she thought of him, kissed her, and 
 bade her farewell. Her first letter to me was 
 nearly filled with praises of Middleton. "He 
 was every thing elegant and graceful ,^^ in person, 
 mind, and manners, " perfection 3" the next was 
 nearly as extravagant ; m the third, she omitted 
 his name, and afterwards seldom mentioned him. 
 In Middleton's letters, his commendations appear- 
 ed constrained. It occurred to me, that Emily had 
 
70 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 not made so favourable an impression as she had 
 received, and perhaps I was not displeased to 
 think that love for me rendered him insensible 
 to all other beauty and merit ' 
 
 Winter passed in quietness and retirement ; the 
 time was drawing near which had been set for 
 Emily's retm-n, for which I had latterly begim to 
 feel strangely anxious. She had ceased to write 
 to me, and her letters to our father were brief and 
 constrained, and at intervals somewhat long. 
 IVhen I complained of this, she ans^vered, she 
 had not time to write. I had heard, in many ways, 
 how gay a life she led, and how much she was 
 admired; and once I had heard some hint of 
 a lover ; and I knew that, while love renders 
 some voluble, in others it chains the tongue. In 
 this manner I accounted for Emily's conduct , 
 but that of Middleton was more mysterious. Why 
 were his letters so evidently changed ; though I 
 scarce knew how changed ; something there was 
 different, though I could settle upon nothing de- 
 cided. I meditated upon this, imtil my brain 
 swanij and I longed for the arrival of Emily to 
 restore my composure by explaining all that 
 alarmed me. 
 
 She came at last, cold, embarrassed, and un- 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. 71 
 
 happy, as I thouglit, but it might be fatigue, or 
 grief at parting with some dear friend j at all 
 events, I had always been her confidant and ad- 
 viser, and she would, doubtless, tell me all that 
 concerned her. Mr. Middleton was well, she said, 
 and she was the bearer of a letter from him ; as 
 she handed it to me, a deep blush flushed her 
 cheek, and her eye fell under mine. Something 
 unpleasant crossed my mind at the momejit, but 
 my thoughts were all with my letter ; its style of 
 affected pleasantry pierced my heart, and brought 
 confirmation, rather than relief to my fears ; the 
 blush, the quailing eye, recurred to my troubled 
 imagination ; a horrible suspicion glanced an in- 
 stant across my mind. I strove in vain to banish 
 it, I flew to my room. Oh love ! I cried, to what 
 meanness dost thou lead me ! Oh Middleton ! 
 shall a wild passion lead me to doubt your ho- 
 nour and my sister's friendship ! 
 
 Notwithstanding I hated myself for harbouring 
 these thoughts, they continued to haunt me. I 
 sought a private conversation with Emily, in the 
 hope of ending my inquietude, but she shunned 
 me; she was always going out, or had some 
 young companion with her, whose presence en- 
 tirely precluded confidential conversation. This 
 
72 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 suspense was torturing ; I said to myself, " the 
 worst certainty is preferable to this racking doubt.'' 
 But I was mistaken ; I was soon to feel that it is 
 sometimes bliss to doubt, compared with the mise- 
 ry of having nothing to hope. Chance at last re- 
 moved every shade of suspense. 
 
 Going as usual, one day, to Emily's room, in 
 the hope of finding her alone, I met her on the 
 stairs prepared to go out. Disappointed, I stopped 
 short. "I was going to sit with you," I said, 
 "but I see you mean to walk." " Yes," she said, en- 
 deavouring to pass me, " I have some business ; 
 some other time you must " She was inter- 
 rupted by a noise as of some one falling, accom- 
 panied by a scream ; we both hastily ran in the di- 
 rection of the sound, and found one of the domes- 
 tics had fallen down a flight of stairs, and sprain- 
 ed her ancle. After ascertaining the extent of the 
 injury, I left Emily bathing the limb, and proceed- 
 ed to my room for a bandage. On the stairs, 
 where I had met Emily, I perceived a letter 
 lying ; I took it up, and saw with feelings it 
 is in vain to describe, that it was directed to 
 "^ Henry Middleton." I did not faint, I did not for 
 a moment lose my senses. I was perfectly com- 
 posed ; the case was plain enough, and I felt all 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. 73 
 
 the calmness that arises from having nothing 
 left to hope or fear. I concealed the letter in my 
 bosom, then returned, and assisted to bandage the 
 bruised limb. When all was done, I returned to 
 my room, and, with the evidence of the guilt of 
 my lover and my sister before me, meditated 
 upon the course it was mcumbent on me to pursue. 
 I heard Emily come to the stairs, go to her room, 
 quit it, and again return ; I knew she was search- 
 ing for the letter, and, miserable as I was, I pitied 
 her, quaking under the terrors of detected guilt. 
 
 Having settled how I should act, I took the let- 
 ter in my hand and went to her room ; as I ap- 
 proached, I heard her pacing the floor. How of- 
 ten, of late, had I felt that mental inquietude 
 which will not suffer the body to remain stationa- 
 ry ! I knocked at the door ; a faint voice said, 
 " come in :" as I entered, she blushed, fixed her 
 eye upon the letter, which I held in my hand, and 
 grew very pale. I laid the letter down ; " You 
 have been looking for this,'^ I said, "and perhaps, 
 had rather I had not found it ; I can account but 
 in one way, for a clandestine correspondence be- 
 tween my sister and Mr, Middleton ; it is for you 
 to say, if I am not right." 
 
 In a voice, she vainly endeavoured to render 
 
 7 
 
74 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 firm, she said, " I had a commission for Mr. Mid- 
 dleton, but I thought you would be jealous if you 
 were to know that I write to him." " Not, surely, 
 if I were acquainted with the cause ; not if it were 
 done openly ; surely I could not easily be made 
 jealous of my sister ; but I am, I confess, a poor 
 weak creature; it is the infirmity of too fond an 
 affection for you, as well as for Mr. Middleton, 
 Emily, which makes me thus doubtful of Avhat 
 you say j if you speak thre truth, make me blush 
 for my suspicions ; permit me to open this letter." 
 " No," she said, hastily catching the letter, " it is 
 private ; besides," with a quiverm g voice, " I will 
 not condescend thus to remove suspicions you 
 should blush to entertain." " Oh !" said I, trem- 
 bling with agitation, and catching her arm, " you 
 are but a novice in falsehood, Emily, b^t I must 
 know all; you love Middleton; tell me^ by 
 yom* truth and conscience tell me, has he sought 
 your love?" There is something appalling in 
 the vehemence of passion. She trembled ; her 
 face was deadly pale. " Let me go," she almost 
 shrieked, " you are mad." " I am not mad, but 
 you can make me so, by refusing to answer my 
 question 5 has Middleton not sought your love ?" 
 Still no answer j but her silence was sufficient. 
 
LIFE OT AN OXD MAT©. 75 
 
 How weak are the resolutions we fonn, while 
 the danger we dread is yet at a distance j I had 
 determined to be mild and moderate ; to pierce 
 her with contempt, if, indeed, she was worthy of 
 it ; but nature would have its way ; I knew my 
 eyes were wild, my face flushed. "I see," I said, 
 "I have no longer a sister, no longer a lover; but, 
 wretched as your perfidy has made me, happy as 
 you may be in reciprocated affection, at this mo- 
 ment I rejoice that I am not as you are. Con- 
 tempt will soon cure me of my love ", but what 
 can soothe remorse, that shall as surely come to 
 you as light follows the sun ? what shall relieve 
 the satiety of passion, which is not rooted in 
 esteem ?" 
 
 Emily was overcome ; she caught me by my 
 dress ; " Hate me," she said, " load me with re- 
 proaches ; you cannot say any thing so bitter as 
 my own conscience whispers ; well have you said, 
 you cannot be half so ^^Tetched as I am ; yet, oh, 
 Ceciltfi, I struggled long against this fatal passion; 
 I was not easily made so vile to you ; I will even 
 now relinquish him if you bid me do it." " I bid 
 you ? Oh no ! to me he can henceforth be nothing. 
 Yet, Emily, consider well what you do. False 
 once, he may be false again ; give him not up ^ »^r 
 
76 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 heart as I have done, lest you should be deceived 
 as I have been." 
 
 I went to the door. " Stay, my sister," sobbed 
 Emily, hanging on me, " my father, — you are his 
 favourite ;— if he should know of this,— Oh Hea- 
 vens !" I saw what she wished. " If you do not 
 mean that he shall know what this hour has re- 
 vealed, I will gladly spare him the pain ; and, for 
 yourself, Emily, consider well what you do." — I 
 flew to my room, threw myself upon the bed, and 
 bitter tears gushed in torrents. — After a long time 
 given to the indulgence of this transport, I took 
 from my neck the miniature of Middleton, en- 
 closed it in a package with his letters, wrote a long 
 letter to Emily, in which I desired her to return 
 them to Mr. Middleton, and request mine in return ; 
 advised her earnestly not to continue a connexion, 
 which regard for her father's happiness made it 
 necessary to conceal, and to which she could ne- 
 ver hope his sanction ; informed her of the course 
 I had determined to pursue ; and begged the sub- 
 ject might never again be referred to between us. 
 I sent an excuse to my father for not appearing 
 at the tea table, and devoted the evening to these 
 employments. 
 
 W^len all was done, when I had no longer the 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. T? 
 
 relief of action, I felt all the misery, all the anfulsh 
 of my lot; I camiot now look back upon that 
 night without a shudder. It was impossible that 
 I should continue in the house with Emily, and 
 not betray to my father that something was wrong 
 between us; I pleadedtherefore indisposition, and 
 requested permission to visit a friend in the coun- 
 try. I flattered myself, that new objects might in 
 some measure divert my mind. 
 
 On my arrival, I wrote to my father that cir- 
 cumstances, into which I trusted he would not 
 inquire, had induced me to put an end to my en- 
 gagement with Mr. Middleton ; as he had the 
 goodness to desire only my happiness, I wished 
 him to feel assured that Mr. Middleton could never 
 constitute it. My father's answer was as I wished 
 and expected, and a letter from Emily was ac- 
 companied by my part of the correspondence with 
 Middleton. 
 
 All was now over ; I had leisure to turn my 
 mind to other thoughts, I called the aid of reason, 
 of philosophy fe banish all traces of a passion, 
 unfortunate, and unworthy of me. I sought, in 
 variety of occupation, to divert my mind from one 
 contemplation. I had never lived much in the 
 country, and I had hoped that the novelty of my 
 
 7* 
 
78 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 life would do much toward my cure ; but I was 
 wrong to seek for composure in retirement ; I 
 should have entered the busy world instead ; action, 
 excitement, were what I wanted. In the place 
 I had chosen, I felt no interest in the inhabitants ; 
 we had no ideas in common, their company was 
 distasteful to me, it contrasted too unfavourably 
 with what I had formerly enjoyed ; their opinion 
 was indifferent to me, and I ceased to think of it, 
 or them. I had no motive for exertion ; to force 
 my mind from one painful thought, it was neces- 
 sary to supply it with other objects ; but nothing 
 had power to interest me ; I wandered listlessly 
 about the house, or roamed for hours in the most 
 secluded spot I could discover ; I sunk into a state 
 of feelmg, worse even than the transports of de- 
 spair. I cannot better descibe my state than in 
 the words of a more recent poet, 
 
 " One fatal remembrance, one sorrow, that throws 
 Its dark shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, 
 To which life nothing brighter nor darker can bring, 
 For which joy hath no balm and affliction no sting." 
 
 From this state of apathy I was awakened by a 
 shock even more severe than that which had 
 brought me so low. I thought joy and sorrow 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. tO 
 
 had lost their power over me. I had yet to learn 
 how much the heart can endure, ere it " forgets 
 itself to stone." 
 
 I had been three months in the country, when 
 a messenger arrived from Boston, announcing the 
 dangerous illness of my father. Roused, as by a 
 thunderbolt, I scarcely breathed until I found my- 
 self on the road to Boston ; the natural vehemence 
 of my temper, that I had thought forever gone, 
 returned, and the speed of the winds would have 
 been insufficient for my impatience. 1 stopped 
 not' for rest, or refreshment. By profuse promises, 
 I prevailed upon my driver to expedite my pro- 
 gress. I arrived in time ; kind nature sustained 
 me to receive my father's blessing, to catch his 
 last breath, to close his eyes. Then a deadl}^ sick- 
 ness came over me ; I fell, and awoke not to the 
 consciousness of my loss for many weeks : these 
 are scenes which memory shudders at, — let me 
 hurry on. I foimd my kind aunt by my bedside; 
 she had, notwithstanding her age, hastened to 
 B.oston immediately upon hearing of my illness ; 
 her kindness was unwearied, and her mild and 
 judicious consolations restored me to some degree 
 of composure. 
 
 I was able now to thmk of Emily and Middleton 
 
80 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 without shuddering ; the loss of my father had 
 rendered that of my lover comparatively light ; 
 as the tenth wave of the sea effaces the trace of 
 the preceding. By my father's death, his daugh- 
 ters were left the richest heiresses in New-Eng- 
 iand. My aunt requested me to reside with her ; 
 Emily, she said, would ere long have a home of 
 her own. I sighed at this speech, but made no 
 comment. " Indeed," continued my aunt, " I 
 have desired that the marriage should take place 
 immediately, we should not throw away our 
 happiness upon tlie forms of the world ; Emily's 
 grief has been too much for her constitution ; she 
 will find the most effectual consolation in the ten- 
 derness of a husband. Have you, my love, any 
 objections to the marriage of Emily taking place 
 at once, with the utmost privacy ?" I gasped at 
 this question, but answered, " none, if Emily can 
 think of marriage at such a time." 
 
 But let me be brief in what remains to be told : 
 Emily was married to Middleton, three months 
 after the death of my father. I could not avoid 
 being present at the ceremony, without betraying 
 what it was necessary to conceal ; I summoned 
 all my courage for the effort, and it did not desert 
 me. "N^Hiat miraculous power has the mind over 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. 81 
 
 the body ! I met Middleton, for the first time as 
 the betrothed husband of Emily, with a calm de- 
 meanour, an unfaltering voice; I stood with them 
 at the altar, as the Indian at the stake, and mine 
 was the only voice that quivered not, the only 
 cheek that kept its colour. 
 
 Immediately after the marriage, which took 
 place in the morning, my aunt and myself took 
 leave of the bride and bridegroom, who were to 
 inhabit my father's house, Mr. IVIiddleton having 
 abandoned his profession of the law, and estab- 
 lished himself in Boston, as a merchant. We 
 proceeded to New-York, which has since been 
 my home. Ten years flew over m.y head without 
 material change. 
 
 You will not be surprised, for you know some- 
 thing of human nature, to learn that an idea of 
 marrying glanced across my mind; wounded 
 pride urged me to marry, lest Middleton should 
 believe a lurking tenderness for him kept me 
 single. But this suggestion was supported by no 
 auxiliary ; reason and principle told me, I should 
 not on such motives contract a connexion so in-* 
 timate, and my heart, I believed, was forever 
 closed to impressions of tenderness. I did not 
 long debate the matter with myself; at twenty- 
 
82 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 five, I was as decidedly an " old maid" as now, 
 when more than seventy years have marked their 
 furrows on my brow. Ten years passed away 
 in the tranquillity of an active and useful life. 
 
 My affections, diverted from the usual channel, 
 spread themselves in numerous streams ; my large 
 fortune furnished me with means of enjoyment, 
 tliat, in the exclusiveness of youthful passion, I 
 had neglected. 
 
 So calm, so satisfying, was my life thus spent, 
 that I wondered I could have been unhappy ; my 
 feelings forMiddletonhad long subsided into quiet- 
 ness, not unmingled with contempt. Perhaps 
 you may be interested in his fate. After his mar- 
 riage, intoxicated with the possession of a large 
 fortune, he commenced a career of extravagance, 
 to which the largest possessions would have been 
 inadequate, in which he was fully seconded by 
 the thoughtless Emily. A prudent partner had 
 for some tim€ averted the catastrophe which such 
 conduct could not fail to produce ; but at the ex- 
 piration of ten years he was involved in debt, and 
 declared a bankrupt. From this distress he was 
 relieved by the death of my aunt. I had seen 
 them but once since their marriage, and then re- 
 monstrated with Emily, in strong terms, at the 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD ST AH). 83 
 
 niinous course they were pursuing. She felt 
 mortified and displeased. I was not disposed 
 to temporize, and we parted with mutually un- 
 pleasant feelings towards each other. My aunt, 
 disgusted with their conduct, determined to leave 
 them nothing ; but at my earnest request, con- 
 sented to make Emily equal with myself ; a moiety 
 of Emily's part was secured to her children, and 
 the remainder was appropriated to re-establish 
 her husband in business. 
 
 The summer following the death of my aunt, 
 I joined a party of friends to make the tour of 
 Europe. We visited successively, "■merry Eng- 
 land," France, Switzerland, Italy, AiTstxia, and 
 Germany, and, on our homeward route, spent a 
 few months in Spain. To me this tour abounded 
 with objects of interest aikl pleasure ; yet, among 
 all the treasures of art, all the stores of learning, 
 I turned to my o^vn happy America, with the 
 fullest conviction of the happiness of calling it my 
 home. My correspondence with my sister had 
 for some years been very irregular ; I Avrote to 
 her frequently while in Europe, but received not 
 a line from her ; it was not until I visited England, 
 for the second time, that I heard from an acquaint- 
 ance of the distressed condition of her affairs 
 
84 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 My informant had just arrived from America, and, 
 previous to his departure, the bankruptcy of Mid- 
 dloton, for the second time, had been declared. 
 His creditors, much exasperated against him, had 
 seized every thing they could obtain, and nothing 
 remained to my unfortunate sister, but the slender 
 interest derived from the fortune of her children. 
 
 On hearing this account, all my former affection 
 for Emily revived ; I had thought her conduct had 
 extinguished the tenderness of nature ; but those 
 feelings are implanted with our life, and end but 
 with our existence. I immediately took leave of 
 my friends, and sailed in the first vessel for Ame- 
 rica. Arrived in New- York, I made no longer 
 delay than was sufficient to make the necessary 
 mquiries, but proceeded at once to Boston ; I 
 found Emily in lodgings, much distressed ; her 
 children's fortune supplied her with the necessa- 
 ries of life, but her husband was confined for debt ; 
 and the inexorableness of his creditors left him 
 no hope of a speedy release. 
 
 I saw Middleton immediately ; what a change 
 was there ! I gazed at the smiken eye, the attenu- 
 ated frame, where dissipation and excess had im- 
 printed their ineffaceable marks, and thought, can 
 this be he whom I once deemed worthy of little 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. 85 
 
 less than idolatry? Having ascertained the amount 
 of his debts, I devoted the property I received 
 from my aunt, to discharging them in equal pro- 
 portions. His creditors, satisfied that nothing 
 more could be obtained, and pleased with my con- 
 duct, gave him a discharge. An old friend of my 
 father offered him a situation in India, that held 
 forth advantages greater than he had any right 
 to expect. I took upon myself the care of his 
 children, (two lovely girls only remaining out of 
 seven,) and his wife, if she should determine not 
 to accompany him. Some faint ideas of duty^ 
 mingled with an aversion to go with him, caused 
 some hesitation in her mind, which was quickly 
 ended by her husband's hardly suppressed desire 
 not to be troubled with her. Poor Emily ! my 
 prophecies were fulfilled, and I pitied her from 
 the bottom of my heart. 
 
 Every thing was speedily arranged for his de- 
 parture, and, fifteen years after his marriage, at 
 the age of forty-two, he left his country, to which 
 he was destined never to return. Emily, shat- 
 tered in health and spirits, became, with her 
 children, members of my family. I soon saw 
 that her life would not be of long continuance, 
 and I saw also with bitter anguish, that I must 
 
 8 
 
86 SOME PASSAGES IN THE 
 
 not hope to revive in her the affection of our ear- 
 lier years. The same thing that made her now 
 dearer to me than ever, operated in her against 
 tenderness. A feehng of inferiority, an over- 
 powering weiglit of obhgation, repressed all other- 
 feelings in her breast ; a degree of equality is- 
 necessary for friendship, and she felt herself de- 
 pressed too far below me. There was in her na 
 inward strength to resist misfortune ; she lingered 
 not many months ; and on her death bed she said 
 to me, " Wlio would not think mine should have 
 been the happier lot in life ? I was never crossed 
 in a single wish ; married to the man of my choice, 
 I may say, ' cursed with every granted prayer ;' 
 while your affections have been crushed by false- 
 hood in its direst form ; you saw the man you 
 loved married to another ; yet you have had years 
 of happiness, while I have never felt a single mo- 
 ment of unalloyed felicity. My sister, teach my 
 children the moral of our story ! They are yours ; 
 their father will never return to claim them ; but 
 teach them to think with tenderness of their 
 MTCtched mother, who has so dearly expiated her 
 treachery to you." 
 
 Long and bitterly did I mourn her, but her 
 children supplied me with objects of interest, in 
 
LIFE OF AN OLD MAID. 87 
 
 which my heart might fully expand itself. Care- 
 fully have I reared them, and well do they repay 
 my care. The eldest, Ceciha, is a wife and mo- 
 ther, and her children are so much with me, that 
 I have no leisure to pet cats and parrots. My 
 Emily is still with me, and says she will be an 
 *' old maid" to honour my example ; but yester- 
 day I saw her blush deeply at the entrance of a 
 favourite young friend of mine, who is kind enough 
 to fxud a great deal of instruction in my conver- 
 sation. Wliat this means, time I suppose will 
 discover. Meanwhile, I am happy in the enjoy- 
 ment of all that remains to age ; and, grateful for 
 the blessings I have enjoyed in this hfe, I await 
 in humble hope the summons that shall call me 
 to eternity. ****** 
 
 WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? 
 
 BY THE REV. G. W. DOANE. 
 
 What is that, mother 1 
 
 The lark, my child ! 
 The moon has but just looked out and smiled, 
 When he starts from Ws humble, grassy nest, 
 And is up and away, with the dew on his breast 
 
88 WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? 
 
 And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, 
 
 To warble it out in his Maker's ear — 
 Ever, my child, be thy morning lays 
 Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 
 
 What is that, mother 1 
 
 The dove, my son ! 
 And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan. 
 Is flowing out from her gentle breast, 
 Constant and pure, by that lonely nest. 
 As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, 
 For her distant dear one's quick return — 
 Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, 
 In friendship as faithful, as constant in love ! 
 
 Wliat is that, mother 1 
 
 The eagle, boy ' 
 Proudly careering his course of joy ; 
 Firm, on bis own mountain vigour relying, 
 Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying — 
 His wing on the wind, and his eye in the sun, 
 He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on^ 
 Boy ! may the eagle's flight ever be thine, 
 Onward, and upward, and true to the line ! 
 
 What is that, mother ? 
 
 The swan, my love ! 
 He is floating down from his native ffxo\e j 
 
THE seaman's widow. f¥,) 
 
 No loved one now, no nestling nigh, 
 He is floating down by himself to die 4 
 Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, 
 Yet his sweetest song is the last he sincrs — 
 Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 
 Swan-like and sweet, it may wail thee home ! 
 
 THE SEAMAN'S WIDOW. 
 
 BY GRENVILLE MELLEN. 
 
 In one of those beauiifiil indentures that mark 
 the coast of Long Island, was some years ago to 
 be seen a small, but neat building, at that time 
 occupied by an officer in the naval service of the 
 Republic, A.t the first glance it seemed to be a 
 dwelling place well designed for a son of the 
 ocean. Situated almost upon the borders of the 
 sea, the eye was perpetually filled with its vast- 
 ness and wonders, while the music of its waves, 
 whether in their stormiest or laziest flow, was 
 distinctly and continually heard there. The spot, 
 too, was cultivated, and wore an air of seclusion, 
 that in another age would have been called ro- 
 mantic. Tall overhanging trees grew round 
 
 8* 
 
90 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 about, and waved over the low roof, while the 
 land, in the shape of a lawn, sloped away in fine 
 verdure to the shore. The prospect of the Sound 
 was extensive and delightful ; for, though the re- 
 sidence was at the head of a small bay, still, as 
 the land lay low on all sides, its position afforded 
 a wide reach of water scenery. Taste and order 
 reigned round the dwelling ; and you might see 
 there the honeysuckle and woodbine clambering 
 in at door and M^ndow, until the little place seem- 
 ed to be almost embowered. In short, it was a 
 place of beautiful quiet — one of those places that 
 we dream about, and pant to fly to, when weary 
 with the ways of men and the thousand heavy 
 and disheartening things of life. 
 
 To this retreat, soon after his marriage. Captain 
 Kirkwood retired with his young and lovely wife. 
 He had served long and well. Honour he had 
 won, and with death he had been familiar in his 
 course of high endeavour and perilous struggle 
 for his land, and he had been successful. Next 
 came the reward of beauty and worth, and he 
 called himself happy. In the flush of life, with a 
 reputation that was ringing about him, he mar- 
 ried a woman in whom he had found accomplish- 
 ment united with affisction, and loveliness with 
 
THE SEAMAN S WIDOW. 91 
 
 all virtue. She looked on him with pride, for hia 
 character and his fame ; and he on her with de- 
 light, for the hallowed purity of her heart. Here- 
 tofore he had heard enough of praise from all 
 quarters j he now wished for a still and concen- 
 trated admiration, and he saw it offered in the 
 person of one, who was indeed a prize to him, 
 for he had borne her away from a throng of ad- 
 mirers, with wit and wealth for their portion. It 
 is not surprising, therefore, that, living just as he 
 did, and where he did, he was eminently happy. 
 His youthful wife, while she was Helen Fraser, 
 had been celebrated for her beauty. She was then 
 giddy with the applause that murmured round 
 her wherever she went. She was the glittering 
 centre of the circle that she charmed about her, 
 not because she was strikingly wise, or by any 
 means magical in her attractions, but because she 
 had so much heart in her manner, and so much 
 do"vvnright kmdness mingling with the natural 
 pride of the station which all had willingly as- 
 signed her. She had grown up thus far in fashion- 
 able life, ever retaining, however, a wonderful 
 spirit — energetic, deep-toned, full of sympathy, 
 but totally inexperienced, and with a heart whose 
 pure elements the world had not contaminated or 
 
92 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 touched. Such as we have here described her, 
 she gave her heart fervently to James Kirkwood, 
 who inherited httle else but a competency and his 
 good fame. 
 
 Yet Helen Fraser had no idea, when she mar- 
 ried Kirkwood, that she put her happiness into 
 great risk. She thought not of the dangers of his 
 profession, and that the chances of life were di- 
 minished by his being in it. She thought only 
 of its glory. As to leaving her companions, and 
 the 'pride of place' she held in an admiring group 
 of friends, it was nothing to her. Instead of be- 
 ing gazed at, she was now but taking her turn to 
 gaze at the world, and to learn something of its 
 realities. Besides, her friends were near her. 
 The spires and vanes of the city were in view ; 
 and while she could see them glitter in the light 
 of morning and evening, and hear the hum of the 
 metropolis stealing out on the breeze, she felt as 
 though all former ties were as yet unsevered, and 
 that even were Kirkwood called suddenly away, 
 a moment of time would bring her friends to her, 
 or carry her back to her friends. 
 
 And such a time had now come— already come, 
 while yet the bridal wreath was fresh upon her 
 brows. It was a time of trouble, and for purposes 
 
THE seaman's widow. 93 
 
 of protection, it became necessary to despatch a 
 force to thfi Mediterranean. The ship to which 
 Kirkwood was attached, was under orders to sail 
 forthwith for those seas, and at the time our tale 
 commences, his wife was alone at the cottage, 
 waiting his arrival from the city, to which the 
 business of preparation had called him in the early 
 part of the day. The evening was a bland one 
 in midsummer. She sat at the window, earnestly 
 gazing out in exp^tation of his approach. The 
 l£ist light of sunset shot through the flowers and 
 wild vines, and sent a mellow lustre into the room. 
 It was all fragrance and tAvilight. Thoughts were 
 rising upon her mind, that had never visited it 
 before, because, till now, the occasion had never 
 come that should suggest them. She had never 
 reflected upon the possibility of these things, and 
 she now began to question herself, and to grow 
 sad and uneasy. But her reverie was broken by 
 the arrival of Kirkwood, attended by a female 
 companion. She recognised her with evident 
 satisfaction, and hastened to welcome them at 
 the door. 
 
 ' Well, Helen,' said Kirkwood, ' you see I have 
 prevailed, and brought Julia, who has promised 
 to remain wiih you during my truant months ; so 
 
94 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 you must contrive to make yourselves happy 
 while I am gone on this ill-timed cruise. But I 
 hope,' continued he, forcing an air of gaiety, ' that 
 I shall soon be back again to make you both stare 
 at my delightful stories about the turbans.' 
 
 There was no hilarity to answer that in which 
 these words were uttered, and the conversation 
 turned to other topics. It was a relief, indeed, 
 to tliat young wife to find so tried a friend at her 
 side at this crisis. They had been as sisters from 
 their childhood ; — could any thing separate them 
 at such a time ! 
 
 The evening, however, passed heavily. It grew 
 late. The frigate that lay on the calm waters in 
 full view of the dwelling, and on which they had 
 ail been unconsciously gazing, was now lost in 
 gloom. The air grew chill. Kirkwood drew 
 down the Mdndow, and the party retired with a 
 melancholy good night. 
 
 The next morning there was frequent passing 
 to and from the shore ; and before noon his wife 
 and friend were there to wish Kirkwood farewell 
 and a good wind. Helen did not sink under this, 
 though it was a trial sore and cutting to her un- 
 tried heart. The ship unfurled her canvass, the 
 guns roared over the ¥»'aters, and the signal was 
 
THE seaman's widow. 95 
 
 given for weighing anchor. KirkAvood, in a tone 
 of hilarity, bade them have no fear for him. 
 
 'God bless yon, Helen ! God bless and preserve 
 you, my dear girl ! Don't look pale while I am 
 gone. Bear np, bear up — yon shall hear from me 
 as oft^n as possible, and every thing shall go well.' 
 
 She did bear up. Woman is capable of won- 
 derfiil fortitude at times, and here was another 
 example of it. 
 
 ' I will believe,' said she, placidly, and in an 
 mider tone, ' I will believe all you tell me — that 
 you will return soon in safety and with gratitude. 
 And now go,' continued she, as if fearing for the 
 mastery of her feehngs, ' don't you see that your 
 ship is impatient to be gone, and the signal has 
 already called you ?' 
 
 Kirkwood bent over her, and whispered a few 
 words, then sprung into the boat in waiting, and 
 soon stood upon the deck of his vessel. 
 
 The two friends, without interchanging a single 
 word, hurried up the la"\\ai and into the house, 
 before they ventured a glance at the gallant frigate. 
 They then seated themselves in silence at the 
 windows, to watch her movements as she put to 
 sea. Long did they remain there looking at that 
 beautiful object. By degrees, sail after sail was 
 
96 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 dropped, and filled away before the freshening 
 wind, till she seemed to float over the element 
 under a cloud of canvass. At first, every spar was 
 distinctly visible as the sails were stretched upon 
 them, and the men could be seen darting among 
 the rigging, in the busy preparation for the voyage. 
 Gradually the ship sunk into a white, towering 
 mass, that appeared to rest against the sky, con- 
 tinuing to diminish, until it faded into a speck of 
 mist on the watery horizon. 
 
 It was then that Helen turned to her companion, 
 and felt how many of her hopes were extinguished 
 when that white sail died in the distance. She 
 arose up, with tears trembling in her eyes, and 
 walked the room with her arms folded upon her 
 bosom. 
 
 " Certainly," said she, " I have seen many part- 
 ings, Julia, and heard of them too, under circum- 
 stances of no small anxiety, and people seemed 
 to take them as a matter of course ; but I find I 
 have never thought of these things, or else I am 
 different from every body else." 
 
 Julia saw, that, in some respects, she was so 
 indeed ; and she began to banter her for her me- 
 lancholy. 
 
 The next day came in with storm and rain ; 
 
THE seaman's widow. 97 
 
 bat there was every reason to believe that the 
 ship had got well to sea, as the wind had blown 
 freshly and prosperously during the night. Still 
 it was a sad day to begin her widowhood with, 
 and Helen was disposed to presage something 
 from it. Tliis was not superstition in her ; it was 
 , merely the indulgence of a feeling that holds all 
 of us more or less v/ithin its influence. Yet such 
 was but the first of many days of disquiet that 
 she was doomed to pass. 
 
 As might be expected, the retreat was not un- 
 visited at this crisis. It was the resort of many 
 kind and solicitous friends, who came and went 
 with smiles of cheerfulness and words of conso- 
 lation ; while in Julia, her companion, she found 
 that well-ordered sympathy that does more than 
 any thing, to reconcile us to hard occasions. She 
 did not yield a ready echo to every fear that she 
 breathed, but contrived to elude all mention of 
 the painful part of her anticipations, while she 
 ah^-ays treated them with tender, but silent atten- 
 tion. Still Julia was sensitive to a fault ; but she 
 nad forethought as well as tears for her friends, 
 and, over all, an intelligence that beguiled time 
 of half its weariness. 
 
 But Helen Kirkwood's strength was miscalcu- 
 
 n 
 
98 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 lated , She knew little about it herself ; and where 
 she came to feel how it was going from her, she 
 wondered how she had dared to put it to such 
 trial* Yet she felt that this was not so great a 
 struggle to bear with, after all. Thousands of 
 fine spirits had undergone such before, and their 
 eyes had not lost lustre, nor their cheeks coIouTj 
 nor their frames life and proportion. But we 
 have said that she was young, and unprepared, 
 and singularly confiding.. Neither her own reso- 
 lution, therefore, nor the tone of comfort and hope 
 assumed by her friends, could rid her of that pro- 
 phetic sense of evil that sat upon her spirit like 
 an incubus, pressing it deeply and painfully home 
 to its citadel. She went out and walked among 
 the flowers and woods, and talked with her friend 
 as she had been accustomed to in her rambles 
 with Kirkwood, and, with her, planned out num- 
 berless little things to please and surprise hrm. 
 But all this was constrained, it was unnatural — a 
 vain effort to escape from the chilling, deadening 
 influence of some of those terrible convictions, 
 that, in spite of us, will sometimes people the 
 imagination, 
 
 Autuum passed by, and winter was verging on, 
 when the first letters arrived. One was dated at 
 
THE seaman's widow. 09 
 
 sea, and written in strains of alternate hope and 
 anxiety and happiness. The prospect of a speedy- 
 voyage appeared to be quite certain, and a deter- 
 mination to do something brilliant and decisive 
 was earnestly expressed. Something desperate 
 tvas to be done, and the service would be peril- 
 ous. " But then," said he, " exposure is a part of 
 our profession, Helen, and peril is the track we 
 are always doomed to move in.^ H€rre,tJonjured 
 flp anew, was the very fear that had been, since 
 fiis departure, pursuing her like a phantom. Once 
 she would have looked on the thought of security 
 as inglorious. Now, fame was a word of sad 
 import to her ; and safety was something better 
 than honour — it was her happiness, her salvation. 
 The winter went heavily by, and found our 
 friends at their still fireside in almost unbroken 
 retirement. Tliough often urged to revisit her 
 former circles, Helen had no heart to do it. Her 
 friends knew her too well to press the matter. 
 With Julia aloiie,thCTefore,she passed the season 
 of gloom, rerievmg it, as well as could be hoped, 
 with such scenery to fill their eyes, and such re- 
 collections to occupy their hearts. StiU Kirkwood'a 
 letters continued to come fast and full, brmging 
 gladness and consolation, momentary though 
 
100 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 tliey might be, into that httle dwelling. But ni 
 no one was a hope held out of return. Every- 
 thing was very uncertain. The service was active. 
 Wliat the end would be, and when, was a pro- 
 blem ; and to talk of return as a thing certain, 
 was not to be permitted, and, besides, would 
 awaken hopes, that might not be realized, till the 
 expectant was disheartened. WTiat but a deadly 
 one, could be the effect of such conclusions upon 
 one so constituted 1 The Avinter fled without hope; 
 and when Helen first opened her doors and win- 
 dows on the new-budding vines that clung about 
 them, it was with as little prospect of joy to come, 
 as when their leaves fell fluttering and circling 
 round her in the dim sunlight of autumn. 
 
 The effect of all these things could be no longer 
 concealed. Sickness had followed ; and ere the 
 winter was over, it was evident that disappoint- 
 ment, leagued with disease, had commenced its 
 work of decay and desolation. It was decay, 
 however, unaccompanied by complaint of any 
 sort. Her smile, indeed, grew more languid, and 
 a beautiful complacency came on as her presen- 
 timents grew more fixed and decided. 
 
 A long interval had now elapsed since the last 
 letter. The season had again mellowed into sum- 
 
THE SEAKAN's.VIDOV- 30j 
 
 mer, and fruits and flowers wer.e onc-e .more hang- 
 ing about the retreal ?iiut Helen. no-longer mcvea 
 among them as she had been wont to. A pale 
 cheek, a quick-beating heart, too well whispered 
 the story of her suffering. The subtle, strange 
 fever of the spirit was upon her, and she felt that 
 she was to be a martyr. At length all her ap- 
 prehensions seemed about to be realized. There 
 had been vague rumours of the loss of a govern- 
 ment ship in the Mediterranean, by storai or battle. 
 Heretofore it had been nothing but rumour, and 
 as such had circulated but little in the papers. It 
 was now ascertained that the report was true, and 
 the public prints were filled with accounts of a 
 hard fought battle between the ship commanded 
 by Kirkwood and an Algerine frigate. Still there 
 was nothing official. The journals only said, in 
 addition, that the contest was gallantly maintained, 
 and that the American commander was mortally 
 wounded. 
 
 When Helen read this intelligence, at length 
 assuming some credible shape, there was no vio- 
 lent burst of grief, no wailing or despair ; but the 
 little hope that had hitherto sustained her, seemed 
 suddenly withdrawn, and she settled downward 
 to the earth as though an overpowering and over- 
 
 9* 
 
102 T^ftLie j^eaman^s widow. 
 
 shaf/awmg presence -was tlp(?n her. So com- 
 pletely had'the siibd^img eonviction of a terrible 
 issue come over her, that, had the death of Kirk- 
 wood at that moment been announced to her, it 
 would have been any thing but stunning intelli- 
 gence. She looked as though the worst might 
 come now, and she would receive it with tran- 
 quillity. Still there was no complaint ; but sighs 
 broke from her, such as come only from an ex- 
 piring spirit. It was now the time of conflicting 
 emotions; and the troubled tides were rushing 
 and mingling about her heart, as some distant 
 hope would shoot over the stirring elements, and 
 startle them into exultation. Again the waters 
 would subside, and a profound calm settle upon 
 the deep. 
 
 She had now become so feeble that even her 
 companion's encouraging hilarity could no longer 
 keep her up. 
 
 " I am iller than ever, Julia," said she ; " I will 
 go into my bedroom ; it seems the fittest place for 
 me ; I cannot hold up much longer ; and I am 
 only a trouble to you, to be wandering about so." 
 
 There is something inexpressibly touching in 
 this voluntary relinquishment of the common 
 holds upon life and its pleasures— of all that sense 
 
THE seaman's widow. 103 
 
 of enjoyment that comes from moving among the 
 beauties of the world and in its free air, for the 
 sameness and silence of a sick-room ; for a sick- 
 chamber is but the vestibule of the tombj and when 
 the beautiful and young go into it, wiih a pre- 
 paredness of spirit, and that quiet tone of feeling 
 tli|^ is as far removed from complaint as it is from 
 display, there is something in the spectacle irre- 
 sistibly chastening and pathetic. 
 
 Here, then, in a small room that opened upon 
 the blue sea, she set herself to wait the issue. A 
 holiness of purpose seemed now to have settled 
 upon her, and a concentration of her thoughts 
 seemed to have taken place, that served pecu- 
 liarly to harmonize with her sickness. On a 
 small table at her bedside, lay her Bible, and 
 under it the paper that contained the last distress- 
 ing account of Kirk wood. This she kept by her 
 continually ; and often was she to be seen holding 
 it for hours together, with her eyes fixed vacantly 
 upon that part which bore the intelligence, as 
 though she were trying to derive something new 
 from what she had read again and again. Thus 
 was she cherishing, with a deep, calm fervour, the 
 very lines that had bowed her down, merely be- 
 cause they were the last that had come, relating 
 
104 T«E seaman's widow. 
 
 to her unfortunate husband, and because they 
 still left to her the doubtful joy of one dim solitary 
 liope. 
 
 Yet Helen was not alone. She was not forgot- 
 ten. Over her sad lot, there were many to weep, 
 who had known her in the days of bloom, when 
 joy was ever present, the buoyant handmaideaof 
 her bright hours. Her friends were often with 
 her ; but it was no longer with the smile of social 
 rebuke at imaginary fears, or with the language of 
 consolation. They looked on her as one M'hom 
 they could not trifle with in that way, as though 
 the conviction of her terrible loss, and of her com- 
 ing destiny, M'as too deeply seated to be charmed 
 away by kind words or kind looks. They re- 
 garded her as an offering for the grave, and felt a 
 hallowed solemnity steal over them, as they saw 
 her there, waiting, as it might be, for her sepul- 
 ture. The house was as tranquil as though it W£is 
 deserted ; no glad voices were heard there ; no 
 human sound, but occasionally, when Julia sung 
 some low air, as she sat, charged with grief, over 
 her harpsichord. Friends came and went as 
 noiseless as the birds about the dwelling. All ex- 
 changed a few words upon the condition of the 
 young wife, as they met and parted, but always 
 
THE seaman's widow. 105 
 
 in whispers— as though her subtle spirit was all 
 about them, and could catch every breath they 
 uttered. 
 
 As if her sense of what is beautiful in nature 
 was revived to an intense degree, she would re- 
 quest to have fresh-blown flowers, especially roses 
 of deep fragrance, culled and ranged along upon 
 the table before her, in little vases. Julia lent all 
 her care, as well as taste, in performing this duty, 
 for it seemed to connect itself beautifully, but 
 mysteriously, with the state of her dying friend. 
 On this lovely collection, that was laid every 
 morning, like an offering of odour and dew before 
 her, forming in its bloom an emblem of her own 
 purity, at once, and fragility— on these clustering 
 flowers she would gaze with an intensity that 
 seemed almost painful. Thus she would sit for 
 a long time, as though waiting to see them droop, 
 the summer airs breathing around her, and scat- 
 tering in at the door the blossoms from the wild 
 vines, Avhile Julia, at her side, read in a quiet tone 
 some favourite volume, or held a low-voiced con- 
 versation, leaving her, with an instinctive kind 
 of respect, to such subjects as her fancy might 
 suggest. 
 
 It was wonderful to see with what calmness 
 
106 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 and devotion that yonng creature sat there wait- 
 .ng the issue of her fatal disease. It was a pic- 
 ture for the rigid rehgionist, or the gay and thank- 
 less devotee of the world and its follies. There 
 was nothing to be seen there, in the sublime sup- 
 port that her spirit seemed to enjoy, which was 
 to be referred to any miraculous influence of a 
 mysterious faith. It was merely the submission 
 of a pure heart, conscious, indeed, of its demerits 
 at its best estate, but still too pure to believe that 
 God would deride its holiest feelings, or withdraw 
 his mercy as the shadow of death came on. It 
 was the calmness of a meek spirit^ passing in the 
 strength of its duty, of its affection, of its trial ; and 
 there is a world of consolation and of instruction 
 to be drawn from the scene. 
 
 In this manner another nK)nlh passed away. 
 it was midsummer once more, and almost a year 
 had fled since Kirkwood had departed. It was 
 near a glowing noon in July, and Helen, as usual 
 was seated in her deep chair, placid and pale as 
 marble. A soft air was breathing fi-om the sea, 
 and, as it came in at the windows, scattered the 
 rose leaves from the vases, till they fell in showers 
 upon her head and lap. Unconscious of every 
 thing else, however, she was busy over her soli- 
 
THE seaman's widow. 107 
 
 tary paper, reading — was it for the last time ? — 
 that sad narrative, on which, as if by some fatahty, 
 she continued doatingly to linger. A few tears 
 might be seen passing off, but there was no heav- 
 ing of the bosom, no sob, no sigh. The tears 
 seemed to be the last tears of an exhausted heart. 
 Near her, and with her back turned upon her, sat 
 Julia, just breathing a few sad words of melody 
 in accompaniment to her instrument. As she 
 played, she thought another voice stole in and 
 mingled with her own. Listening attentively, she 
 heard with distinctness a few notes that could not 
 be mistaken, and she was convinced that Helen 
 joined with her. This was uncommon, and she 
 played on as though she had not heard it ; but the 
 voice ceased entirely. She rose on being address- 
 ed by Helen, and seated herself at her side. She 
 observed that she was just then passing her eye 
 from the window to the portrait of Kirkwood, 
 that hung near the bed. 
 
 " How strongly, Julia, this day reminds me of 
 that when James parted from us ! It is just the 
 time of year, and the sea looks the same, and then 
 the shore there, and the ship— every thing, every 
 thing, Julia, remains the same but myself—and I 
 am altered indeed !" 
 
108 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 She gazed on her white, withered hands, while 
 Juha, her attention thus directed, looked out upon 
 the prospect. The scene was indeed calculated 
 to recall the time that had been alluded to — boats 
 shooting from the shore ; the air quivering over 
 the heated sand ; the green trees waving in the 
 vicinity; and a stout ship standing in with her high 
 sails set, and her tapering masts apparently tracing 
 the clouds in her approach. 
 
 " I have been thinking, Julia," she continued, 
 " that this life of corroding suspense — if, indeed, 
 I can call it suspense — is about closing with me. 
 I am convinced that even James's return would 
 not revive me now, and I can hardly wish to 
 live, while there would be nothing to welcome 
 him but this miserable wreck, nothing for him to 
 live for but such a shadow as I am." 
 
 " But, my dear Helen," returned Julia, " you 
 know we can't measure other's feelings by our 
 own m such cases; especially the feelings of 
 those who love us. Kirkwood would think you 
 were doing him injustice by such an idea." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" said she, faintly ; and 
 again her eyes fell on her shrunken and transpa- 
 rent hands. There was silence for some time. 
 At length she proceeded : 
 
THE seaman's widow. 109 
 
 " The world has altered strangely to me, very 
 strangely, Julia. I seem to forget every thing, 
 every thing"— she hesitated a moment—" all but 
 James, and he now appears before me with a 
 strange distinctness, just as he was on the eve of 
 our marriage. But things are fading from me 
 fast, which I v/ould remember. They have been 
 a solace to me heretofore. I would not forget 
 them now ; it seems to be the last time I shall 
 think of them. Speak, Julia! speak of those times 
 as they were, and as we used to speak of them ; 
 this void is worse than all." 
 
 Juha saw at once the sad condition to which 
 decay had brought her friend ; and as she would 
 nave done by a child, she drew her to her bosom, 
 and talked over many events that she knew would 
 flow pleasingly into her awakened recollection. 
 She listened as in a sweet dream; and a hall 
 formed smile sometimes appeared flittiiig over her 
 colourless face, as the endeared memories came 
 back upon her. 
 
 While they were thus engaged, a domestic ap- 
 peared at the door, and beckoned to Juha. The 
 intimation was not seen by Helen, and havmg 
 gently extricated herself, she advanced as if to 
 give some of the usual household directions, and 
 
 10 
 
110 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 hastily took a letter from the hands of the ser- 
 vant. Helen, meanwhile, had resumed her pa- 
 per, but, on Julia's turning, suddenly looked up, 
 and discovered the letter in her hands. It was 
 in vain to attempt concealment. There was but 
 one course to pursue. Lighting into a smile, 
 " See, Helen ! here is something at last, this mo- 
 ment handed me. It comes suddenly, indeed. 
 Do you feel prepared for it ? Will you open it, 
 or shall I ?" 
 
 Julia hardly knew what she was saying. Her 
 thoughts were in tumult. She was answered 
 simply by a motion. Tlie handwriting of the en- 
 velope M'as unknown to her, and the seal was 
 black. But the letter was already open, and the 
 well known characters were before her. With- 
 out sajang a word, she hurried it into the hands 
 of Helen. Tlie \\Titing was his own, and the 
 charm oC death was dissolved. Kirkwood was 
 alive, was well, was returning to her ; and life 
 flowed back once more into its long deserted 
 channels. 
 
 Crushing the letter between her hands, she rose 
 up with wonderful vigour, and lifted her arms to 
 heaven. 
 
 " Thank God, thank God, for this ! Now I am 
 
THE seaman's widow. Ill 
 
 ready to die 5" and she sunk again into her chair 
 and covered her face. 
 
 " Read it, Jiiha, for I cannot— I have no sight— 
 and — I am very weak — Great God 1" murmured 
 she to herself, " Vvhat a revulsion !" 
 
 With fear and trembling Julia read as follows 
 The letter was dated at Gibraltar. 
 
 "You must not be alarmed, Helen, to find me 
 addressing you from a sick bed. We have had 
 a desperate battle. I was wounded, mortally, it 
 was supposed, and brought hither. And here I 
 have been, lingering, lingering, for long weeks, 
 and even months ; suffering much which it would 
 avail little to talk of novr, but which your pre- 
 sence, your presence, Helen ! how it would have 
 alleviated ! I am still very weak, and suffer a 
 great deal now, while I am writing you. You 
 would hardly know me, I am so altered. What a 
 contrast I must present to you and Julia ! — happy, 
 no doubt, and healthy ; full of hfe and expecta- 
 tion. But at present I must not dwell on this 
 subject. I must husband my little strength, and 
 tell you, as well as I can, something about my 
 misfortunes and condition. 
 
 " The story of a bloody battle, my beloved 
 
112 THE seaman's widow. 
 
 wife, it would be cruel to torture you with. The 
 papers, besides, have no doubt let you into all the 
 particulars. It was in the heat of the fight, as I 
 was attempting to replace the fallen colours, that I 
 received a severe wound, that prostrated me in an 
 instant. Hoav long I laid insensible I know not ; 
 but my first recollection found me at this place, 
 under good care, but deeply, dreadfully wounded. 
 The history of my suffering, I say, I will not re- 
 peat ; it is useless, and it would wring your heart 
 to read it all. Such has it been, that, till this mo- 
 ment, I have not been able to write a word. I 
 would rather turn from it to you, Helen, for I find 
 a comfort in holding this sort of communion with 
 you. Wlien, when will the time come, that I shall 
 
 exchange it for yourself? 
 
 * * * 
 
 " My dreams are strange and fevered. I thought, 
 last night, you had come to me, and stood over 
 my pillow. But then, how you had altered ! You 
 seemed to be a statue ; and when your lips touch^ 
 ed mine, they felt as cold as marble, and your 
 form looked wild and spectral. What does this 
 mean ? Is my fancy still so diseased ? or is it 
 one of those mysterious intimations of our sleep, 
 that would seem to come just at the moment 
 
THE seaman's widow. 113 
 
 when we least can bear them ? O Helen ! as I 
 write, and my feelings awake to old memories 
 and joys that are now denied me, I feel indeed 
 how miserable I am. I have been, too, a great 
 while on this bed of pain and languishing. Yet 
 my strength is that of a child, and there are strange 
 convictions coming over me, at times, that I can- 
 not bear to indulge, yet cannot get rid of. I try 
 ■to be patient — God forgive me for my complain- 
 ing — ^but the thought that there is an ocean be- 
 tween us is intolerable. How much I want you 
 now ! And how doubly blessed now appears our 
 little retreat, and the repose there, and all, all, 
 every thing about it ! But I am a mere infant at 
 exertion. I am warned not to put forth too much. 
 I will wait. More as soon as I am permitted. 
 Good night, good night ! 
 
 ^ 3^^ 'p 
 
 " My Avound pains me but little to-day ; yet I 
 can hardly write, and the surgeon forbids exer- 
 tion. Exertion ! why, what does he think we are 
 made of? What can keep the mind in stagna- 
 tion ? Yet think of a spirit fettered do\\Ti, and 
 toiling and wearing av/ay the very principle of 
 life. Helen, I feel that I am getting low ; and 
 that this confmement, with this cold, low tone o' 
 
 10* 
 
114 THE seaman's widow, 
 
 encouragement, that is worse than the extinction 
 of all hope, are hurrying me downward very 
 fast. I pray you, prepare yourself for the worst 
 God knows, it may come, for my system is in a 
 terrible struggle with nature, and the spirit of 
 life is too weak to hold out long in this way. 
 
 "But I seem to think and talk wholly of my- 
 self. And now how fares it with you, Helen ? 
 How is our home? and our friends, how are 
 they ? and your letters, where are they ? I have 
 had no word for months from you — and I here, 
 upon this weary bed, heaving and panting ! Oh ! 
 this wide sea ! this wide sea ! But I must break 
 off again ; my pen drops ; I am exhausted. Once 
 more, Helen, as you love me, let me conjure you 
 
 to be calm. There is a high duty upon us. 
 
 * * * 
 
 " Yesterday the physician said something about 
 hope, but he shook his head as he said it, and I 
 feel something here that he cannot fathom. Am 
 I to feel it much longer ? Then God bless you, 
 God bless you and preserve you, for 1 can do it no 
 longer ! I think I know my situation— but I am 
 as weak as death — I cannot trace my words. O 
 home ! home ! our home ! and our young love ! 
 how soon it is cut off! But tell them our flag was 
 
THE seaman's widow. 115 
 
 not dishonoured — and— remember, Helen — ^but 
 my wound bleeds afresh." 
 
 Julia stopped. She thought it was enough. 
 There were a few words more, but she hardly- 
 dared to read them. During this time she had 
 continued standing by the side of her afflicted 
 friend ; and, as she closed, she glanced her eye 
 over the top of the letter to mark its effect upon 
 lier. She sat perfectly collected and motionless ; 
 but an indescribable expression of deep settled 
 sorrow had passed into her face, and a look of 
 utter abandonment was there, mingled with a love- 
 liness so subdued and so tender, that it melted the 
 heart to see it. The paper had fallen, and lay 
 upon the floor, at her side. A shade of singular 
 resignation was thrown over her countenance by 
 the simple arrangement about her head ; a white 
 robe enveloped her shrinking figure, and a beau- 
 tiful mantle, over that, was dra^^^l in folds about 
 her. Her hands lay meekly crossed in her lap, 
 and her feet sat lifelessly forward upon the floor, 
 as though they had long ago forgotten their office 
 of support. Her lips moved not during the re- 
 cital ; her eye gleamed not with a single tear, but 
 fixed itself in steadfast g?.ze upon the air, as though 
 
 '^ 
 
116 THE seaman's -widow. 
 
 her soul had already taken wing for the land of 
 spirits. 
 
 As Julia finished, she seemed to be roused from 
 her reverie. 
 
 •" Is it all, Julia ?" said she, slowly, and in a 
 tone scarcely audible, as she looked up—" is it 
 all 1 read it all— all— I am prepared now for every 
 thincr. Did he not tell me to be calm ? — read — 
 read" — and, at once, she sobbed as if overpowered 
 and suffocated. 
 
 Julia sat by her, and read the postscript. It was 
 from a friend of Kirkwood, who thus performed 
 his dying request, in relating the circumstances of 
 his death, and forwarding the letter. He had not 
 disgraced his flag, and he died as became a man 
 and a christian. 
 
 As she closed, Helen bowed, as with some terri- 
 ble oppression, upon the bosom of her friend. As 
 she once more faintly raised her head, her eye fell 
 on the portrait of him she had so fervently loved. 
 It fixed there a moment, and, ere Julia was aware, 
 she fell back lifeless upon her arm. Her heart 
 was broken. 
 
CANVASSING . 
 
 BV CHARLES WEST THOMSON. 
 
 " Sir, your vote — will you allow, Sir — 
 Glad to find you at your ease" — 
 
 ''You'll excuse me— for I vow, Sir, 
 I shall vote for whom I please." 
 
 "But, good friend" "It is in vain, Sir- 
 
 Fm a freeman, Sir, to-day "— 
 " Just permit me to explain, Sir " — 
 
 "'Tis scarce worth your longer stay." 
 
 "Well, Sir, let me leave this letter— 
 
 And farewell, Sir" "Sir, good bye- 
 Glad he's gone, that old abetter 
 Of the aristocracy. 
 
 " I am not so sad a sinner 
 
 To prop up so rank a stem — 
 Mary, now let's have some dinner, 
 
 We are just as good as them." 
 
SATURDAY AFTERNOON. IH 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like this. 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 
 And my locks are not yet gray. 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 
 
 And makes his pulses fly, 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore years, 
 
 And they say that I am old ; 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper. Death, 
 
 And my years are well nigh told. 
 It is very true — it is very true — 
 
 I'm old, and I ' 'bide my time' — 
 But my heart will leap at a scene Uke this, 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on ! play on ! I am with you there. 
 In the midst of yoiu- merry ring ; 
 
 1 can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 
il8 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 And I whoop the snwthered call, 
 
 And my feet sUp up on the seedy floor, 
 And I care not for the falL 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 
 And I shall be glad to go, 
 For the world, at best, is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness. 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 Seven children gathered around the board oi 
 William Halleck ; and though poverty lay like a 
 dark mist on his prospects, and sometimes pressed 
 heavily on his heart, yet the hardy and pious far- 
 mer toiled patiently along the thorny path he 
 found marked out for him. Death had never 
 entered his doors ; but sickness had come often, 
 with fatigue, expense, anxiety, and sorrow in her 
 train and beneath his roof dwelt one being, at 
 
THE BLIND BOY. 119 
 
 once a living joy and a living sorrow. His fourth 
 child W£is a bright and beautiful boy ; but God 
 had shut out from his mind the perception of aU 
 visible lovehness. Henry was born blind. The 
 hearts of the parents were troubled when the ter- 
 rible suspicion first came upon their minds, tliat 
 the fair infant on whom they gazed, lay in a 
 world of darkness. Many and various were the 
 experiments they tried to ascertain the truth, and 
 it was long after every friend and neighbour that 
 looked upon the child had expressed his melan- 
 choly conviction, ere the father and mother would 
 shut their hearts against all hope. But the boy 
 grew and strengthened ; his httle limbs became 
 active ; he stood by his mother's knee, he grasped 
 her hand^ and walked tottering at her side ; lan- 
 guage came in due season to his tongue, and his 
 artless prattle and happy laugh were the loudest 
 and the liveliest in the house> Yet vision was 
 stiH wanting, and the earth and all it contained, 
 even the faces o!" those he best loved, were shut 
 from his gaze. He was bom to be a poor, use- 
 less, helpless blind boy; and the hearts of his 
 parents sometimes ached to thecore as they look- 
 ed on his blooming cheek and sightless eyes, and 
 thpught of the future. 
 
120 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 But the voice of complaint was a sound un- 
 known beneath the roof of WilUam Halleck, and 
 the hymn of thanksgiving ascended every even- 
 ing from the lips of his family circle, ere the 
 deep sleep of the weary came on their eyelids. 
 
 Three winters in succession had a rheumatic 
 fever laid one of the daughters of William Hal- 
 leck on the bed of sickness ; yet she, too, like the 
 rest of that humble household, was industrious, 
 contented, and pious. She was two years older 
 than Henry ; and the mutual sense of infirmity 
 had knit the bonds of a brother's and a sister's 
 love most closely between them. When the inva 
 lid first rose from the weary bed of pain, and went 
 forth under the blue sky of spring, it was the 
 strengthening arm of Henry that supported her ; 
 and when the blind boy asked of things that were 
 shut up from none but him, it was the soft voice of 
 Mary that answered his questions, and poured 
 into his mind the delight of new ideas. It was 
 Henry who sat by Mary's bedside in her hours of 
 suffering, and ministered to her wants. He knew 
 by her breathing when she slept, and remained 
 still and silent in his darkness till she woke. He 
 knew by the very tones of her voice when she was 
 better, and when she was worse, and though he 
 
THE BLIND BOY. 121 
 
 Stole about her room Avith the bent head and out- 
 stretched hand of the bhnd, he seldom missed find- 
 ing any thing that IMary wanted. And it was Mary 
 who gave Henry that knowledge of the Being who 
 made him, which was a bright light to his mind, and 
 shed over his spirit a hope more gladdening than 
 the sunshine which cheered all outward things. 
 
 As soon as pain ceased to rack her joints and 
 strength was in a measure restored to her Yimhs, 
 Mary was wont to arise and return thankfully to 
 those employments in which alone she was per- 
 mitted to assist the toils of her family. Tlie first 
 warm days of spring were to Henry days of re- 
 joicing. As soon as he felt their breath, he used 
 to hasten into the house, crying, with a glad voice, 
 " Summer is coming, and Mary will get well I" 
 To him the first note of the robin told not of the 
 verdure and blossoms which were soon to cover 
 the face of nature with beauty ; but it announced 
 that she whom he loved would be freed from her 
 pauij and come out with him into the pure air, 
 and go into the fields and woods, gatherinar frao-- 
 rant wild-flowers, listening to the music of the 
 winds, waters, and birds, and talking to him 
 cheerfully and usefulljr. Mary was entering upon 
 her seventeenth spring; and before the April 
 
 11 
 
122 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 snows had melted from the fields, she was already 
 so well that she sat up, as she was accustomed, in 
 her little window, plying her needle with a busy 
 and a skilful hand. There came a heavy storm 
 of rain with warm south winds, and in one night 
 the snowy mantle of the earth had vanished, and 
 the fields lay bare and brown the next day, be- 
 neath a clear sky and a warm sun. It was a beau- 
 tiful morning, and unseen influences were busy 
 in the trees that stretched their arms silently to 
 the gentle breeze, and in the very sods that bask- 
 ed in the sunshine. The leaf was preparing to 
 put forth, the green blade to sprout, and the pulses 
 of man beat lightly and happily under the spell 
 of the season. Henry felt the soft west wind on 
 his cheek, and heard the first notes of the spring 
 birds. As soon as the sun rode high in the hea- 
 vens, he went to summon Mary from her toils, to 
 walk with him as far as the Great Oak, a spot 
 which she loved, because it commanded a wide 
 and beautiful prospect, and which was dear to 
 him, because she loved it^ and because it was al- 
 ways the end of their first walk in spring. Mary 
 hesitated, for she feared the dampness of the 
 ground; but Henry had gone with a younger 
 brother all the way up to the Great Oak on pur- 
 
THE BLIND BOY. 123 
 
 pose, and assured her the path was dry. She 
 stood at the door, and as she looked up at the clear 
 and beautiful sky, around on the landscape, and 
 again on the pleading face of her blind brother, 
 she could not find in her heart to say, * No.' They 
 went out together, and Mary was glad she had 
 gone. Her own heart seemed to expand with 
 quiet happiness as she walked. What invalid is 
 not happy in breathing the open air for the first 
 time, after tedious months of confinement, and 
 feels not as if the simplest act of existence were 
 in itself a luxury ? Henry went leaping by her 
 side with short and joyous bounds, pouring forth 
 the exuberance of his spirits in the songs she had 
 taught him, asking a thousand questions, and 
 sometimes stopping to listen when the sound of 
 a sheep-bell, the note of a bird, or the murmur of 
 a distant voice, struck on his quick ear. When the 
 way was rough, he walked closer to her side, 
 holding her hand tightly, and seeming as if made 
 happier by the pensive smiles on that pale face he 
 could not see. He asked her sometimes if the 
 walk was making her cheeks red, for then he 
 knew that his father would say she was well ; and 
 sometimes he furnished her with food for reflec- 
 tion^ as she wondered what ideas were conveyed 
 
124 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 to his mind by the terms he had learned to use m 
 speaking of visible objects. At last they came to 
 the Great Oak ; and as they sat resting together 
 on a rock under its leafless branches, the gaiety of 
 the blind boy subsided, and he caught something 
 of the same sedate happiness which pervaded the 
 spirit of Mary. They talked together for a long 
 time, and at last sunk into silence. Henry sat 
 musing, and Mary involuntarily gazed upon the 
 varying expressions that passed over his sight- 
 less, but eloquent face, sometimes lighting it al- 
 most with a smile, sometimes fading into sadness, 
 betraying the changing tenour of his thoughts, 
 which flowed on, guided only by the mysterious 
 laAvs of association, and unchecked by the move- 
 ments of outward objects. At last he asked, with 
 a mournful tone — 
 
 ' Mary, do you think it v/ould be a hard thing if 
 I were to die young V 
 
 Mary shrunk from a question which seemed so 
 natural for one in his situation ; because she did 
 not imagine that such thoughts had ever entered 
 the mind of the gay and laughing boy. She was 
 startled, too, at the coincidence between their re- 
 flections ; it was as if she had looked into his 
 mind, and found it a mirror of her own. But she 
 
THE BLIND BOY. 125 
 
 asked Henry quietly, if he were weary of the life 
 God had given him. 
 
 *0h ! no ;' returned the blind boy, ' but it would 
 not frighten me, or make me unhappy, Mary, if I 
 knew that I were going to die. I know I must be 
 a burden all my life to my parents, and I can be 
 of little use to any one — even to you ! I think — I 
 know not why — it was not meant I should stay 
 here long. God will soon see whether I am pa- 
 tient, amiable, and pious ; he will take me away 
 when I have been sufficiently tried,' 
 
 Mary made no answer. She, too, had mo- 
 ments when the conviction that her life was not 
 to be a long one, came upon her most powerfully ; 
 and to her, too, it brought that same gentle, me- 
 lancholy satisfaction which seemed stealing over 
 the mind of her blind brother. He had once asked 
 her, when a very little boy, if she thought he 
 should see in heaven ; and the question had made 
 her shed many tears. She wept now, while she 
 listened to his plaintive voice, and heard him talk 
 with humble piety of his willingness to die in the 
 first blossoming of youth ; yet her tears were not 
 tears of bitterness, for she saw that the frame of 
 mmd in which he spoke was one calculated to 
 make him happy, living or dying. 
 
 11* 
 
126 THE BLIND auy. 
 
 She told him so at last; and strove to strengthen 
 in his mind that feeling which disarms all vexa- 
 tion and sorrow — a perfect confidence that there 
 is a secret good in every event that befalls us. 
 Her own spirit was so deeply imbued with this 
 conviction, that it gave the colouring to her whole 
 character ; it was the idea which occurred to her 
 habitually and incessantly ; it was the secret of 
 that peace of mind which neither trouble, pover- 
 ty, nor sickness, could ruffle. She taught him how 
 to exercise his mind in trying to discover the good 
 shrouded in seeming evil ; and how, when the 
 justice and mercy of any event were past finding 
 out, to give up the search in undoubting confi- 
 dence that all was right, suffering not his soul to 
 be disquieted. 
 
 The youthful pair rose at last to return home, 
 in the holiest and happiest temper. Their hearts 
 Avere filled with devotion, and with love for all 
 God's creation, and the pure and beautiful in- 
 stinct of fraternal love had received an impulse 
 from a conversation which they felt had made 
 them both wiser and better. The influence of com- 
 munion on holy topics is happy and salutary, and 
 the glow of renewed confidence and esteem which 
 succeeds such intercourse between kindred spi- 
 rits is delightful. 
 
THE BLIND BOY. 127 
 
 Mary was still an invalid, and soon felt that 
 she had made more exertion than she ought to 
 have done. She paused a moment at the foot of 
 the hill, because there were two ways which 
 led home. They had come by a circuitous 
 path, leading through pleasant fields and lanes ; 
 and the road by wiiich they now proposed to re- 
 turn, would conduct them across the mill-brook, 
 straight to the village. She was weak and faint, 
 and they took the shortest way. Silently they 
 walked on till they had almost reached a small 
 rising ground which lay between them and the 
 mill-stream, when Henry suddenly exclaimed, 
 " Sister Mary, where are we ? I hear the water 
 running I" Mary listened a moment, with a sur- 
 prised and anxious countenance, and quickened 
 her pace as they ascended the hill. As soon as 
 they came in sight of the stream, she stopped, 
 astonished and almost terrified. The heavy rain 
 of the previous day, and the melting of the snow 
 among the hills, had swollen the mill-brook into a 
 deep and rapid stream, and it now rushed by them 
 with the sound of many v/aters, bearing on its 
 turbid bosom marks of the devastation it had al- 
 ready wrought in its course. The young birches 
 and alders that had shaded its green banks the 
 
l28 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 preceding summer, torn up by the roots, were 
 whirled along with the current ; and, amid the 
 white foam, Mary descried the wet, black planks 
 and beams, which told the destruction of an old 
 mill of her father's, higher up the stream. The 
 bridge, and the new mill just below it, were yet 
 standing, but the waters rose furiously against 
 them, and both shook and tottered. Sounds came 
 up every moment. amid the tumult which told 
 that something unseen had given way ; and Mary 
 looked around in vain for help or counsel. There 
 was not a human being in sight. She did not try 
 to conceal from Henry their situation ; and though 
 the hand she held did not tremble with the natu- 
 ral fear of one so young and helpless, she saw by 
 his countenance that he was awed. A short but 
 fervent prayer was in her mind. There was no 
 time to be lost. She grew weaker every moment ; 
 and summoning up all her strength for one effort, 
 with a quick, firm step, looking neither to the 
 right nor left, she hastened upon the bridge, lead- 
 ing her blind brother. They had already half 
 crossed it, when Henry, bewildered by the noise 
 and shakmg under his feet, shrunk back involun- 
 tarily. Mary flung one arm around him, and 
 feebly strove to drag him forward, when, with ,, 
 
THE BLIND BOY. 129 
 
 tremendous crash, the main supporters of the 
 bridge gave way under them, and, in an instant, 
 they were precipitated amid its wrecks into the 
 raging waters. 
 
 There were those M'ho beheld this spectacle, 
 and a wild cry of agony arose amid the din 
 of destruction, but it came not from the lips of the 
 struggling suiferers. William Halleck had come 
 forth to look for his children, and warn them of 
 the freshet. Just as he reached the top of the 
 rising ground, opposite the one they had de- 
 scended, he beheld them with horror attempting 
 to cross the tottering bridge. It was but for a 
 moment ; as he sprang forward at the sight, a 
 fearful sound broke on his ear, and in another mo- 
 ment they were snatched from his gaze. 
 
 There was a short interval of confusion, shouts, 
 and cries. Friends and neighbours came running 
 over the hill to the scene of destruction, and there 
 were pale, dismayed faces, hasty suggestions, and 
 wild efforts to discover and save the drowning vic- 
 tims ; but all in vain. Suddenly the frantic father 
 descried his Henry sitting, apparently in security, 
 upon some of the wrecks of the bridge, which had 
 become j ammed together, and were arrested in their 
 progress near the mill. At the same moment the 
 
130 The elixd boy. 
 
 whole group caught sight of Mary, carried ahve 
 and strugghng over the milldam. With one im^ 
 pulse they rushed down the banks and round th6 
 mill to her rescue. The father followed his neigh- 
 bours with hurried steps and trembling knees, cast- 
 ing a single glance to ascertain that Henry was 
 indeed safe, and calling to him, as he passed, not 
 to stir till his return. Henry seemed not to hear. 
 He sat motionless, and crouching down in the 
 extremity of his terror, uttering quick, low 
 shrieks. They were lost in the tumult, and he 
 was left alone. 
 
 The father came down to the flat rocks below 
 the mill, just as the bruised, dripping, and lifeless 
 body of his daughter was drawn out of the water. 
 With sad countenances and silent lips, her two 
 elder brothers laid the pale corpse — for such it 
 was — on a board, and carried it hastily up to the 
 village with a vain hope of resuscitation. The fa- 
 ther followed it a few moments anxiously ; and 
 then, suddenly recollecting his helpless blind boy, 
 he went with one or two neighbours to bring him 
 to his desolate home. 
 
 Henry was where he had left him, bowed do'wn, 
 silent, motionless. The father's look grew fixed 
 or^d earnest as he drew nigh. He strode hastily 
 
THE BLIND BOY. 131 
 
 over the heaps of timber and ruin, stooped to lift 
 his child, and uttered a cry of horror. The lower 
 limbs of the poor blind boy were wedged fast be- 
 tween two heavy beams of the demolished bridge, 
 and he had fainted with excess of agony. Wild 
 and almost superhuman were the efforts with 
 which the father strove to relieve his child from 
 a situation so horrible ; but it was not till his 
 friends came with axe and hatchet, with calmer 
 heads and steadier hands, to his assistance, that 
 the sufferer was extricated. 
 
 It was a night of grief and agony beneath the 
 roof of William Halleck. The remains of the 
 fair, gentle, and pious Mary lay stretched on her 
 own little bed in one room, and, in the next, fa- 
 ther, mother, brothers, and sisters, hung weeping 
 around the couch of the suffering Henry. Acute, 
 indeed, were the pains with which it pleased God 
 to visit the youthful saint ; and saint-like, indeed, 
 was the resignation with which those pains were 
 borne. But about midnight his agonies were sud- 
 denly calmed, and hope fluttered for a moment 
 in the heavy hearts of those who loved him. It 
 was but for a moment. The physician announced 
 that the process of mortification had begim, and 
 death was drawing nigh. All at once the voice 
 
132 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 of the blind boy was heard, calhng his mother in 
 a faint but calm voice. She came to his bedside,, 
 and he took hold of her hand. Then he asked 
 for his father, brothers, and sisters. They al 
 came. He touched each, and said, " Mary is not 
 here." 
 
 No one spoke, but he felt his mother's hand 
 quiver in his. 
 
 " Mary is drowned," said he ; " God has taken, 
 her to be an angel. Do not sob, mother, because 
 she and I are to be so much happier than we ever 
 could be on earth. Let me tell you of what Mary 
 and I were talking this very morning, and you will 
 all see that God has kindly called us away at the 
 very time when we were most willing, perhaps 
 most fit to die." 
 
 Then he told them briefly all that had passed 
 that day, and, after a moment's pause, added : — 
 
 " Father and mother ! I thank God for taking 
 me aAvay so young ; and so too did Mary. You 
 will be saved much trouble, much care ; and we 
 shall find no temptation, no sin, where we are 
 going. Mary will never suffer pain and sickness 
 again ; and I, the poor blind boy, that never saw 
 even your dear face, mother, I shall behold God. 
 My eyes will be opened, and T shall go from a 
 
THE BLIND BOY. 133 
 
 world of darkness into a world of light. Promise 
 me, all of you, that you will not sit down and 
 mourn for me when I am dead, but will observe 
 how wise and good it was that Mary and I should 
 both die young. I have been a happy boy. God 
 gave you a sick child and a blind one to try your 
 patience and virtue, and you have borne the trial 
 well. You have been very kind to us both j you 
 never said a harsh thing to your blind boy. We 
 have just lived long enough to try your submis- 
 sion, but not long enougli to be a heavy burden all 
 your lives to you ; and now God has taken us 
 away, just as we could have wished, together, and 
 at the best of times to die— the best for you, the 
 best for us. Sometimes it is hard to see why 
 things should be as they are ; but this is an easy 
 matter to understand. I am sure it is right, and 
 I am happy !" 
 
 Henry Halleck never spoke again ; but his last 
 words had breathed comfort into the hearts of his 
 parents, which dwelt there enduringly with his 
 memory. 
 
 He lingered till morning. The first red beam 
 of that sun he had never seen, fell on his pale fea- 
 tures and sightless eyes. He felt his mother 
 drawing open the curtain of the little ^vindow at 
 
 12 
 
134 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 his bedside that she might behold his face more 
 plainly. With a faint smile on his lips, he turned 
 towards her ; it became fixed, and, with a short 
 spasm, his innocent spirit passed suddenly and 
 peacefully into the world he had panted to know. 
 
 Death had at last came under the roof of Wil- 
 liam Halleck, and summoned the young, fair, and 
 good ; but he had come in visible kindness. 
 
 WTien the dispensation is dark, dreadful, and 
 mysterious, latent good is still there ; and the true 
 Christian seeks for it — and if he finds it not, still 
 adores without doubting. 
 
 THE ACADEMIC GROVE. 
 
 BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 HaiLj hallowed Grove ! where Attic genius, fired, 
 To Immortality's bright wreath aspired ; 
 Fair temples, hail ! beneath whose solemn shade 
 The musing babe, Philosophy, was laid. 
 Lulled by the classic fountain's tuneful chime, 
 To lingering dreams, unearthly, and divine. 
 
 Still steals thy voice in murmurs deep and clear, 
 Ethereal Plato ! o'er the listening ear ; 
 
THE ACADEMIC GROVE. 135 
 
 As when, amid yon garden's sacred bound, 
 Thy loved disciples sought its magic sound. 
 Oft their pure cheeks the rushing tear confessed, 
 As rose thy martyred master from his rest, 
 Once more amid thy glowing strains to live 
 Such life as gratitude and thou couldst give. 
 Oft did his shadowy semblance greet their eyes, 
 In self-distrusting virtue nobly wise, 
 While fickle Athens, spurning at liis creed, 
 Filled the dire hemlock-cup — then, shuddering, mourned 
 her deed. 
 
 Lo ! round yon tombs what stately spectres glide. 
 While Fancy sweeps the mists of Time aside. 
 The boastful Sophist with his wildered gaze. 
 Lost in his own interminable maze ; 
 The Stoic band, who rend in proud disdain. 
 The crown from Pleasure, and the scourge from Pain ; 
 The Sceptic, doubtful of his trembling breath, 
 The churlish Cynic, frowning even in death — 
 All, all, from drear ObU\ion's realm return, 
 And throng their leader's venerated urn. 
 
 Fair Trees ! beneath whose graceful shadows rose 
 Majestic Wisdom in serene repose — 
 Tell how the storm of Rome's unsparing wrath, 
 Reft your ereen honours in its awful ryflt^ 
 
136 DEAIH. 
 
 And sternly twined in war's unpitying toil 
 Your arms unfilial 'gainst your native soil.* 
 
 Rise, humbled Athens ! from thy lot severe ; - 
 With dauntless breast confront the Moslem spear j 
 In martial ranks thy princely sons array ; 
 Snatch Victory's palm, as on Plataea's day; 
 Bid o'er the Acropolis new lustre gleam, 
 And with fond tears restore the grove of Acadeeme. 
 Hartford, June, 1828. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 As represented in a beautiful Antique. 
 BY H. PICKERING. 
 
 O Death ! so long the cause of all our tears, 
 Art thou, in truth, thus beautiful and fair 7 — 
 Then let me haste to that pale region, where 
 The myriad sons of men of other years 
 
 Have laid them down. If such thou art, our fears 
 Are vain, and sweet it were with thee to share 
 The grave's repose. But why that pensive air, 
 When youth eternal on thy brow appears 7 — 
 
 ♦Sylla employed the beautiful trees from the Academic 
 Grove, to construct machines with which to batter and destroy 
 the city of Athens, when besieged by him, eightv-sever 
 years B C 
 
THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. 137 
 
 W^.fi nothing else seems mortal in thy mien. 
 Ih thee, methinks, the beauteous type I see 
 Of that bright being man himself shall be, 
 
 When from a sleep as breathless as serene 
 He wakes — save that upon his radiant face 
 Languor and sorrow then shall leave no trace. 
 
 THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. 
 
 BY EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 The king was in his tent, 
 
 And his lofty heart beat high, 
 As he gazed on the city's battered walls 
 
 With proud and flashing eye; 
 But darker grew his brow, and stern. 
 
 As slowly onward came 
 The chiefs who long had dared to spurn 
 
 The terror of his name. 
 
 With calm and changeless cheek. 
 Before the king they stood. 
 For their native soil to offer up 
 Tlie sacrtfice of blood. 
 Like felons were they meanly clad, 
 But th© lightning of their look, 
 12* 
 
138 THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. 
 
 The marble sternness of their brow, 
 E'en the monarch could not brook. 
 
 With angry voice he cried, 
 
 • Haste ! bear them off to death ! 
 Let the trumpet's joyous shout be blent 
 
 "With the traitor's parting breath 1' 
 Then silently they turned away, 
 
 Nor word nor sound awoke. 
 Till, from the monarch's haughty train, 
 
 The voice of horror broke. 
 
 And, hark ! a step draws near — 
 Not like the heavy clang 
 Of the warrior's tread — and through the guards 
 A female figure sprang ; 
 * A boon ! a boon ! my noble king ! 
 
 If still thy heart can feel 
 The love Philippa once could claim, 
 Look on me while I kneel. 
 
 * 'Tis for thyself I pray; 
 Let not the darkening cloud 
 
 Of base-born cruelty arise, 
 Thy glory to enshroud. 
 Nay , nay — I will not rise ; 
 For never more thy wife 
 
THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. 139 
 
 Will hail thee victor , till thy soul 
 Can conquer passion's strife. 
 
 * Turn not away , my king ! 
 Look not in anger down ! 
 Pve lived so long upon thy smile, 
 I cannot bear thy frown. 
 Oh ! doom me not, dear lord, to feel 
 
 The pang all pangs above, 
 To see the Ught I worship fade, ' 
 ^ And blush, because I love. 
 
 ' Think how, for thee, I laid 
 My woman's fears aside. 
 And dared, where charging squadrons met, 
 With dauntless front to ride.* 
 Think how, in all the matchless strength 
 
 Of woman's love, I spread 
 Thy banners, till they proudly waved 
 In victory o'ca: my head. 
 
 ' Thou saidst that I deserved 
 To share thy glorious crown ; 
 Oh ! force xne not to turn away 
 In shame from thy renown. 
 
 ♦ At the battle of Neville's Cross, in which the Scots vrere 
 defeated, and the king taken prisoner. Vide Hume. 
 ^ 5 
 
140 THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. 
 
 My Edward ! lliou wert wont to bear 
 
 A kind and gentle heart ; 
 Then listen to Pliilippa's prayer, 
 
 And let these men depart.' 
 
 Oh ! what is all the pride 
 
 Of man's oft boasted power, 
 Compared with those sweet dreams that wake 
 
 In love's triumphant hour ! 
 Slowly the haughty king unbent 
 
 His stern and vengeful brow. 
 And the look he turned upon her face 
 
 Was full of fondness now. 
 
 Ne'er yet was woman slow 
 To read in telltale eyes, 
 Such thoughts as these — a moment more 
 And on his breast she lies. 
 Then, wliile her slender form still clung 
 
 To his supporting arm, 
 He cried, • Sweet, be it as thou wilt, 
 They shall not meet with harm !' 
 
 Then from the patriot b;ind. 
 Arose one thrilling cry ; 
 And tears rained down the iron cheek, 
 That turned unblenched to die. 
 
YOUTHFUL FANCIES. i^i 
 
 •Now, we indeed are slaves,' they cried; 
 
 ' Now vain our warlike arts — 
 Edward has won our shattered walls, 
 
 Philippa wins our hearts.' 
 
 YOUTHFUL FANCIES. 
 
 BY LOUISA P. SMITH. 
 
 Oh ! youth's gay dreams are witching things, 
 
 And falser still than fair ; 
 Fragile harps of a thousand strings, 
 
 Sounds of the summer air. 
 
 What are they like to 1 The song of a bird, 
 
 In summer only known ; 
 The voice of music, a meeting word, 
 
 Things bright and quickly flown — 
 
 The farewell beams of the setting sun, 
 
 So beautifvd in parting ; 
 The feeling woke by a song just done, 
 
 Light through waters darting — 
 
 The rainbow in June ; the rising moon ; 
 The buds of infant spring — 
 
i42 THE ITALIAN BOULEVARD. 
 
 Oh! youth's gay dreams are witching things, 
 That fly on a chainless wing. 
 
 THE ITALIAN BOULEVARD. 
 
 There is no other place where human life 
 wears such an aspect of gaiety, as in Paris. 
 Every thing is here arranged for amusement and 
 pleasure, and, to a stranger, the streets, prome- 
 nades, and public gardens, have always the ap- 
 pearance of a fete day. The lively countenances 
 of the multitude, the air of sentiment and satis- 
 faction which pervades every face, and, above all, 
 the great numbers of graceful and well dressed 
 females abroad, unite to impress the new comer 
 with the idea that he is among a people excited 
 by some great occasion. But on the morrow the 
 same scene returns ; and again and again, for 
 weeks and months, he finds himself drawn into 
 the gay tide, moving, mingling, and sympathizing 
 with it. 
 
 An American usually goes to Paris, after having 
 recently left London, and he therefore sees the 
 former place to great advantage. Nothing can be 
 
THE ITALIAN BOULEVARD. 143 
 
 more unlike than these two great capitals. Lon- 
 don is dark and dirty, canopied with fogs, and 
 swimming in mud. The streets are choked with 
 a mass of carts and coaches, lords and porters, 
 ladies and loungers — all crowding and hurrying 
 along as if they were engaged in a race, and life 
 and death were on the issue. 
 
 In Paris it is different. Instead of poring along 
 tlie dirty and narrow streets, the people seek the 
 Boulevards, the gardens, or other promenades, 
 and even in those parts where business draws to- 
 gether a crowd of people, the characteristic order 
 and politeness of the French are distinctly vi- 
 sible. 
 
 Nothing can better mark the difference of man- 
 ners in the two places, than some particular com- 
 parisons. In entering a theatre in London, the 
 crowd rushes and crushes in by main strength, 
 and he who is strongest is the best fellow. In 
 Paris,, the people form m a procession, and enter 
 with the utmost decorum. 
 
 In the fashionable walks as great a contrast 
 is exhibited. The crowds who promenade the 
 parks and gardens of London, for the sake of re- 
 viewing each other with more success^ form into 
 two lines, and pass in opposite directions, as if it 
 
144 THE ITALIAN BOULEVARD. 
 
 was all an affair of business and parade, to be des- 
 patched in a given time, and therefore requiring 
 great system and effort. In Paris, on the contra- 
 ry, at the gardens of the Tuilleries or the Luxem- 
 bourg, at the Champs Elysee, or the Boulevard 
 Italien, the people are seen engaged in a thousand 
 different ways. Some are WEilking, some saun- 
 tering — many are sitting on benches, others are 
 musing beneath the groves — one is pondering the 
 glassy surface of a fountain, another is gazing on 
 a group of statuary. Here an old man is looking 
 with a delighted face upon a family of romping 
 children, attended by their nurse — there a senti- 
 mental youth is filling the ear of a duenne with 
 idle compliments, that he may now and then steal 
 some significant speeches into the ear of her 
 beautiful protegL 
 
 This contrast might be extended, but we must 
 close it with the observ^ation, that a stranger in 
 England sees the worst part of the English, and 
 in France the best part of the French character. 
 In one country, he finds himself an outlaw, sus- 
 pected and repelled, prejudged and sentenced, as a 
 being who has some design upon the purse or pri- 
 vileges of every man he meets. In the other, he 
 is received with respect and kindness. Out of 
 
THE ITALIAN BOULEVARD. 145 
 
 doors, a Londoner is systematically arrogant and 
 repulsive. Liberality and hospitality he leaves at 
 home ; and there they may be found in their best 
 sense. A Parisian has no home. He lives abroad, 
 and makes every lounging place, the street, field, 
 garden, and Boulevard, his drawing room, where 
 he demeans himself Avith constant courtesy. 
 
 Among the various promenades, there is none 
 more attractive than the Italian Boulevard. It is 
 a broad street, with magnificent houses on either 
 side, principally occupied as cafes. It is near the 
 Chaussee D'Antin, the residence of the higher 
 classes in Paris, and is a favourite resort of the 
 gay part of the fashionable loungers. In the even- 
 ing, it is lighted with a multitude of lamps, and 
 nothing can exceed the brilliancy of the scene. 
 Tiiousands of people are sitting m front of the 
 cafes, where they are served with lemonade, ice- 
 creams, and cordials, while other thousands are 
 flowing to and fro, presenting a gay and mazy 
 spectacle, perpetually changing and arranging 
 like the forms and figures of a kaleidoscope. 
 
 To a mind yet alive to new impressions, and 
 pleased with variety, this scene is scarcely less 
 than enchanting. But it was my fortune to wit- 
 ness a painftl iastance of a contrary effect* 
 
 13 
 
146 THE ITALIAN BOULEVARD. 
 
 While I was in Paris, a young Englishman, by 
 the name of Moore, tooiv lodgings at the hotel 
 where I was staying. He was a singularly hand- 
 some man, about twenty-eight, and, on acquaint- 
 ance, I found him in a high degree intelligent and 
 accomplished. It afterwards came to my know- 
 ledge, that he was a man of family and some for- 
 tune, and had spent his life hitherto in a career of 
 deep devotion to dissipation. Tired of London, 
 palled with its pleasures, restless and anxious for 
 something to excite his cloyed sensibilities, he 
 came to tlie great capital of luxury and enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 He had been sometime in Paris, when I hap- 
 pened one evening to see him leaning, with a de- 
 jected air, against one of the trees, which line the 
 walks of the Italian Boulevard. The light of the 
 lamps shone strongly around, and displayed the 
 brilliant tide of gay beings, passing as usual along 
 the pavement. There was a mixture of bitterness 
 and melancholy in the face of Moore, that made 
 me hesitate to speak to him. When I did so, he 
 started, and with evident effort put aside the looks 
 which had attracted my attention. 
 
 We returned together to our hotel, the con- 
 versation tm'ning upon the fact, whfbh to me ap- 
 
THE ITALIAN BOULEVARD. 147 
 
 peared singular, that suicide should be common 
 among so cheerful a people as the French. Moore 
 insisted that there was nothing remarkable in it 
 * They live,' said he, 'for enjoyment; and life is 
 no longer worth having, when it ceases to afford 
 it. In, a place like Paris, where the cup of plea- 
 sure is freely offered, and no restraint is put upon 
 him to whose lip it is given, it is soon exhausted. 
 I can hardly think him inconsistent who dashe 
 that cup to pieces, when it <3an only remind him 
 that he is the poorest of beggars. The only thing 
 I am surprised at, is, that the Parisians should 
 choose drowning as the most ehgible method of 
 putting an end to existence. I believe that suffo- 
 cation by charcoal would be a less painful method 
 of terminating life.' 
 
 We now arrived at our hotel, and parted. In 
 the morning, Moore's servant foimd his door 
 locked, and no one answered to his call. He en- 
 tered by force, and discovered that his master 
 was dead. He lay in his bed, and had the calm 
 look of sleep. A pan of charcoal was standing in 
 the room, and explained the death of the unfortu- 
 nate stranger. A brief note was found on his 
 writing table, addressed to the keeper of the ho- 
 tel, giving certain directions respecting his effects, 
 
148 DREAMS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 and adding, as a thing in which no one could 
 have much interest, that weariness of hfe had led 
 him to put an end to his existence. 
 
 DREAMS OF BOYHOOD. 
 
 BY MRS. A. M. WELLS. 
 
 Yon moss-grown cot — I gaze on it, 
 
 Yon cot, the green hill-side below ; 
 
 And as I gaze, I feel the tears 
 
 Mine aching eyes o'erflow — 
 
 It looks so as it used to look, 
 
 When in the ivied porch we sat, 
 
 My grandam, she a reverend dame. 
 
 And I, a boy unknown to fame ; — 
 
 But what recked I of that, 
 
 When just to sit beside her knee 
 
 Was happiness enough for me 7 
 
 To sit and listen, while she told 
 
 The wonderous tales of ancient time — 
 
 Of love-crossed maiden, hero slain, 
 
 Legend and stately rhyme — 
 
 How my young blood would warm to hear 
 
 The feats that noble warrior did ! 
 
DREAMS OF BOYHOOD. 149 
 
 My longing spirit stirred to see 
 
 The big war and its pageantry ; 
 
 But in her lap I hid 
 
 My piteous face, when tale of wo 
 
 So mastered me that tears would flow. 
 
 She was a stately woman ; — ^proud, 
 
 'Twas said, she had been, in her youth ; 
 
 And rigid was she in her zeal 
 
 For equity and truth. 
 
 But there was ever in her eye, 
 
 When turned on me, her orphan boy, 
 
 A yearning tenderness, that told 
 
 Of gentler thoughts, yet scarcely cold — 
 
 Remains of hope and joy, 
 
 That oft in life's declining hour, 
 
 Re\ive in bright, though transient power. 
 
 Who think that pleasure's riot race, 
 Life's bustle, with its pomp and show, 
 Alone can wake, alone are worth 
 The eager spirits glow — 
 They should have seen, albeit that age 
 And pain her reverend form had bent, 
 The holy smile, with chastened ray, 
 Serenely in her eye that la-y, 
 While greedily I lent 
 
 13* 
 
150 PRAIRIE ON FIRE. 
 
 My very soul with raptured ear, 
 As life were all too short to hear. 
 
 Oh ! never shall those hours return ! 
 
 The moss-grown cot — the humble thatch- 
 
 The wicket — countless days have flown 
 
 Since last I raised its latch. 
 
 She sleeps within her honoured grave, 
 
 Who charmed away my boyish years ; 
 
 And there is nothing left for me, 
 
 Where all my pleasure used to be, 
 
 But memory and tears — 
 
 The world has brought no recompense 
 
 For what I lost when she went hence. 
 
 THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE. 
 
 Until within a short period, the few men who 
 were distinguished m this country, either in poUte 
 literature or the arts, were mere pupils of the 
 English schools. Our writers of works of imagi- 
 nation were servile copyists of English writers, 
 not only in style, but in thought, choice of sub- 
 jects, and the way of treating them. If a poet 
 
THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE. 151 
 
 described the seasons, he borroAved images from 
 Thomson, and not from the more beautiful skies 
 above, or the milder landscapes around. If a no- 
 velist wrote a story, his heroes, heroines, plots, ad- 
 ventures — in short, his whole machinery, were 
 borrowed from English books. 
 
 Similar remarks would also apply to Ameri- 
 can painters. Until within a few years, they 
 seldom condescended to spoil their canvass with 
 an American landscape, or a scene from Yankee 
 history. 
 
 We are happy to observe that a new era of lite- 
 rature and the arts has dawned upon our country. 
 Our writers of historical fiction now present the 
 world with tales into which are woven our OM'n 
 rivers, lakes, hills, mountains, meadows, and prai- 
 ries — our own spring and summer, autumn, and 
 winter — our own heroes and our own society; 
 thus adding to the natural interest felt in " our 
 own, our native land," the finer associations of 
 poetry and romance. Our omti painters, too, 
 have at length discovered the beauty with which 
 nature is adorned in this western world, and the 
 moral interest which attaches to the pages of its 
 history. 
 
 There are persons who look upon these things 
 
152 THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE. 
 
 with indifference, and others who regard them 
 Avith disgust. Painting, poetry, and romance, 
 even of a national and historical character, are 
 imagined to be childish trifles by many, and by 
 many others to be pernicious instruments of folly 
 and dissipation. We regard them in a very dif- 
 ferent light. We believe them to be powerful 
 auxiliaries to the formation of national charactei 
 — calculated in their nature to elevate and refine 
 society, and to cherish and confirm one of the 
 best sentiments of the human breast — love of 
 country. In this light, they acquire importance, 
 and we therefore mark their progress with pecu- 
 liar interest. 
 
 The picture, of which we here present a copy, 
 under the title of the Prairie on Fire, is, we be- 
 lieve, Fisher's first attempt at a subject of an histo- 
 rical character. His success is truly surprising, 
 and justifies the anticipation that he will soon add 
 to the reputation he sustains as an excellent land- 
 scape painter, that also of a successful painter of 
 historical subjects. 
 
 The scene of the picture mentioned above, will 
 be found in Cooper's Prairie, to which we refer 
 the reader. It represents the party, consistmg of 
 the Trapper, IVIiddleton, Paul Hover, Dr. Batteus, 
 
THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE. 153 
 
 Inez, and Ellen, surrounded by the encroaching 
 flames, at the moment when the Trapper, " ap- 
 proached the opposite margin of the grass, which 
 still environed them in a tall and dangerous cir- 
 cle, and selecting a handful of the driest of the 
 herbage, he placed it over the pan of his rifle. 
 The light combustible kindled at the flash. Then 
 he placed the little flame into a bed of the stand- 
 ing fog, and withdrawing from the spot to the 
 centre of the ring, he patiently awaited the re- 
 sult. 
 
 " The subtle element seized with avidity upon 
 its new fuel, and in a moment forked flames were 
 gliding among the grass, as the tongues of ru- 
 minating animals are seen rolling among their 
 food, apparently in quest of its sweetest portions. 
 
 " ' Now,' said the old man, holding up a finger, 
 and laughing in his peculiarly silent manner, 'you 
 shall see fire fight fire !" 
 
 The force and merit of the picture Mill be best 
 understood by reading the sixth chapter of the 
 second volume of the work referred to. 
 
TO A DAUGHTER 
 
 OF THE LATE GOVERNOR CLINTON 
 
 BY J. B. VAN SCHAICK. 
 
 And thou, fair flower of hope ! 
 Like a sweet violet, deUcate and frail. 
 Hast reared thy tender stem beneath an oak. 
 Whose noble hmbs o'ershadowed thee. The damp 
 Cold dews of the unhealthy world fell not 
 On thee ; the gaudy sunshine of its pomp 
 Came tempered to thine eye in milder beams. 
 The train of life's inevitable ills 
 Fell like the April rain upon the flowers. 
 But thou wert shielded — no rude pelting storms 
 Came down unbroken by thy sheltering tree. 
 
 Fallen is the oak. 
 The monarch of a forest sleeps. Around, 
 The withered ivy and the broken brancli, 
 Are silent evidence of greatness past. 
 And his sweet, cherished violet, has drunk 
 The bitter dews until its cup was full. 
 And now strange trees wave o'er it, and the shade 
 Of weeping-willows and down-swaying boughs 
 Stretch toward it with melancholy sorrow — 
 
JOSHUA. 155 
 
 All sympathizing with the drooping flower. 
 And years shall pass ere living trees forget 
 That stately oak, and what a fame he shed 
 O'er all the forest, and how each was proud 
 That he could call himself a kindred thins. 
 
 -=• 
 
 Long may the beauty of that violet 
 Grow in the soil of hearts ; till, delicate. 
 Yet ripened into summer loveliness, 
 A thousand striving branches all shall cast 
 Their friendly shadows in protection there ! 
 
 JOSHUA 
 
 COMMANDING THE SUN AND MOON TO 
 STAND STILL. 
 
 BY J. B. VAN SCHAICK. 
 
 The day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towers 
 Flashed the red sunbeams gloriously back, 
 And the wind-driven banners, and the steel 
 Of her ten thousand spears, caught dazzUngly 
 The sun, and on the fortresses of rock 
 Played a soft glow, that as a mockery seemed 
 To the stem men who girded by its light. 
 Beth-horon in the distance slept, and breath 
 
I5G JOSHUA. 
 
 Was pleasant in the vale of Ajalon, 
 
 V/here armed heels trod carelessly the sweet 
 
 Wild spices, and the trees of guin were shook 
 
 By the rude armour on their branches hung. 
 
 Suddenly in the camp, without the walls, 
 
 Rose a deep murmur, and the men of war 
 
 Gathered around their kings, and * Joshua ! 
 
 From Gilgal, Joshua !' was whispered low, 
 
 As with a secret fear, and then, at once, 
 
 With the abruptness of a dream, he stood 
 
 Upon the rock before them. Calmly then 
 
 Raised he his helm, and with his temples bare 
 
 And hands uplifted to the sky, he prayed ; — 
 
 ' God of this people, hear ! and let the sun 
 
 Stand upon Gibeon, still ; and let the moon 
 
 Rest in the vale of Ajalon !' He ceased — 
 
 And lo ! the moon sits motionless, and earth 
 
 Stands on her axis indolent. The sun 
 
 Pours the unmoving column of his rays 
 
 In undiminished heat ; the hours stand still ; 
 
 The shade hath stopped upon the dial's face ; 
 
 The clouds and vapours that at night are wont 
 
 To gather and enshroud the lower earth, 
 
 Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them up, 
 
 Scattering the misty phalanx hke a wand. 
 
 Glancing o'er mountain tops, and shining down, 
 
 In broken raassss on the astonished plains. 
 
 The fevered cattle group in wondering herds ; 
 
JOSHUA. 157 
 
 The weary birds go to their leafy nests, 
 
 But find no darkness there, and wander forth 
 
 On feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest ; 
 
 The parched, baked earth, undamped by usual dewsj 
 
 Has gaped and cracked, and heat, dry, mid-day heat, 
 
 Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart. 
 
 On with thy armies, Joshua ! The Lord 
 God of Sabbaoth is the avenger now ! 
 His voice is in the thunder, and his wrath 
 Poureth the beams of the retarded sun, 
 With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight. 
 The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky ; 
 Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice, 
 Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels. 
 On ! till avencrinc swords have drunk the blood 
 Of all Jehovah's enemies, and till 
 Thy banners in returning triumph wave ; 
 Then yonder orb shall set mid golden clouds, 
 And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth, 
 Show in the heavens the glorious bow of God, 
 Shining the rainbow banner of the skies. 
 
 14 
 
158 THE seabird's tale. 
 
 THE SEABIRD'S TALE. 
 
 BY S. G. GOODRICH. 
 
 Far, far o'er the waves is my island throne, 
 Where the seagull roams and reigns alone ; 
 Where nought is seen but the beetling rock, 
 And notliing is heard but the ocean shock, 
 And the scream of birds when the storm is niah. 
 And the crash of the wreck, and the fearful cry 
 Of drowning men in * their agony,' 
 
 I love to sit, when the waters sleep, 
 And ponxJer the depths of the glassy deep, 
 Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea, 
 And sing of the feast that is made for me. 
 I love on the rush of the storm to sail, 
 And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale. 
 
 When the sky is dark, and the billow high, 
 
 And the tempest sweeps in terror by, 
 
 I love to ride on the maddening blast. 
 
 And flap my wing o'er the fated mast, 
 
 And sing to the crew a song of fear, 
 
 Of the reef and the surge that await them here. 
 
THE SEABIRD's TALE. 159 
 
 When the storm is done, and the feast is o'er, 
 
 I love to sit on the rocky shore, 
 
 And tell in the ear of the dying breeze, 
 
 The tales that are hushed in the sullen seas — 
 
 Of the ship that sank in the reefy surge, 
 
 And left her fate to the seabird's dirge — 
 
 Of the lover that sailed to meet his bride, 
 
 And his story left to the secret tide — 
 
 Of the father that v^ent on the trustless main, 
 
 And never was met by his child again — 
 
 And the hidden things which the waves conceal, 
 
 And the seabird's song can alone reveal. 
 
 I tell of the ship that hath found a grave — 
 
 Her spars still float on the restless wave, 
 
 But down in the halls of the sullen deep, 
 
 The forms of the brave and the beautiful sleep. 
 
 I saw the storm as it gathered fast, 
 
 I heard the roar of the coming blast, 
 
 I marked the ship in her fearful strife, 
 
 As she flew on the tide ' like a thincr of life.', 
 
 But the whirlwind came and her masts were wrung 
 
 Away, and away on the waters flung ; 
 
 I sat on the gale o'er the sea-swept deck, 
 
 And screamed in deUght o'er the coming wreck— 
 
 I flew to the reef with a heart of glee, 
 
 And wiled the sliip to her destiny. 
 
160 THE SEABIRD's TALE* 
 
 On the hidden rocks like a hawk she rushed, 
 
 And the sea tlirough her riven timbers gushed — 
 
 On the whirUng surge the wreck was flung, 
 
 And loud on the gale wild voices rung. 
 
 I gazed on the scene — I saw despair 
 
 On the pallid brows of a youthful pair ; 
 
 The maiden drooped like a gentle flower 
 
 That is torn away from its native bower — 
 
 Her arms round her lover she wildly twined, 
 
 And gazed on the sea with a wildered mind. 
 
 He bent o'er the trembler, and sheltered her form 
 
 From the plash of the sea and the sweep of the storm* 
 
 But wo to the lover, and wo to the maid, 
 
 Whose hopes on the treacherous Sea are laid, 
 
 For he is a king, whose palaces shine 
 
 In lustre and light down the pearly brine, 
 
 And he loves to gather in glory there. 
 
 The choicest things of the earth and air. 
 
 In his deep saloons with coral crovpned, 
 
 Where gems are sparkling above and around, 
 
 He gathers his harem of love and grace. 
 
 And Beauty he takes to his cold embrace. 
 
 The wind and the waves are his messengers true, 
 
 And lost is the wanderer whom they pursue — 
 
 They sweep the shore, they plunder the wreck, 
 
 His stores to heap, and his halls to deck. 
 
 Ah ! lady and lover, ye are doomed their prey — 
 
 They couv. J they come ! — ye are swept away ! 
 
THE SEABIRD's TALE. 161 
 
 Ye sink in the tide — but it cannot sever 
 The fond ones who sleep in its depths forever ! 
 
 Oh ! wild was the storm, and loud was its roar, 
 And strange were the sights that I hovered o'er. 
 I saw a babe with its mother die, 
 I listened to catch its parting sigh, 
 And I laughed to see the black billows play 
 With the sleeping child in their gambols gay. 
 I saw a girl whose arms were white 
 As the foam that danced on the billows' height, 
 And the ripples toyed with her glossy curls, 
 And her cheek was kissed by the wanton whirls ; 
 But her bosom was dead to hope and fear. 
 For she shuddered not as the shark came near. 
 I poised my foot on the forehead fair 
 Of a lovely boy that floated there — 
 I looked in the eyes of the drowning brave. 
 As they upward gazed through the fatal wave — 
 I screamed o'er the bubbles that told of death, 
 And stooped as the last gave up his breath. 
 I flapped my wings, for the work was done, 
 The storm was hushed, and the golden sun 
 Sent his Ught abroad o'er the lulling seas — 
 And I teU my tale to the whispering breeze, 
 Of the hidden things which the waves conceal, 
 And the seabird's song can alone reveaL 
 
 14* 
 
1(52 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 BY MRS. LITTLE, 
 
 It is thanksgivinjT morn — 'tis cold and clear: 
 The bells for church ring forth a merry sound ; 
 The maidens, in their gaudy winter gear, 
 Rival the many-tinted woods aromid ; 
 The rosy children skip along the ground, 
 Save where the matron reins their eager pace, 
 Pointing to him who with a look profound 
 Moves with his ' people ' toward the sacred place 
 Where duly he bestows the manna crumbs of grace. 
 
 Of the deep learning in the schools of yore 
 
 The reverend pastor hath a golden stock : 
 
 Yet, with a vain display of useless lore, 
 
 Or sapless doctrine, never will he mock 
 
 The better cravings of his simple flock ; 
 
 But faithfully their humble shepherd guides 
 
 Where streams eternal gush from Calvary's rock ; 
 
 For well he knows, not learning's purest tides 
 
 Can quench the immortal thirst that in the soul abides. 
 
 The anthem swells ; the heart's high thanks are given; 
 Then, mildly as the dews on Hcrmon fall, 
 
THANKSGIVING. 163 
 
 Begins the holv minister of heaven. 
 
 And though not his the burning zeal of Paul, 
 
 Yet a persuasive power is in his call ; 
 
 So earnest, though so kindly, is his mood, 
 
 So tenderly he longs to save them all, 
 
 No bird more fondly flutters o'er her brood, 
 
 When the dark vulture screams above their native wood. 
 
 ^ For all his bounties, dearest charge," he cries, 
 
 " Your hearts are the best thanks ; no more refrain ; 
 
 Your yielded hearts he asks in sacrifice. 
 
 Almighty Lover ! shalt thou love in vain ; 
 
 And vainly woo thy wand' rers home again *? 
 
 How thy soft mercy with the sinner pleads ! 
 
 Behold ! thy harvest loads the ample plain ; 
 
 And the same goodness lives in all thy deeds, 
 
 From the least drop of rain, to those that Jesus bleeds." 
 
 Much more he spake, with growing ardour fired : 
 Oh that my lay were worthy to record 
 The moving eloquence his theme inspired ! 
 For like a free and copious stream outpour' d 
 His love to man and man's indulgent Lord. 
 All were subdued ; the stoutest, sternest men, 
 Heart-melted, hung on every precious word : 
 And as he uttered forth his full amen, 
 A thousand mingling sobs re-echoed it again 
 
164 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Behold that ancient house on yonder lawn, 
 Close by whose rustic porch an elm is seen : 
 Lo ! now has past the service of the morn ; 
 A joyous group are hastening o'er the green, 
 Led by an aged sire of gracious mien, 
 Whose gay descendants all are met to hold 
 Their glad thanksgiving in that sylvan scene. 
 That once enclosed them in one happy fold, 
 Ere waves of time and change had o'er them roU'd. 
 
 The hospitable doors are open thrown ; 
 The bright wood-fire burns cheerly in the hall ; 
 And, gathering in, a busy hum makes known 
 The spirit of free mirth that moves them all. 
 There, a youth hears a lovely cousin's call, 
 And flies alertly to unclasp the cloak ; 
 And she, the while, with merry laugh lets fall 
 Upon his awkwardness some lively joke. 
 Not pitying the blush her bantering has woke. 
 
 And there the grandam sits, in placid ease, 
 A gentle brightness o'er her features spread : 
 Her children's children cluster rovmd her knees. 
 Or on her bosom fondly rest their head. 
 Oh, happy sight, to see such blossoms shed 
 Their sweet young fragrance o'er such aged tree ! 
 How vain to say, that, when short youth has fled, 
 
THANKSGIVING. 165 
 
 Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be, 
 
 When hoaiy eld is loved but the more tenderly. 
 
 And there the manly fanners scan the news ; 
 
 (Strong is their sense, though plain the garb it wears,) 
 
 Or while their pipes a luUing smoke diffuse, 
 
 They look important from their elbow chairs, 
 
 And gravely ponder on the nation's cares. 
 
 The matrons of the morning sermon speak, 
 
 And each its passing excellence declares ; 
 
 While tears of pious raptmre, pure and meek, 
 
 Course in soft beauty down the christian mother's cheek. 
 
 Then, just at one, the full thanksgiving feast, 
 Rich with the bounties of the closing year, 
 Is spread ; and, from the greatest to the least, 
 All crowd the table, and enjoy the cheer. 
 The list of dainties will not now appear ; 
 Save one I cannot pass unheeded by. 
 One dish, already to the muses dear. 
 One dish, that wakens memory's longing sigh, 
 The genuine far famed Yankee pumpkin pie. 
 
 Who e'er has seen thee in thy flaky crust 
 Display the yeUow richness of thy breast, 
 But, as the sight awoke his keenest gust. 
 Has own'd thee of all cates the choicest, best? 
 
166 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Ambrosia were a fool, to thee compared, 
 
 Even by the rosy hands of Hebe drest : 
 
 Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared, 
 
 With their white rounded arms above the elbow bared. 
 
 Now to the kitchen come a vacn-ant train, 
 The plenteous fragments of the feast to share. 
 The old lame fidler wakes a merry strain, 
 For his mull'd cider and his pleasant fare, — 
 Reclining in that ancient wicker chair. 
 A vet'ran soldier he, of those proud times 
 When first our freedom's banner kiss'd the air : 
 His battles oft he sings in untaught rhymes, 
 When wakening memory his aged heart sublimes. 
 
 But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known 
 
 Full oft the pelting of the winter storm 7 
 
 Through its fringed hood a strong wild face is shown, — 
 
 Tall, gaunt, and bent with years, the beldam's form ; — 
 
 There's none of all these youth with vigour warm, 
 
 Who dare by slightest word her anger stir. 
 
 So dark the frown that does her face deform, 
 
 That half the frighted villagers aver 
 
 The very de'il himself incarnate is in her. 
 
 Yet now the sybil wears her niildest mood ; 
 And round her see the anxious silent band. 
 Falls from her straggling locks the antique hood, 
 
THANKSGIVING 167 
 
 As close she peers in that fair maiden's hand, 
 Who scarce the strucrcrles in her heart can stand ; — 
 Affection's strength has made her nature weak ; 
 She of her lovely looks hath lost command ; 
 The flecker'd red and white within her cheek — 
 Oh, all her love it doth most eloquently speak ! 
 
 Thy doting faith, fond maid, may envied be, 
 
 And half excused the superstitious art. 
 
 Now, when the sybil's mystic words to thee 
 
 The happier fortune's of thy love impart, 
 
 ThrilUng thy soul in its most vital part, 
 
 How does the throb of inward ecstasy 
 
 Send the luxuriant blushes from thy heart 
 
 All o'er thy varying cheek, like some clear sea 
 
 Where the red morning-glow falls full but tremblingly! 
 
 'Tis evening; and the rural ball begins: 
 
 The fairy call of music all obey ; 
 
 The circles round domestic hearths grow thin ;. 
 
 All, at the joyful signal hie away 
 
 To yonder hall with lights and garlands gay. 
 
 There, with elastic step, yoimg belles are seen 
 
 Entering, all conscious of their coming sway : 
 
 Not oft their fancies underrate, I ween, 
 
 The spoils emd glories of this festal scene. 
 
 New-England's daughters need not envy those 
 Who in a monarch's court their jewels wear; 
 
168 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 More lovely they, when but a simple rose 
 Glows through the golden clusters of their hair. 
 Could light of diamonds make her look more fair» 
 Who moves in beauty through the mazy dance, 
 With buoyant feet that seem to skim the air, 
 And eyes that speak, in each impassioned glance. 
 The poetry of youth, love's sweet and short romance 1 
 
 He thinks not so, that young enamour'd boy 
 
 Who through the dance her graceful steps doth guide, 
 
 While his heart swells with the deep pulse of joy. 
 
 Oh, no ; by nature taught, unlearnt m pride, 
 
 He sees her in her loveliness array' d, 
 
 All blushing for the love she cannot hide ; 
 
 And feels that gaudy art could only shade 
 
 The brightness nature gave to his unrivall'd maid. 
 
 Gay bands, move on ; your draught of pleasure quaff; 
 
 I love to listen to your joyous din ; 
 
 The lad's light joke, the raaiden's mellow laugh; 
 
 And the brisk music of the -siolin. 
 
 How bUthe to see the sprightly dance begin ! 
 
 Entwining hands, they seem to float along, 
 
 With native rustic grace that well might win 
 
 The happiest praises of a sweeter song. 
 
 From a more gifted l3n"e than doth to me belong. 
 
 While these enjoy th^j mirth that suits their years, 
 Round their home-fires their peaceful elders meet. 
 
THANKSGIVING. 169 
 
 A gentler mirth their friendly converse cheers ; 
 And yet, though calm their pleasures, they are sweet. 
 Through the cold shadows of the autumn day 
 Oft breaks the sunshine with as genial heat, 
 As o'er the soft and sapphire skies of May, 
 Though nature then be young and exquisitely gay. 
 
 On the white wings of peace their days have flown; 
 Nor wholly were they thralled by earthly cares ; 
 But from their hearts to heaven's paternal throne 
 Arose the daily incense of their prayers. 
 And now, as low the sun of being wears, 
 The God to whom their morning vov/s wcro paid. 
 Each orateful offeriufj in remembrance bears ; — 
 And cheering beams of mercy are display'd, 
 To gild with heavenly hopes their evening's pensive shade. 
 But now farewell to thee, thanksgiving day ! 
 Thou angel of the year ! one bounteous hand 
 The horn of deep abundance doth display, 
 Raining its rich profusion o'er the land ; 
 The other arm outstrctch'd Vvith gesture grand, 
 Pointing its upraised finger to the sky, 
 Doth the warm tribute of our thanks demand 
 For Him, the Father God, v»'ho from on liigh 
 Sheds gleams of purest joy o'er man's dark destiny. 
 
 15 
 
170 COTTAGE LEGEND. - 
 
 COTTAGE LEGEND. 
 
 Between yon distant hills that hide 
 The pathway of the silver Wye, 
 A bonny cottage maiden lived. 
 Of raven hair, and hazel eye. 
 
 And glossy was that raven hai:^ 
 And soft as love that hazel eye. 
 And mellow as the far-off lute, 
 The voice of Ellen of the Wye. 
 
 And gallant lovers came from far. 
 The maiden's heart and hand to gain. 
 And many a vow and many a sigh 
 Wer^ breathed in Ellen's ear in vain. 
 
 ' I love my cottage home,' she said, 
 ' This little glen — those hills so blue — 
 Yon winding stream — I love them all — 
 And cannot bid my sire adieu.' 
 
 But young Lord Gower came to the glen, 
 And words of love he well could say, 
 And Ellen's youthful heart he won, 
 And bore her from her home away 
 
COTTAGE LEGEND. 171 
 
 Ay, Ellen left her cottage home ; 
 To that sweet glen, those hills so blue, 
 That winding stream, she said farew^ell, 
 And bade her aged sire adieu ! 
 
 And years passed by — and she forgot 
 Them all, till bitter sorrows pressed ; 
 And then the scenes of youth came back 
 In memory's fondest colours dressed. 
 
 Her tears fell fast — and soon she rose 
 To seek her cottage home once more — 
 But ah ! 'twas winter now. and fierce, 
 The cold blast swept the valley o'er. 
 
 Poor wanderer ! when she left the vale, 
 The hills were green, the flowers were gay, 
 The birds sang sweet from every tree. 
 And her young heart was bUthe as they. 
 
 But now beneath white winter's shroud, 
 Soft summer and its flowers he dead — 
 And all the gladsome birds are gone, 
 And Ellen's joys, Hke them, are fled ! 
 
 She rcach'd, at length, her father's door — 
 Twas shut, and all was still around ; 
 
172 TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 But near, lay hushed in death's repose, 
 Her father on the frozen ground ! 
 
 With age and sorrow overborne, 
 He fell upon the earth and died ; 
 None saw him die — ^his daughter gone— 
 But one brute friend was by his side. 
 
 Poor Ellen now went wild — her mind 
 ^ Was wrecked by this last fearful stroke — 
 
 Her heart, by wrong and ruin tried, 
 Parted, and was forever broke ! 
 
 What said Lord Gower 7 On Christmas eve 
 He made a lady fair his bride, 
 And his high hall rang loud with mirth ; 
 That night the cottage maiden died. 
 
 TO THE SENTIMENT AT.. 
 
 " What is Friendship but a name !" 
 
 I TELL not my tale to a cold and careless world. 
 I waste not sighs upon ears that are deaf. A 
 story of misfortune is a pearl too precious to be 
 
TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 173 
 
 cast fefoic those who would only trample upon 
 it. ii is for the tender and sympathetic ear of 
 those whom experience has taught to contrast the 
 bliss of friendship, indulged without suspicion or 
 alloy, with the bitterness of disappointed trust 
 and betrayed affection. 
 
 I had the misfortune to lose both my parents 
 at an early age. My mother died when I was a 
 boy, and my father followed her soon after I en- 
 tered my twenty-first year. I was an only child, 
 and without relatives ; but my father committed 
 me to the care of a friend by the name of Plum, 
 of whom he had a high opinion, and to whom he 
 was fondly attached. Whether my father's choice 
 of a guardian for one whose imagination was 
 stronger than his judgement, and whose passions 
 were more active than his principles, was wise or 
 not, is a question which I leave to be decided by 
 the issue of my story. 
 
 The stern and strict control of my father was 
 no sooner withdraAvn, than I felt like a liberated 
 bird. I indulged my fancy in every thing. I 
 bought gay horses, drove dashing gigs, smoked, 
 drank, flourished at Nahant and Saratoga, put a 
 gold chain about my neck, with a useless quiz- 
 zing glass attached U) it, and thrust into my waist- 
 
 15* 
 
174 TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 coat pocket, criticised the ladies' ancles, talked 
 lightly of female virtue, and impudently ogled 
 every woman whom I met. 
 
 I was perhaps less to be blamed for these follies, 
 as I followed the fashion of young men of my 
 condition, and was rather abetted than restrained 
 in my course by my guardian. At length I fell 
 in love, and my taste became matrimonial. I 
 worshipped a pretty girl of sixteen, and promised 
 to marry her. But time and reflection altered my 
 views. My goddess became an insipid girl. To 
 put an end to my engagement, I suddenly em- 
 barked for Europe, giving it forth to be under- 
 stood that I should be absent several years. My 
 reputation would have suffered for this and some 
 other trifles, had not my friend Plum exerted his 
 influence in my behalf, which he did so effectual- 
 ly, that I was fully acquitted, and the young lady 
 was left to unpitied mortification and contempt. 
 
 I could not think of travelling alone, so I 
 managed to have my guardian accompany me. 
 On my arrival at Liverpool, my ignorance of the 
 manners and customs of England brought me 
 into sundry awkward situations. In these cases I 
 found the assistance of Plum to be invaluable. 
 He settled every difficulty in a moment, and al- 
 
TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 175 
 
 ways in a way peculiar to himself. He seemed 
 to understand England perfectly, and I after- 
 wards learnt that he was not a stranger to other 
 countries. I soon hurried to London. I was 
 anxious to participate in the pleasures of the 
 world's metropolis. The influence of Plum soon 
 gained me admission into fashionable society. It 
 was winter, and I was invited to an assembly at 
 Almack's. My acquaintance enlarged, and I was 
 soon in the full career of fashionable dissipation. 
 My society was sought by gentlemen and ladies 
 of the first degree. Not a few cards with noble 
 names upon them were exhibited in my rack. 
 
 I was at a loss to account for my success. My 
 vanity could not persuade me to impute it all to 
 my person and address. I became inquisitive, 
 and learned at length, to my great surprise, that 
 it was mainly on account of my guardian, who 
 was held in such estimation, that all who were 
 connected with him participated in his honours. 
 At first I was piqued by the discovery, but such is 
 the influence of self-flattery, and such also was 
 the adroit manner and seeming sincerity of the at- 
 tentions I received, that I ceased to scrutinize the 
 motive, and took them as if offered to me on the 
 ground of personal merit. 
 
176 TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 But, if I was blinded in regard to the honour 
 which was reflected on myself, some remarkable 
 instances of its influence on others did not escape 
 me. I recollect on one occasion to have been 
 struck with it at Almack's. In general, the dis- 
 play of beauty there is beyond all praise. An 
 American would say the ladies were too stout and 
 ruddy, and too heavily dressed. But let that pass. 
 The music had ceased for a moment, and the 
 places where the quadrilles had a moment before 
 been figuring, were accidentally vacant. There 
 then appeared a couple so gi'otesque as to put de- 
 scription to the blush. A thin, miserly, snuffy 
 little man, led forward the hugest woman I ever 
 beheld. She had large, lead coloured eyes, a low, 
 overhanging forehead, a conical piece of her un- 
 derlip lapping over her upper one, the corners of 
 the mouth drawn downward, long ears standing 
 apart from the head, a large jowl, and a figure 
 that, in despite of the London Cantellos, resem- 
 bled a pipe of brandy. There was a mark of 
 monstrous vulgarity about the pair that, with now 
 and then an exception, seemed to contrast strange- 
 ly with all around them. 
 
 At the first appearance of this strange couple, 
 there was a look of general surprise, and then a 
 
TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 177 
 
 siiiile, and here and there an audible titter. Bu4 
 soon it was all hushed, and Mr. and Mrs. Fud^ 
 seemed to be honoured with particular and re 
 spectful attention. " How is this ?" said I to Ladj 
 Flambeau. " Oh," said she, " don't you knov 
 he is a great favourite with your friend Plum ?" 
 
 In short, I had not spent six months in England, 
 before I discovered that my extraordinary guar- 
 dian had scarcely less influence than the prime 
 minister. Indeed, he did that which the king 
 himself could not have performed. The world 
 would laugh at Sir William Curtis, though George 
 the Fourth was his companion and friend. But 
 who could despise a favourite of Plum ? His 
 friendship was only inferior to a patent of nobili- 
 ty. It covered faults and magnified virtues. It 
 even became superior to the force of nature. I 
 once saw a very ugly young woman dancing most 
 vilely. " She is an angel," said one. " She dances 
 like a fairy," said another. " She is the particu- 
 lar friend of Plum," said a third. 
 
 I left England and went to France. In Paris, 
 my guardian seemed less at home. But here he 
 was by no means destitute of influence. He could 
 persuade a Frenchman to do any thing but jump 
 into the Seine. 
 
178 TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 I set out for Italy. In crossing the Alps, I was 
 attacked by banditti. I fought valiantly, but in 
 vain. I was wounded, overpowered, and beat 
 down. A swarthy villain, with black mustachios, 
 planted his heavy foot on my breast, and with his 
 brawny arm held his finger on the trigger of a 
 pistol presented to my forehead. The slightest 
 contraction of a muscle had scattered my brain 
 in the air. At this instant luckily Plum present- 
 ed himself. He went on the principle that dis- 
 cretion is the better part of valour. He threw away 
 my powder and ball, and settled the point by ne- 
 gotiation. It was all over in fifteen minutes. The 
 desperado became our friend, guided us faithfully 
 over the mountain, and at parting gave me warm 
 wishes of happiness. 
 
 I could lell other tales, but this is enough. I 
 returned to my country after an absence of two 
 years, bringing my fri-end vrith me. His influence 
 was not abated. The men sought my society, and 
 the ladies smiled upon me for his sake. I took it 
 all to myself, indeed, and when an honest man told 
 me that I was a fool for doing so, I became angry, 
 and bade him hold his peace. I again fell in love. 
 I had a streak of weakness in my cliaracter, 
 whkh exposed me to such fantasies. I loved de- 
 
TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 179 
 
 votedly, and thought my passion was tmly re- 
 turned. " May I speak my mind freely to j'ou ?" 
 said a candid friend. " Certainly," said I. " The 
 lady does not love you," said he. " You are mis- 
 taken," said I. " It is not you, but your friend Plum, 
 that she is enamoured with ; it is only to secure his 
 society, that she seems to favour you." " She is in- 
 capable of such double dealing," said I. " It is the 
 fashion of the world," said he. " Plum is a great 
 favourite of the sex, and they will smile on the first 
 man that brings them closest to him. You are his 
 particular friend, and are therefore an object of 
 regard to all the calculating mothers and daugh- 
 ters in town." I felt too secure to be angry. I 
 laughed at my friend, and turned his advice to ri- 
 dicule. 
 
 But let me proceed in my story. A meddhng 
 attorney endeavoured to bring about a separation 
 betAveen me and Plum. He was at first unsuccess- 
 ful, but by trick and artifice he at length gained 
 his point. Plum deserted me for ever. I mourn- 
 ed over him, " but mourning," said I, " is vain. 
 I am myself the same thing as before. I have 
 lost a friend, but that is no part of myself." I flew 
 to my mistress. " She will sympathize with me," 
 thought I, " and oh, there would be a sweetness in 
 
180 TO THE SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 seeing her tears fall for my sake, that would atone 
 for my loss." But I was mistaken. She refused 
 to see me. I was enraged. I stamped on the 
 floor. The servant laughed, and pointed to the 
 door. I went away, and ^vept in the bitterness of 
 my heart like a very boy. I went to see some of 
 my companions. They were cold and constrain- 
 ed. I visited some of the families where I was 
 once a favourite. They were civil, but the hearty 
 welcome of the mother, and the gracious atten- 
 tions of the daughters, were mine no more. 
 
 I shrunk from society like a wounded beast of 
 prey, who alone in his lair endures his throbbing 
 pain. I cursed the heartless world, and bitterly 
 moralized on the selfishness of those I had thought 
 the fairest and noblest part of creation. I am stiU 
 writhing with disappointment, and under its in- 
 fluence address this letter, partly to give vent to 
 my gushing feelings, and partly to obtain the 
 sympathy of those who have sympathy to bestow 
 on the forlorn. 
 
 RIDDLE. 
 
 P. S. I warn all the world against placing 
 confidence in the hollow-hearted treacherous fel- 
 low whom I once called my friend. His name in 
 
A MOONLIGHT ADVENTURE. 181 
 
 this narrative is Pluni, but he is better known by 
 the title, Cash, 
 
 A MOONLIGHT ADVENTURE. 
 
 " How beautiful is night !" 
 
 D 
 
 A FEW years ago, in the course of a pedestrian 
 tour along the banks of the Hudson, I stopped for 
 the night at a little tavern situated near the river. 
 It was a wild spot, and surrounded with a thick 
 copse of low oak trees. In the course of the even- 
 ing I was induced to take a stroll, the air being 
 pleasant, and the moon sending a flood of hght 
 over the landscape. 
 
 I left the travelled road, and entered the forest 
 At length I fell into a little footpath, along which 
 I walked without marking the distance, or the 
 direction of my ramble. By and by I came to a 
 cottage, but the door was shut, and I continued 
 my walk. I now emerged from the forest, and 
 the footpath led me along a high bank which over- 
 hung the river. Its broad surface was smooth 
 and glassy, and it flowed on so quietly, that the 
 
 IG 
 
182 A MOONLIGHT ADVENTURE. 
 
 image of the moon seemed as firmly set in its 
 waters, as did the planet itself in the sky. 
 
 I still went on, filled with the beauty of the 
 night and the sweet serenity of nature around me. 
 A thousand delightful dreams passed through my 
 imagination, each touching my heart with some 
 correspondent emotion. Suddenly my ear was 
 filled with the sweetest music. It was the voice 
 of a woman ; and at a little distance I saw a female 
 form standing on the brink of the river. She 
 leaned toward the water, and apparently uncon- 
 scious that a listener was near, she poured her 
 melody over its bosom. I fancied that its current 
 flowed smoother, and that its ripples whispered 
 with a softer cadence, as if listening to the sound. 
 The breathing melody of the voice I cannot give 
 the words were as follows : 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Oh ! swiftly flows the stream, 
 Its waters will not stay, 
 They glide like pleasure's dream, 
 Away, away. 
 
 The laughing ripples flash 
 With many a silver ray, 
 
 r 
 I. 
 
 i 
 
A MOONLIGHT ADVENTURE. 183 
 
 But light as love they dash 
 Away, away. 
 
 The eddies, clear as glass, 
 Like lingering lovers play, 
 But soon like lovers pass 
 Away, away. 
 
 But other waves as bright 
 Along these banks will stray, 
 Then let them speed their flight 
 Away, away. 
 
 My imagination was wrought to the highest 
 pitch. The outline of the fair one's figure, as I 
 traced it on the face of the moonlit water, seemed 
 beautiful as the matchless marble of the Venus de 
 Medici. The words of the poet were in my mind, 
 and they broke from my lips. 
 
 Oh ! ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
 Of fairer form, or lovelier face. 
 
 My voice had broken the holy silence that 
 reigned over the scene. The fair one started 
 
"4**^ 
 
 184 THE LONE INDIAN. 
 
 she turned her face suddenly round upon me. 
 Good heavens ! it was black I 
 
 THE LONE INDIAN. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF HOBOMOK. 
 
 "A white man, gazing on the scene, 
 
 Would say a lovely spot was here. 
 
 And praise the lawns so fresh and green, 
 
 Between the hills so sheer. 
 
 I like it not — ^I would the plain 
 
 Lay in its tall old groves again." Bryant. 
 
 PowoxTONAMO was the son of a mighty chief. 
 He looked on his tribe with such a fiery glance, 
 that they called him the Eagle of the Mohawks. 
 His ej^e never blinked in the sunbeam ; and he 
 eaped along the chase like the untiring waves of 
 Niagara. Even when a little boy, his tiny arrow 
 would hit the frisking squirrel in the ear, and 
 bring down the humming bird on her rapid wing. 
 He was his father's pride and joy. He loved to 
 toss him high in his sinewy arms, and shout, 
 " Look, Eagle-ej^e, look, and see the big hunting 
 grounds of the Mohav%'ks ! Powontonamo will be 
 
C C i c 
 
 • c c c 
 
 
 c c c * 
 
 c c * t 
 c ^ c & 
 
 ' c « 
 
 c c c t 
 
 t o • 
 « < • » 
 
 t < € c 
 
 t c c c 
 
THE LONE rXDIAN. 185 
 
 their chief. The winds will tell his brave deeds. 
 When men speak of him, they will not speak 
 loud ; but as if the Great Spirit had breathed in 
 thunder." 
 
 The prophecy was fulfilled. When Powonto- 
 namo became a man, the fame of his beauty and 
 courage reached the tribes of Illinois ; and even 
 the distant Osage showed his white teeth with de- 
 light, when he heard the wild deeds of the Mo- 
 hawk Eagle. Yet was his spirit frank, chivalrous, 
 and kind. When the white men came to buy land, 
 he met them with an open palm, and spread his 
 buffalo for the traveller. The old chiefs loved the 
 bold youth, and offered their daughters in mar- 
 riage. The eyes of the young Indian girls spark- 
 ted when he looked on them. But he treated 
 them all with the stern indifference of a warrior, 
 until he saw Soonseetah raise her long, dark eye- 
 lash. Then his heart melted beneath the beaming 
 glance of beauty. Soonseetah was the fairest of 
 the Oneidas. The young men of her tribe called 
 her the Sunny-eye. She was smaller than her 
 nation usually are ; and her slight, graceful figure, 
 was so elastic in its motions, that the tall grass 
 would rise up and shake off its dew drops after 
 her pretty moccasins had pressed it. Many a fa- 
 
 16* 
 
186 THE LONE INDIAN. 
 
 moiis chief had sought her love ; but when they 
 brought the choicest furs, she would smile dis- 
 dainfuUy, and say, " Soonseetah's foot is warm. 
 Has not her father an arrow ?" When they of- 
 fered her food, according to the Indian custom, 
 her answer was, " Soonseetah has not seen all 
 the warriors. She will eat with the bravest." The 
 hunters told the young Eagle, that Sunny-eye 
 of Oneida was beautiful as the bright birds in the 
 hunting land beyond the sky ; but that her heart 
 was proud, and she said the great chiefs were not 
 good enough to dress venison for her. When 
 Powontonamo listened to these accounts, his lip 
 would curl slightly, as he threw back his fur-edged 
 mantle, and placed his firm, springy foot forward, 
 so that the beads and sheUs of his rich moccasin 
 might be seen to vibrate at every sound of his tre- 
 mendous M'ar song. If there was vanity in the 
 act, there was likewise becoming pride. Soonsee- 
 tah heard of his haughty smile, and resolved in 
 her own heart that no Oneida should sit beside 
 her till she had seen the chieftain of the ^lohawks. 
 Before many moons had passed away, he sought 
 her father's wigwam, to carry delicate furs and 
 shining shells to the young coquette of the wil- 
 derness. She did not raise her bright, melting 
 
THE LONE INDIAN. 187 
 
 eye to his, when he came near ; but when he 
 said, " Will the Sunny-eye look on the gifts of a 
 Mohawk? his barbed arrow is swift; his foot ne- 
 ver turned from the foe ;" the colour on her brown 
 cheek was glowing as an autumnal twilight. Her 
 voice was like the troubled note of the wren, as 
 she answered, " The furs of Powontonamo are 
 soft and warm to the foot of Soonseetah. She will 
 weave the shells in the wampum belt of the Mo- 
 hawk Eagle." The exulting lover sat by her side, 
 and offered her venison and parched corn. She 
 raised her timid eye, as she tasted the food, and 
 then the young Eagle knew that Sunny-eye 
 would be his wife. 
 
 There was feasting and dancing, and the mar- 
 riage song rang merrily in Mohawk cabins, when 
 the Oneida came among them. Powontonamo 
 loved her as his own heart's blood. He delighted 
 to bring her the fattest deers of the forest, and 
 load her with the ribbons and beads of the En- 
 glish. The propliets of his people liked it not 
 that the strangers grew so numerous in the land. 
 They shook their heads mournfully, and said, 
 " The moose and the beaver will not live within 
 sound of the white man's gun. They will go be- 
 yond the lakes, and the Indians must follow their 
 
188 THE LONE IXDIAN. 
 
 trail." But the young chief laughed them U 
 scorn. He said, " The land is very big. The 
 mountain eagle could not ^y over it in many days 
 Surely the wigwams of the English will nevei 
 cover it." Yet when he held his son in his arms, as 
 his father had done before him, he sighed to heai 
 the strokes of the axe levelling the old trees of his 
 woods. Sometimes he looked sorrowfully on his 
 baby boy, and thought he had perchance done 
 him much wrong, when he smoked a pipe in the 
 wigwam of the stranger. 
 
 One day he left his home before the gray mist 
 of morning had gone from the hills, to seek food 
 for his wife and child. The polar star was bright 
 in the heavens ere he returned ; yet his hands 
 were empty. The white man's gun had scared 
 the beasts of the forest, and the arrow of the In- 
 dian was sharpened in vain. Powontonamo en- 
 tered his wigwam with a cloudy brow. He did 
 not look at Soonseetah ; he did not speak to her 
 boy ; but silent and sullen, he sat leaning on the 
 head of his arrow. He wept not, for an Indian 
 I . may not weep ; but the muscles of his face be- 
 
 trayed the struggle within his soul. The Sunny- 
 eye approached fearfully, and laid her little hand 
 upon his brawny shoulder, as she asked, "Why 
 
THE LONE INDIAN. 189 
 
 is the Eagle's eye on the earth ? What has Soon- 
 seetah done, that her child dare not look in the 
 face of his father ?" Slowly the warrior turned 
 his gaze upon her. The expression of sadness 
 deepened, as he answered, " The Eagle has taken 
 a snake to his nest ; how can his young sleep in 
 it?" The Indian boy, all unconscious of the 
 forebodings which stirred his father's spirit, 
 moved to his side, and peeped up in his face with 
 a mingled expression of love and fear. 
 
 The heart of the generous savage was full, 
 -even to bursting. His hand trembled, as he 
 placed it on the sleek, black hair of his only son. 
 " The Great Spirit bless thee ; the Great Spirit 
 bless thee, and give thee back the hunting ground 
 of the Mohawk !" he exclaimed. Then folding 
 him, for an instant, in an almost crushing em- 
 brace, he gave him to his mother, and darted from 
 the wigwam. 
 
 Two hours he remained in the open air ; but 
 the clear breath of heaven brought no relief to 
 his noble and suffering soul. Wherever he look- 
 ed abroad, the ravages of the civilized destroyer 
 met his eye. Where were the trees, under which 
 he had frolicked in infancy, sported in boyhood, 
 and rested after the fatigues of battle? They 
 
190 THE LONE INDIAN. 
 
 formed the English boat, or lined the English 
 dwelling. Where were the holy sacrifice-heaps 
 of his people? The stones were taken to fence 
 in the land, which the intruder dared to call his 
 o^\^l. Where was his father's grave ? The stran- 
 ger's road passed over it, and his cattle trampled 
 on the ground where the mighty Mohawk slum- 
 bered. "V\Tiere were his once powerful tribe? 
 Alas, in the white man's wars they had joined 
 Avith the British, in the vain hope of recovering 
 their lost privileges. Hundreds had gone to their 
 last home ; others had joined distant tribes ; and 
 some pitiful ^^Tetches, whom he scorned to call 
 brothers, consented to live on the white man's 
 bounty. These were corroding reflections ; and 
 well might fierce thoughts of vengeance pass 
 through the mind of the deserted prince ; but he 
 was powerless now ; and the Enghsh swarmed, 
 like vultures around the dying. " It is the work 
 of the Great Spirit," said he. "The Englishman's 
 God made the Indian's heart afraid ; and now he 
 is like a wounded buflfalo, when hungry wolves 
 are on his trail." 
 
 When Powontonamo returned to his hut, his 
 countenance, though severe, was composed. He 
 spoke to the Sunny-eye with more kindness than 
 
THE LONE INDIAN. 191 
 
 the savage generally addresses the wife of his 
 youth ; but his look told her that she must not 
 ask the grief which had put a woman's heart 
 within the breast of the far-famed Mohawk 
 Eagle. 
 
 The next day, when the young chieftain went out 
 on a hunting expedition, he was accosted by a 
 rough, square-built farmer. " Powow," said he, 
 " your squaw has been stripping a dozen of my 
 trees, and I don't like it over much." It was a 
 moment when the Indian could ill brook a white 
 man's insolence. " Listen, Buffalo-head !" shout- 
 ed he ; and as he spoke he seized the shaggy pate 
 of the unconscious offender, and eyed him with 
 the concentrated venom of an ambushed rattle 
 snake,—" Listen to the chief of the Mohawks ! 
 These broad lands are all his own. When the 
 white man first left his cursed foot-print in the 
 forest, the Great Bear looked down upon the big 
 tribes of Iroquois and Abnaquis. The wigwams 
 of the noble Delawares were thick, where the 
 soft winds dwell. The rising sun glanced on the 
 fierce Pequods; and the Illinois, the Miamies, 
 and warlike tribes like the hairs of your head, 
 marked his going down. Had the red man struck 
 ye then, your tribes would have been as dry grass 
 
192 THE LONE INDIAN. 
 
 to the lightning ! Go— shall the Sunny-eye of 
 Oneida ask the pale face for a basket?" He 
 breathed out a quick, convulsive laugh, and his 
 white teeth showed through his parted lips, as he 
 shook the farmer from him, with the strength and 
 fury of a ragmg panther. 
 
 After that his path was unmolested, for no one 
 dared to awaken his wrath ; but a smile never 
 again visited the dark countenance of the degraded 
 chief. The wild beasts had fled so far from the 
 settlements, that he would hunt days and days 
 without success. Soonseetah sometimes begged 
 him to join the remnant of the Oneidas, and per- 
 suade them to go far off, toward the setting sun. 
 Powontonamo replied, " This is the burial place 
 of my fathers ;" and the Sunny-eye dared say nd 
 more. 
 
 At last their boy sickened and died, of a fever 
 he had taken among the English. They buried 
 him beneath a spreading oak, on the banks of the 
 Mohawk, and heaped stones upon his grave, 
 without a tear. " He must lie near the water," 
 said the desolate chief, "else the white man's 
 horses will tread on him." 
 
 The young mother did not Aveep ; but her heart 
 had received its death wound. The fever seized 
 
THE LONE INDIAN. 193 
 
 her, and she grew paler and weaker every day. 
 One morning Powontonamo returned with some 
 delicate food he had been seeking for her. " Will 
 Sbonseetah eat ?" said he. He spoke in a tone of 
 subdued tenderness ; but she answered not. The 
 foot which was wont to bound forward to meet 
 him, lay motionless and cold. He raised the 
 blanket which partly concealed her face, and saw 
 that the Sunny-eye was closed in death. One 
 hand was pressed hard against her heart, as if her 
 last moments had been painful. The other grasp- 
 ed the beads ^viiich the young Eagle had given 
 her in the happy days of courtship. One heart 
 rending shriek was wrung from the bosom of the 
 agonized savage. He tossed his arms wildly 
 above his head, and threw himself beside the body 
 of her he had loved as fondly, deeply, and pas- 
 sionately, as ever a white man loved. After the 
 first burst of grief had subsided, he carefully un- 
 tied the necklace from her full, beautiful bosom, 
 crossed her hands over the sacred relic, and put 
 back the shining black hair from her smooth fore- 
 head. For hours he watched the corpse in si- 
 lence. Then he arose and carried it from the 
 wigwam. He dug a grave by the side of his lost 
 boy J laid the head of Soonseetah toward the rising 
 
 17 
 
194 THE LONE INDIAN. 
 
 sun ; heaped the earth upon it, and covered it with 
 stones, according to tlie custom of his people. 
 
 Night was closing in, and still the bereaved 
 Mohawk stood at the grave of Sunny-eye, as mo- 
 tionless as its cold inmate. A white man, as he 
 passed, paused, and looked in pity on him. " Are 
 you sick ?" asked he. " Yes ; me sick. JMe very 
 sick here," answered Powontonamo, laying his 
 hand upon his swelling heart. "Will you go 
 home ?" " Home !" exclaimed the heart broken 
 chief, in tones so thrilling, that the white man 
 started. Then slowly, and with a half vacant 
 look, he added, " Yes, me go home. By and by 
 me go home." Not another word would he speak; 
 and the white man left him, and went his way. 
 A little while longer he stood watching the 
 changing heavens ; and then, with reluctant step, 
 retired to his solitary wigwam. 
 
 The next day, a tree, Avhich Soonseetah had 
 often said was just as old as their boy, was placed 
 near the mother and child. A wild vine was 
 straggling among the loose stones, and Powonto- 
 namo carefully twined it around the tree. " The 
 young oak is the Eagle of the Mohawks," he 
 said ; " and now the Sunny-eye has her arms 
 round him." He spoke in the wild music of his 
 
THE LONE INDIAN. 195 
 
 native tongue , but there was none to answer. 
 " Yes ; Powontonamo will go home," sighed he. 
 " He will go where the sun sets in the ocean, and 
 the white man's eyes have never looked upon it." 
 One long, one lingering glance at the graves of his 
 kindred, and the Eagle of the Mohawks bade fare- 
 well to the land of his fathers. 
 
 ******** 
 
 For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian 
 was seen standing at the consecrated spot we 
 have mentioned ; but just thirty years after the 
 death of Soonseetah, he was noticed for the last 
 time. His step was then firm, and his figure erect, 
 though he seemed old and way-worn. Age had not 
 dimmed the fire of his eye, but an expression of 
 deep melancholy had settled on his wrinkled 
 brow. It was Powontonamo — he who had once 
 been the Eagle of the Mohawks I He came to 
 lie down and die beneath the broad oak, which 
 shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. Alas, the 
 white man's axe had been there ! Tlie tree he 
 had planted was dead ; and the vine, which had 
 leaped so vigorously from branch to branch, now, 
 yellow and withering, was falling to the ground. 
 A deep groan burst from the soul of the savage. 
 For thirty wearisome years, he had watched that 
 
196 THE LONE INDIAN. 
 
 oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the 
 only things left in the wide world for him to love, 
 and they were gone ! He looked abroad. The 
 hunting land of his tribe was changed like its 
 chieftain. No light canoe now shot down the 
 river, like a bird upon the wing. The laden boat 
 of the white man alone broke its smooth surface. 
 The Englishman's road wound, like a serpent, 
 around the banks of the Mohawk ; and iron hoofs 
 had so beaten do\\'n the war path, that a hawk's 
 eye could not discover an Indian track. The last 
 wigwam was destroyed; and the sun looked 
 boldly down upon spots he had visited only by 
 stealth, during thousands and thousands of moons. 
 The few remaining trees, clothed in the fantastic 
 mourning of autumn ; the long line of heavy 
 clouds, melting away before the coming sun ; and 
 the distant mountain seen through the blue mist 
 of departing twilight, alone remained as he had 
 seen them in his boyhood. All things spoke a sad 
 language to the heart of the desolate Indian. 
 " Yes," said he, " the young oak and the vine are 
 like the Eagle and the Sunny-eye. They are cut 
 down, torn, and trampled on. The leaves are 
 falling, and the clouds are scattering, like my peo- 
 ple. I wish I could once more see the trees 
 
THE LONE INDIAN. 197 
 
 Standing thick, as tliey did when my mother held 
 me to her bosom, and sung the warhke deeds of 
 the Mohawks." 
 
 A mingled expression of grief and anger passed 
 -over his face, as he watched a loaded boat in its 
 passage across the stream. " The M'hite man 
 carries food to his wife and children, and he finds 
 them in his home," said he. " Where is the squaw 
 and the papoose of the red man ? They are 
 here !" As he spoke, he fixed his eye thought- 
 fully upon the grave. After a gloomy silence, he 
 again looked round upon the fair scene, with a 
 wandering and troubled gaze. " The pale face 
 may like it," murmured he; "but an Indian 
 cannot die here in peace." So saying, he broke 
 his bow string, snapped his arrows, threw them 
 on the burial place of his fathers, and departed for 
 
 ever. 
 
 ******** 
 
 None ever knew where Powontonamo laid his 
 dying head. The hunters from the west said, a 
 red man had been among them, whose tracks 
 were far off toward the rising sun ; that he seemed 
 like one who had lost his way, and was sick to 
 go home to the Great Spirit. Perchance, he slept 
 his last sleep where the distant Mississippi re- 
 
 17* 
 
198 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 ceives its hundred streams. Alone and unfriended, 
 he may have laid him down to die, where no man 
 called him brother ; and the wolves of the desert, 
 long ere this, may have howled the death song of 
 the Mohawk Eagle. 
 
 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 BY THE 
 AUTHOR OF ' HOPE LESLIE. 
 
 " La Nature fait le merite, 
 La Fortune le met en preuve.'* 
 
 Many fortunate travellers on the western bor- 
 der of Massachusetts, and not many miles from 
 the Hudson, have been refreshed at the inn of 
 Reliance Reynolds, Reliance, as his name indi- 
 cates, was born in the good old times. We are 
 aware that the enthusiasts about the " progress of 
 the age," deny this golden period any but a retro- 
 spective existence, and maintain that, retrace the 
 steps of the human family far as you will, 
 it is like the age of chivalry, always a little 
 behind you. But we adhere to the popular phra- 
 seology, and call those " good old times," when 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 199 
 
 the Puritanical nomenclature prevailed ; when 
 -such modest graces as faith and temperance had 
 :-not been expelled from our taverns, kitchens, and 
 • workshops, by the heroes and heroines of ro- 
 mance — the Orlandos and Lorenzos, Rosamonds 
 and Anna Matildas. 
 
 Reliance belonged to the " good old times," too, 
 in the more essential matter of downright honesty, 
 simplicity, and respectful courtesy. His was a 
 rare character in New-England— a passive spirit, 
 content to fill and fit the niche nature had pre- 
 pared for him. It w^as not very high, but he 
 never aspired above it ; nor very low, but he never 
 sank below it. He was the marvel of his neigh- 
 bours, for he could never be persuaded into an 
 enterprise, or speculation. He never bought a 
 water privilege, nor an oar bed ; subscribed to a 
 county bank, or " moved to the West ;" or in any 
 mode indicated that principle in man, which, in 
 its humble operations, is restlessness, in its lofty 
 aspirations, a longing after immortality. Re- 
 hance's desires never passed the bounds of his 
 premises, and were satisfied, even within them, 
 with a very moderate share of power. He stood at 
 his door, his hat in his hand, to receive his guests; 
 he strictly performed the promise of his sign, and 
 
200 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 gave "good entertainment to man and horse;" 
 he rendered a moderate bill, and received his dues 
 with a complacent smile, in Avhich gratitude was 
 properly tempered with a just sense of his own 
 rights. In short, as must be already quite mani- 
 fest, Reliance, though a pattern landlord, is a very 
 poor subject for a storyteller ; his qualities, like 
 the colours in a ray of light, all blending and 
 forming one hue, and his life presenting the same 
 monotonous harmony. 
 
 We should not have forced him from his happy 
 obscurity into the small degree of notoriety he 
 may incur on our humble page, but for his being 
 the adjunct of his wife, an important personage in 
 our narrative. 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds, too, like her husband, performed 
 exactly the duties of her station. She never per- 
 haps read a line of poetry, save such as might 
 lurk in the " Poet's Corner" of a village paper, 
 but her whole life was an illustration of the old- 
 fashioned couplet — 
 
 " Honour and shame from no condition rise, 
 Act well your part, there all the honour lies.' 
 
 She never was a presidentess of a " society for 
 ameliorating the condition of the Jews," or secre- 
 
HOMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 201 
 
 tary or treasurer of any of those beneficent asso- 
 ciations that rescue the latent talents of women 
 from obscurity, and mettrent en scene gems and 
 flowers that might otherwise shine and exhale 
 unnoticed and unknown ; but though humble was 
 her name and destiny, her memory is dear to the 
 wayfaring. Quiet, order, and neatness, reigned 
 at her bed and board. No pirates harboured in 
 her bedsteads, no bad luck, that evil genius of 
 housewives, curdled her cream, spoiled her butter 
 or her bread ; but her table was spread with such 
 simple, wholesome fare, as might have lit a smile 
 on the wan visage of an old dyspeptic ; and this 
 we take to be the greatest achievement of the gas- 
 tronomic art. 
 
 With the duties of life so peacefully and so well 
 performed, our good hostess ought, according to 
 all the rules of happiness, to have been happy ; 
 but it is our melancholy duty to confess she was 
 not, and to explain the cause. She had been 
 married many years without having any childr^i; 
 that blfrrfsed possession, that in transmitting the 
 parents' existence, seems to extend its bounds, 
 and to render even here, the mortal immortal. 
 In addition to the feeling, common to all women, 
 who naturally crave the sweetest objects for their 
 
202 ROMANCE IX REAL LIFE. 
 
 tenderest and strongest affections, Mrs. Reynolds 
 lamented her childless state with a bitterness of 
 repining approaching to that of the Hebrew wives. 
 With everything else in her possession that could 
 inspire contentment, her mind was fixed on this 
 one desired good, and, like Hannah of old, she 
 was still a " woman of a sorrowful spirit." She 
 had endeavoured to solace herself with the chil- 
 dren of her kindred, and several, from time to 
 time, had been adopted into her family ; but some 
 proved disagreeable, and others homesick, and 
 there was always a paramount duty or affection 
 that interfered with hers, till finally her almost 
 extinguished hopes were gratified, and Providence 
 gave her a child worthy all her care and love.* 
 In the autumn of 1777, two travellers arrived 
 
 * We would gladly have had it in our power to be exact 
 in dates, as our story in good faith is true in all, even the 
 least important particulars. Some fevp circumstances, and 
 the " spoken words," had escaped tradition, and of course 
 were necessarily supplied, as the proper statue receives a 
 foot or finger from the ruder hand of modern art. The 
 name of the heroine having been subsequently merged 
 and forgotten in that of her husband, we have ventured to 
 retain it. The rest we have respectfully veiled under 
 a?ss\uned appellations. 
 
ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 203 
 
 ' just at liightfail at Reynold's iim. Its aspect was 
 inviting ; situated in the heart of a fertile valley 
 that had lately been refreshed by the early rains 
 of autumn, and in its bright garb resembling a 
 mature beauty that had happily harmonized 
 some youthful tints with her soberer graces. A 
 sprightly, winding stream, gave life and music to 
 the meadows. On every side the landscape was 
 undulating and fertile, but not then as extensively 
 cultivated as now, when, to the Tauconnuc on 
 the south, and the lofty blue outline of the Cats- 
 kills on the west, the eye ranges over a rich and 
 enjoyed country. Besides the accidental charm 
 of a pretty landscape, the inn had advantages pe- 
 culiar to itself. Instead of being placed on the 
 roadside, as most of our taverns are— for Avhat 
 reason we knoM^ not, unless a cloud of travellers' 
 dust be typical of a shower of gold to the vision 
 of mine host— Reynold's inn was separated from 
 the highway by a court-yard, shaded by two wide 
 spreading elms, and enlivened with a profusion 
 of autumnal flowers, marigolds, cockscombs, and 
 china-asters. 
 
 There was nothing that indicated any claims 
 to particular civility in the appearance of our 
 travellers. They were well looking and respect- 
 
 ^. 
 
204 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 ably apparelled; and, accordingly, having an- 
 nounced their determination to remain for the 
 night, they were shown to an inner room, the 
 parlour, par excellence^ where Mrs. Reynolds- 
 appeared, and having opened a door which ad- 
 mitted the balmy air and a view of the western 
 sky, just then brightened by the tints of the set- 
 ting sun, she received their orders for their supper, 
 and retired without one of those remarks or in^- 
 quiries by which it is usual, on such occasions, ta 
 give vent to curiosity. Nothing passed between 
 our travellers in the dull interval that elapsed be- 
 fore their meal was ready, to give to our readers 
 the least clue to their origin or destiny. One of 
 them lulled himself into a doze in the rocking 
 chair, while the other, younger and more active 
 and vivacious, amused himself out of doors, pluck- 
 ing flowers, enraging an old petulant cock turkey, 
 and mocking the scolding of some Guinea-hens, 
 the Xantippes of the feathered race. 
 
 The interval was not long. The door opened, 
 and the tea-table was brought in, already spread, 
 (a mode we wish others would adopt from our 
 pattern landlady,) and spread in a manner to cha- 
 racterize our bountiful country. 
 
 WTiat a contrast does the evening meal of our 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 205 
 
 humblest inns present to the leanness of an Eng- 
 lish tea-table ! A cornucopia would have been the 
 appropriate symbol for Mrs. Reynolds's table. 
 There were beaf steaks, and ham and eggs ; hot 
 cakes and toast ; bread and gingerbread ; all the 
 indigenous cakes, such as crullers and nutcakes, 
 &c. ; honey, sweetmeats, apple sauce, cheese, 
 pickles, and an afterpiece of pies. Kind reader, 
 do not condemn our bill of fare as impertinent and 
 iiilgar. We put it down to show the scared politi- 
 cal economists, that with us, instead of the popu- 
 lation pressing on the means of subsistence, the 
 means of subsistence presses on the population. 
 
 Our travellers fell to their repast with appetites 
 w^hetted by a long fast and a day's ride. Not a 
 word was spoken, till a little girl, who was sit- 
 ting on the doorstep caressing a tame pigeon, per- 
 ceiving that one of the guests had garnished his 
 buttonhole with a bunch of marigolds, plucked a 
 rose from a monthly rose bush, trained over a 
 trellis at the door, and laid it beside his plate. He 
 seemed struck with the modest oflisring, and, turn- 
 ing with a look of gratitude to the child, he patted 
 her on her head, and exclaimed instinctively, 
 ' Mercij Tnercij ma petite /' and then correcting 
 
 18 
 
206 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 himself, he said, in very imperfect Enghsh, ' I 
 thank you, my httle girl.' 
 
 The child's attention was fixed by the first word 
 he uttered, and as he addressed his companion in 
 French, her countenance indicated more emotion 
 than would naturally have been excited by the sim- 
 ple circumstance of hearing, for the first time, a fo- 
 reign language. ' Qii'elle est belle, cette petite,^ he 
 continued, turning to his companion; 'c'es^ la 
 heautede mon pays — voild^brunette, et les yeux^si 
 grands, si noirs, et la townure aussi — quelle 
 grdce^quellevivacite! Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur, 
 c'est tout-dfait Frangoise.'' As he proceeded, the 
 child advanced nearer to him. She shook back the 
 rich, dark curls that shaded her face, bent her head 
 forward, half parted her bright lips, and listened 
 with the uncertain and eager expression of one 
 who is catching ahalf remembered tune, the key to 
 a thousand awakening recollections. It was evi- 
 dent that she did not comprehend the purport of 
 the words, and that it was the sound alone to 
 which her delighted ear was stretched. 
 
 A smile played about her lips, and tears gather- 
 ed in her eyes, and there seemed to be a contra- 
 riety of emotions, confounding even to herself; 
 
ROMANCE INT REAL LIFE. 207 
 
 but that which finally prevailed was indicated by 
 her throwing her apron over her head, and re- 
 treating to the doorstep, where she sat down, and 
 for some moments, vainly attempted to stifle her 
 sobs. She had just become tranquil, when Mrs. 
 Reynolds entered. 
 
 The elder traveller said, in an interrogating 
 tone, " That is your child, ma'am ?" 
 
 " I call her mine," was the brief and not very 
 satisfactory reply. 
 
 " She resembles neither you nor your husband," 
 resumed the traveller. 
 
 " No ; she does not favour us." 
 
 " I fancied she had a French look." 
 
 " I can't say as to that," replied the landlady; " I 
 never saw any French people." 
 
 " My friend here is a Frenchman," pursued the 
 traveller, " and the little girl listened to him so in- 
 tently, that I thought it possible she might under- 
 stand him." 
 
 " No, I guess she did not sense him," replied 
 Mrs. RejTiolds, with an air of indifference ; and 
 then turning hastily to the child, " Mary," she 
 said, " there is more company ; go and see if your 
 father does not want you," 
 
 She went, and did not return. Mrs. Reynolds 
 
208 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 herself removed the table. The elder gentlema., 
 sat dowa to write a letter ; while the Frenchman 
 walked to and fro, opened the doors, and peeped 
 in every direction to get a glimpse of the little 
 girl, who seemed to have taken complete posses- 
 sion of his imagination. Once, as she ran through 
 the passage, he called to her, " Doucement! douce- 
 ment ! mon petit fl7?_^e"— she stopped as if she 
 were glued to the floor. " How call you your 
 name, my dear ?" 
 
 " Mary Reynolds, sir." 
 
 '• Then Madame there, IVIistress Reynolds, is 
 your maman ?" 
 
 « She is " 
 
 " Mary, what are you staying for ? Here— this 
 instant!" screamed Mrs. Reynolds from the kitchen 
 door, in a tone that admitted no delay, and the 
 child ran off without finishing her sentence. 
 
 " C^est Men singulier /" muttered the French- 
 man. 
 
 " What do you find so singular, Jaubert?" ask- 
 ed his companion, who had just finished his letter, 
 and thrown down his pen. 
 
 " Oh ! it is nothing— perhaps— but — " 
 
 " ' But' what, my friend ?" 
 
 " Why, there seems to me some mystery about 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 209 
 
 this child ; something in her manner, I know not 
 what, that stirs up strange thoughts and hopes in 
 my mind. She is not one of the pale, blond beau- 
 ties, of your climate." 
 
 " Ah ! my good friend, we have all sorts of 
 beauties in our clime. All nations, you know, 
 have sent us their contributions. The blue eye 
 and fair skin, the Saxon traits, certainly prevail 
 in our Eastern States ; but you know we border 
 on New- York, the asylum of the dark eyed Hu- 
 guenots, and it is not impossible that to this child 
 may have been transmitted the peculiarities of 
 some French ancestor. Nothing is more common 
 than a resemblance between a descendant and a 
 far off progenitor." 
 
 " Ah ! it is not only the French, the Norman as- 
 pect, the— do not ridicule me— the Angely traits 
 that attract me ; but you yourself noticed how 
 she listened to my language, and then this Mis- 
 tress Reynolds does not say she is her child, but 
 only she calls her so." 
 
 " Pshaw ! is that all ? It is the way of my 
 
 country people, Jaubert ; their indirectness is 
 
 proverbial. If one of them were to say 'yes' 
 
 or ' no,' you might suspect some deep mystery. 
 
 I confess I was at first startled with the little girl's 
 
 10* 
 
210 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 emotion, but I soon perceived it was nothing but 
 shame and embarrassment at the curiosity she 
 had betrayed. I see how it is, Jaubert ; fruitless 
 and hopeless as is our search, you cannot bear to 
 relinquish it, and are looking for some coup de 
 theatre, some sudden transition from disappoint- 
 ment to success." 
 
 We have put into plain English a conversation 
 that was supported in French, and was now bro- 
 ken off by the approach of Mrs. Reynolds, who 
 came to tell the travellers their bedrooms were 
 ready. By the light of the candle she brought, 
 she discovered Mary, concealed in a corner of the 
 passage close to the door, where, in breathless 
 stillness, she had been listening. "You here, 
 Mary !" exclaimed the good woman ; " I thought 
 you had been in bed this half hour. You will 
 make me angry with you, Mary, if you do not 
 mind me better than this," she added in an under 
 tone, and the child stole away, but without looking 
 either very penitent or very fearful ; and in truth 
 she had cause for neither penitence nor fear, for 
 she had only gratified an innocent and almost ir- 
 repressible inclination; and as to Dame Reynolds's 
 anger, it was never formidable. 
 
 The travellers retired to their respective apart- 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 211 
 
 ments, and while the landlady lingered to adjust 
 her parlour, the letter that had been left on the 
 table caught her eye. Nothing could Tae more na- 
 tural than for her to look at the superscription. 
 Painfully she spelt out the first line. " A Mon- 
 sieur, Afon-szeitr"— but when she came to the next, 
 her eye was rivetted, " St. Jean Angely de Creve- 
 Cceur." After gazing on it till she had made 
 assurance doubly sure, she was hastening to her 
 husband to participate the discoveiy with him, 
 when, apparently changing her intentions, she 
 retreated, bohed the door, and returned to the ex- 
 amination of the letter. It was unsealed. Re- 
 luctant to open it, she compromised with her con- 
 science, and peeped in at both ends, but the ^vri- 
 ting was not perceptible, and her interest over- 
 coming her scruples, she unfolded the letter. 
 Alas ! it was in French. In vain her eye ran over 
 the manuscript to catch some words that might 
 serve as clues to the rest. There was nothing in 
 all the three pages she could comprehend, but 
 " ai-iHve a New-York''^— ^^ la riviere d?Hudson^^-~ 
 " le manoir de Livingston?'' 
 
 She was refolding the letter, when the follow- 
 ing postscript, inadvertently written in English, 
 
212 EOMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 caught her eye: "As we have no encourage- 
 ment to proceed farther in our search, and Jean 
 and Avenel are all impatience, Jaubert will em- 
 bark in the Neptune, which is to sail on the 
 first." 
 
 . A gleam of pleasure shot across Mrs. Reynold's 
 face, but it soon darkened again with anxiety and 
 perplexity. " Why did I open the letter ?" she 
 asked herself. " Why did I look at it at all ? 
 But nobody will ever know that I have seen it, 
 unless I tell it myself; and why should I tell ?" 
 A burst of tears concluded this mental interroga- 
 tion, and proved that, however earnestly her 
 heart might plead before the tribunal of con- 
 science, yet the stern decision of that unerring 
 judge was heard. Self-interest has a hard task 
 when it would mystify the path of one who ha- 
 bitually walks by the clear light of truth, straight 
 onward in the path of duty. 
 
 It may seem natural to the inexperienced, that 
 Mrs. Reynolds did not communicate her embar- 
 rassment and irresolution, from whatever cause 
 they proceeded, to her husband ; but she well 
 knew what would be the result of a consultation; 
 for he, good man, never viewed a subject but 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 213 
 
 from one position, and we are all slow to ask 
 advice that we foresee will be counter to our 
 wishes. 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds, so far then from appealing to 
 the constituted authority of her household, locked 
 her discovery within her own bosom, and, to 
 avoid all suspicion and inquiry, she composed 
 herself as soon as possible, and retired to her bed, 
 but not to sleep ; and at peep of dawn she was 
 up and prepared to obtain all the satisfaction that 
 indirect interrogation could procure from the 
 travellers ; and her mental resolution, invigorated 
 by a night's solitary reflection, was " to act up to 
 her light." 
 
 They had ordered breakfast at a very early 
 hour, and she took care to be the only person in 
 attendance on them. When they were seated at 
 table, she placed herself in a rocking chair be- 
 hind them, a position that happily reconciles the 
 necessity of service with the dignity of indepen- 
 dence, and began her meditated approaches, by 
 saying to her own countryman, " I believe you 
 left a letter here last night, sir ; I laid it in the 
 cupboard, for fear of accidents." 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am ; I ought to have been 
 
214 ROMANCE IX REAL LIFE. 
 
 more careful. It was a letter of some conse- 
 quence." 
 
 " Indeed ! Well I was thinking it might be." 
 
 " Ah ! what made you think so ?" 
 
 Now we must premise, that neither of the par- 
 ties speaking, knew any thing of that sensitive- 
 ness that starts from a question as if an attacl 
 were made on private property ; but they pos- 
 sessed, in common, the good natured commu- 
 nicativeness that is said to characterize the New- 
 England people, who, in their colloquial traffic, 
 as in other barter, hold exchange to be no rob- 
 bery. 
 
 Most women are bom diplomatists, and Mrs. 
 Reynolds took care to reply to the last interroga- 
 tory so carefully as not to commit herself. " It 
 stands to reason," she said, " a letter that is to go 
 all the way over the wide sea to the old countries, 
 should be of consequence." 
 
 " Yes — it is a long voyage." 
 
 " You have taken it yourself, perhaps, sir ?" 
 
 " I have. I went out an officer on board one of 
 our cruisers, and was wrecked on the coast of 
 France." 
 
 "Of France ! Well^ we are hand and glove with 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 215 
 
 the French now ; but I tell my husband it seems 
 to me like joining with our enemies agamst those 
 of our own household." 
 
 *' Ah ! IMrs. Reynolds, ' friends are sometimes 
 better than kindred.' I am sure my ovm. fa- 
 ther's son could not have been kinder to me than 
 was Monsieur Angely de Creve-Coeur — hey, Jau- 
 bert ?" 
 
 " Ah ! vraiment, Monsieur ! c'est un Men brave 
 homme, Monsieur St. Jean Angely?^ 
 
 " Angely !" said Mrs. Reynolds, as if recalling 
 some faded recollection, " Angely — I think I have 
 heard tliat name before." 
 
 " It may be. The gentleman I speak of resided 
 some time in this country." 
 
 " But it can't be the same,'^ replied Mrs. Rey- 
 nolds : " for the person I speak of lived over in 
 Livingston's manner; and kind to strangers he 
 could not be, for he deserted his o^vn flesh and 
 blood, and went off early in the war." 
 
 " It may be the same for all that, and must be. 
 As to his deserting his children, ' thereby hangs a 
 tale ;' but it is a long one." 
 
 " Well, sir, if you have any thing to say in his 
 favour, I am bold to say I think you ought to 
 speak it ; especial!} as the gentleman seems tc» 
 
216 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 have stood your friend in a cloudy day. The 
 story certainly went sadly against him here." 
 
 "I have not the slightest objection, ma'am, to 
 telling the story, if you have the patience to hear 
 it ; especially as I see I must wait till Jaubert 
 has finished two more of your nice fresh eggs— 
 ' eggs of an hour,' Mrs. Reynolds." 
 
 " We always calculate to have fresh eggs, sir. 
 But what was you going to say of Mr. Angely ?" 
 she added, betraying, in the tremulous tones of 
 her voice, some emotion more heart stirring than 
 curiosity. Jaubert turned a glance of inquiry on 
 her that was answered by a sudden rush of blood 
 to her cheeks ; but the narrator proceeded with- 
 out noticing any thing extraordinary. " It was 
 my good, or ill luck," he said, " and it is only in 
 the long run that we can tell whether luck be 
 good or ill — but it was my luck to be shipwrecked 
 on the coast of Normandy, and good luck it cer- 
 tainly was, Jaubert, in my distress, to make such 
 a port as the Chateau de Creve-Coeur — the castle, 
 or, as we should call it here, Mrs. Reynolds, the 
 estate of the Angely's. A fine family they are. 
 You may think what a pleasure it was to me to 
 find a gentleman acquainted with my country, 
 and speaking my language, as did Mr. St. Jean 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 217 
 
 Angely. He was kind and affable to me, and al- 
 ways doing something for my pleasure, but I 
 could see he had a heaviness at his heart— that 
 he was often talking of one thing and thinking of 
 another— nothing like so gay as the old gentle- 
 man, his father ; who was like a fall flower— one 
 of your marigolds, Mrs. Re)aiolds, spreading it- 
 self open to every ray of sunshine, as if there 
 were no frosts and winter and death at hand. I 
 felt a pity for the young man. With every thing 
 that heart could desire, and without a heart to en- 
 joy, he seemed to me like a sick man seated at a 
 feast of which he could not taste. The day be- 
 fore I was to have come away, he took me aside, 
 and, after saying that I had won his entire confi- 
 dence, he disclosed to me the following particu- 
 lars : — 
 
 " He' entered the French army early in life, 
 and while yet a hot blooded, inconsiderate youth, 
 he killed a brother officer in a duel, and was 
 obliged to fly his country. He took refuge in 
 Lisbon. Judgement, I may say mercy, too— in 
 the dealings of Providence, Mrs. Rejiiolds, one is 
 always close on the track of the other— followed 
 him thither. Mr. Angely found employment in 
 a mercantile house, and was standing writing at 
 
218 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 his desk at the moment of the terrible earth- 
 quake that laid Lisbon in ruins. The timbers of 
 the house in which he was, were pitched in such 
 a manner as to form a sort of arch over his 
 head, on which the falling roof was sustained, and 
 thus he was, as it were, miraculously delivered 
 from danger. From Lisbon he came to this 
 country. ' Mechanics,' says a Spanish proverb, 
 * make the best pilgrims,' but, I am sure, not bet- 
 ter than Frenchmen ; for cast them where you 
 will, they will get an honest living. Mr. Angely 
 came up to Livingston's manor, and there he took 
 a fancy to a pretty Yankee girl, the only child 
 of a widow, and married her. He earned a sub- 
 sistence for his family by surveying. The coun- 
 try was new, and skilful surveyors scarce. After 
 a few years his wife died, and left him three chil- 
 dren." 
 
 " Three !" repeated Mrs. Reynolds, involunta- 
 rily sighing. 
 
 " Yes, pOor things ! there xcere three of them ; 
 too many to be left in these hard times fatherless 
 and motherless." 
 
 " Ah, sir ! and what must we think of the fa- 
 ther that could forsake his little children at such 
 a time ?" 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 219 
 
 *■' Think no evil, my friend j for Mr. Angely 
 did not deserve it. He was employed by Mrs. 
 Livingston, early in the war, to go down the river 
 to survey some land near New- York. There he 
 was taken by the British as a spy, and, in spite ol 
 his remonstrances, sent to England. This was 
 before the French had taken part with us, and he 
 obtained leave to go to France, on giving his pa- 
 role that he would not return to America. He 
 received a parent's welcome, and the affair of the 
 duel being nearly forgotten, a pardon was ob- 
 tained for him without difficulty. If he could 
 have forgotten his children, he would have been 
 as happy as man could be ; but his anxiety for 
 them preyed on his health and spirits ; and when 
 I arrived at the chateau, his friends imagined he 
 was sinking under some unknown disease. He 
 had not communicated to his father the fact of 
 his marriage and the existence of his children 
 when I arrived there. The old gentleman, kind 
 hearted and reasonable in the main, has all the 
 prejudices of the nobility in the old countries 
 about birth, and his son was afraid to confess that 
 he had smuggled an ignoble little yankee into 
 the ancient family of the Creve-Cceurs. So good 
 an opportunity as I afforded of communicating 
 
220 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 with his children, could not be passed by, and he 
 at length summoned courage to tell the truth to 
 his father. At first, he was wroth enough, and 
 stormed and vapoured ; but, after a little while, his 
 kind nature got the mastery of the blood of the 
 Creve-Coeurs, and he consented to the children 
 being sent for — the boys, at least." 
 
 " Only the boys !" exclaimed Mrs. Reynolds, 
 feeling relieved from an insupportable weight. 
 
 " Only the boys. But the old gentleman might 
 have as well saved all his credit, and sent for the 
 girl to ; but that was not his pleasure. Well, 
 Monsieur Jaubert here, a relative and particular 
 friend to the family, came out with me to take 
 charge of the ciiildren. We found the boys with- 
 out much difficulty ; two noble little fellows, that 
 a king might be proud of. After waiting for some 
 time for Monsieur Angely's return, the overseers 
 of the poor, believing he had abandoned his child- 
 ren, bound them out. The httle girl had been 
 removed to some distance from her brothers. 
 We found the place where she had been, but not 
 the family. The husband and wife had quarrelled, 
 and separated and disappeared ; and all the m for- 
 mation we could obtain, was a vague story that 
 such a child had lived there and had run away ; 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 221 
 
 and as nobody in these troublesome times can do 
 more than look after their own children, this poor 
 thing was left to her fate. Hopeless as it appears, 
 Jaubert is not M-illing to give up our search. He 
 fancies every brunette he sees is the lost Marie, 
 and only last evening he would have persuaded 
 me, that your black eyed little girl might be this 
 stray scion of the Creve-Coeurs." 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds rose and left the room, and did 
 not return till she was sufficiently composed to 
 ask, in an assured voice, " What was their object 
 in looking for the girl, if the father did not mean 
 to reclaim her ?" 
 
 " He did mean to reclaim and provide for her," 
 replied the traveller, " and for that purpose I have 
 ample funds in my hands. He only conceded to 
 the old gentleman her remaining in the country 
 for the present." 
 
 " Had you any direction as to how you were to 
 dispose of her ?"' 
 
 " Yes, positive orders to convey her to Boston, 
 and place her under the guardianship of a French 
 lady who resides there, a friend of Mr. Angely — 
 one INIadame Adelon." 
 
 " But could you find no trace of the child ?" 
 
 " Not the slightest." 
 
223 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 " And you have determined to make no farther 
 inquiry ?" 
 
 "Why should we? Inquiry is useless, and 
 would but delay to a tempestuous season Jau- 
 bert's return with the boys." 
 
 Our readers are doubtless sufficiently aware, 
 that the adopted child of our good landlady was 
 the missing child of Monsieur Angely. A few 
 words will be necessary to explain how she be- 
 came possessed of her. 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds and her husband were, two 
 years prior to this period, approaching the close 
 of a winter day's ride. Their sleigh was gliding 
 noiselessly through a dry, new fallen snow, when 
 their attention was arrested by the moanings of 
 a child. To stop the horses and search for the 
 sufferer from whom the sounds proceeded, was 
 the instinctive impulse of benevolence. They 
 had not gone many yards from the road, when, 
 nestled close to a rock, and in some measure de- 
 fended from the cold by a clump of laurels, they 
 found a little girl, her hands and feet frozen, and 
 nearly insensible. They immediately carried her 
 to the sleigh, and put their horses to their utmost 
 speed ; but, as they were none of the fleetest, and 
 the nearest habitatipn was at several miles dis- 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 223 
 
 tance, a considerable time elapsed before they 
 could obtain the means of restoration, and in con- 
 sequence of this delay, and of severe previous suf- 
 fering, it was many weeks before the child re- 
 covered. In the mean time, though Mrs. Rey- 
 nolds's residence was not more than thirty miles 
 from the place where she had found the child, no 
 inquiry was made for her. The account she 
 gave of herself sufficiently explained this neglect. 
 She said she had no mother ; that her father had 
 left home just after the snows melted and the 
 birds came back ; that he had left her and her 
 two brothers, Jean and Avenel, with a woman to 
 take care of them ; that when this woman had 
 waited a great while for their father, she grew 
 tired, and was cross to them, and then she too 
 went away, and left them quite alone. Then she 
 said they had nothing to eat. and she supposed they 
 were the poor, for the men they called the over- 
 seers of the poor took her and her brothers, and 
 separated them, and she was carried a great way 
 off to a woman who was very cross to her, and 
 cross to her own children ; and her husband was 
 cross too. One night he came home in a great pas- 
 sion, and he began to whip his wife with his big 
 whip, and his wife beat him with the hot shovel ; 
 
224 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 and she, the child, was scared, ran out of the 
 house, and far up into a wood, to get beyond their 
 cries; and when she would have returned, the 
 snow was falling, and she could not find the 
 path, and she had wandered about till she was so 
 cold and tired she could go no farther. Her 
 name, she said, was Angely, and she believed her 
 father was called a Frenchman. The only pa- 
 rental relic she possessed confirmed this statement. 
 It was a locket which she wore suspended at her 
 neck. It contained a lock of hair ; an armorial 
 crest was engi-aven on the back, and under it was 
 inscribed, "St. Jean Angely de Creve-Coeur." 
 This simple story established the conviction that 
 had been gaining strength in Mrs. Reynold's 
 mind, with every day's attendance on the inte- 
 resting child, that they had been brought toge- 
 ther by the special providence of God ; and most 
 faithfully did she discharge the maternal duties 
 that she believed had been thus miraculously im- 
 posed on her. The little girl was, on her part, 
 happy and delighted, and, though she sometimes 
 bitterly lamented her father and brothers, yet, as 
 the impressions of childhood are slight, the recol- 
 itection of them was almost efl:aced, when the my& 
 terious energies of memory were awakened by 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 225 
 
 the sound of a language that seemed to have been 
 utterly forgotten. These events occurred during 
 the revolutionary war, a period of disaster and 
 distress, when a very dihgent search for a friend- 
 less child was not likely to be made ; and as no 
 inquiry ever reached Mrs. Reynolds's ear, and as 
 she deemed the foundhng an orphan, she had not 
 hesitated to appropriate her. Her name was 
 changed from Marie Angely to Mary Reynolds ; 
 and the good woman seemed as secure and happy 
 as any mother, save when she was reminded of 
 the imperfection of her title by the too curious 
 inquiries of travellers. On these occasions, she 
 was apt to betray a little irritability, and to veil 
 the truth with a slight evasion, as m the instance 
 which excited the suspicion of our sagacious 
 Frenchman. 
 
 Her condition was now a pitiable one. She had 
 the tenderness, but not the rights of a parent. She 
 was habitually pure and upright ; but now she 
 was strongly swayed by her affections. She 
 w^ould have persuaded herself, that the abandon- 
 ment in which she first fomid the child, invested 
 her with a paramount claim ; but the stranger's 
 story had proved that her father had not volunta- 
 rily abandoned her. Then she thought, " It can- 
 
226 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 not be for Mary's interest, that I should give her 
 up ;" and her mind took a rapid survey of the 
 growing property of which the child was the heir 
 apparent. But she would ask herself, " Wliat 
 do I know of the fortune of her father ? But 
 surely he cannot, he cannot love her as I do. 
 Ah, I do not know the feeling of a real parent ;" 
 and a burst of tears expressed the sadness of this 
 conviction, and obliged her abruptly to withdraw 
 from the presence of her guests, and leave them 
 amazed at her sudden and violent emotion, while 
 she retired to her own apartment, to implore gui- 
 dance and support from Heaven. Those who ho- 
 nestly ask for light to point out a way which they 
 would fain not see, and for power to endure a 
 burden from which their nature shrinks, are often 
 themselves astonished at the illumination vouch- 
 safed, and the strength imparted. This was the 
 experience of Mrs. Reynolds. She rose from her 
 devotions with the conviction, that but one course 
 remained to her, and with a degree of tranquilli- 
 ty, hastened to Mary's bedroom. 
 
 The child was just risen and dressed. Without 
 any explanation to her— she was at the moment 
 incapable of making any— she tied her locket, 
 her sole credential, around her neck, led her 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 227 
 
 down stairs, and placing her hand in Jaiibert's, 
 she said, " Yon have found the child I" and then 
 retreated to hide the emotion she could not subdue. 
 
 It was fortunate for her, that she was not com- 
 pelled to witness the gay demonstrations of Jau- 
 bert's ecstacies, the graver, but not more equivo- 
 cal manifestations of his companions satisfaction, 
 and the amazement and curiosity of the little girl, 
 who was listening to the explanation of the stran- 
 gers, with childlike animation, without adverting 
 to her approaching separation from her who had 
 given her the affection and cares of a parent. 
 
 But when she came to be severed from this 
 kind friend, she made amends for her thought- 
 lessness. She clung to her as if nature had knit 
 the bonds that united them, and, amid her cries 
 and sobs, she promised always to remember and 
 love her as a mother. Many have made such 
 promises. Marie Angely kept them. 
 
 Ten years subsequent to the events above nar- 
 rated, a letter, of which the following is a trans- 
 lation, was addressed by a foreigner in a high 
 official station in this country, to his friend. 
 
 *' Dear Berville — 
 
 * It is, I believe, or should be, a maxim of 
 
228 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 the true church, that confession of a sin is the first 
 step towards its expiation. 
 
 " Let me, then, invest you with a priest's cas- 
 sock, and reheve my conscience by the relation of 
 an odd episode in my history. When I parted 
 from you, I was going with my friend, Robert El- 
 lison, to visit his father, who has a beautiful place 
 on the banks of the Hudson. Young Ellison, 
 as you know, is a thorough republican, and does 
 not conceal his contempt for those of his compa- 
 triots, who, professing the same principles, are 
 really aristocrats in their prejudices and manners ; 
 who, having parted, and as they pretend, volunta- 
 rily, with the substance, still grasp at the sha- 
 dow. To test these false pretensions, and to mor- 
 tify an absurd pride, he joyfully acquiesced in a 
 proposition I made to him, to lay aside the pomp 
 and circumstance of my official character, and to 
 be presented to his friends without any of the ac- 
 cidental advantages with which fortune has in- 
 vested me. You will inquire my motive, for you 
 will not suspect me of the absurdity of crusading 
 against the follies of society, the most hopeless 
 of all crusades. No, as our own Moliere says, 
 
 C'est une folie, a nuUe autre seconde, 
 De vouloir se meter de corriger le monde. 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 229 
 
 My motives were, then, in the first place, a love of 
 ease, of dishabille ; an impatience of the irksome- 
 ness of having the dignity of a nation to sustain; 
 and, in the second place, I wished to ascertain 
 how much of the favour lavished on me I should 
 place to the account of the ambassador, and how 
 much I might reserve to my o\vn proper self. 
 
 " You may call this latent vanity. I will not 
 quarrel with you. I will not pretend that I was 
 moved solely by a love of truth, by a pure desire 
 to find out the realities of things ; but alas ! my 
 dear Berville, if we were to abstract from the web 
 of our motives, every thread tinged with self, 
 would not warp and woof too disappear? Let, 
 then, my motive be what it might, you will allow 
 the experiment required courage. 
 
 " We had some difficulty in settling the precise 
 point at which to gage my pretensions. ' Do not 
 claim a drop of noble blood,' said my friend, ' it 
 vvould defeat your purpose. There is something 
 cabalistic in that word ' noble.' The young ladies 
 
 at would at once invest you with the attributes 
 
 of romance ; and the old dowagers would perse 
 cute you with histories of their titled ancestors, 
 and anecdotes of lords and ladies that figured in 
 the drawing rooms of the colony. Neither must 
 
 20 
 
230 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 you be a plain gentleman of fortune, though that 
 may seem to you a sufficient descent from your 
 high station ; but fortune has every where her 
 shrines and her devotees. You must be the ar- 
 tificer of your own fortune, a talented young 
 man who has no rank or fortune to be spoken oL 
 What say you to the profession of a painter, sl 
 portrait painter, since that is the only branch of 
 the art that gets a man bread in this country.' I 
 acceded without shrinking, secretly flattering my- 
 self that my friend either underrated my intrinsic 
 merit, or did the world rank injustice. 
 
 " When we arrived, we found a large party of 
 the neighbouring gentry assembled to dine at 
 
 . I was received with great courtesy by 
 
 the elder Ellison, and with kindness by Madame,, 
 on the ground, simply, of being an acquaintance 
 of their son's. My friend took care to prevent 
 any elation from my reception by saymg to me, 
 in a low voice, ' My father, God bless him, has 
 good sense, good feeling, and experience, and he 
 well knows that the value of gold does not depend 
 on the circulation it has obtained ;' and truly, if 
 he had known that I bore the impress of the king's 
 countenance, he could not have received me more 
 graciously. There might have been more for- 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 231 
 
 mality in his reception of the public functionary, 
 but there could not have been more genuine hos- 
 pitality. He presented me to his guests, and here 
 I was first reminded of my disguise. Instead of 
 the sensation I have been accustomed to see 
 manifested in the lighting up of the face, in the 
 deferential bow, or the blush of modesty, no emo- 
 tion was visible. No eye rested on me, not a link 
 of conversation was broken, and I was suffered, 
 after rather an awkward passage through the 
 ceremony, to retire to my seat, where I remained, 
 observing, but not observed, till dinner was an- 
 nounced. From the habit of precedence, I was 
 advancing to lead Madame to the dining room, 
 when I encountered my friend's glance, and 
 shrunk back in time to avoid what must have ap- 
 peared an unpardonable impertinence. I now 
 fell into my modest station in the rear, and offered 
 my arm to an awkward bashful girl, who I am 
 sure had two left hands by the manner in which 
 she received my courtesy, and who did not honour 
 me so far as to look up to see who it was that had 
 saved her from the mortifying dilemma of leaving 
 the drawing room alone. I helped my companion 
 from the dish nearest to me, and waited myself 
 till Madame, reminded by her son of her over- 
 
232 ROMAXCE IN REAL UFE. 
 
 sight, sent me a plate of soup. I was swallowing 
 this, unmolested by any conversation addressed 
 to me, when my friend's father said to him, 'When 
 have you seen the French ambassador, Robert ? 
 I hoped you would have persuaded him to pay 
 us a visit.' 
 
 " ' Perhaps he may,' replied my friend, ' before 
 the summer is over. He is at present out of the 
 city, on some excursion.' 
 
 " ' A prodigious favourite is your son with the 
 French ambassador, as I hear from all quarters,' 
 said a gentleman who sat next Mr. Ellison. 
 
 " ' Ah ! is that so, Robert ? Are you intimate 
 with Monsieur < V 
 
 " ' He does me the honour to permit my society, 
 sir.' Every mouth was now opened in pi aise of 
 the ambassador. None of the company had seen 
 him, but all had heard of his abilities, the charms 
 of his conversation, his urbanity, his savoirplaire. 
 ' You must be proud of your countryman, M. 
 Dufau V (this was my assumed name) said my 
 host, with that courtesy that finds a word for the 
 humblest guest. 
 
 " I said it was certainly gratifying to my na- 
 tional feeling to find him approved in America, 
 but that, perhaps it was not his merit alone that 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 233 
 
 obtained him such distinguished favour ; that I 
 had understood he was a great admirer of this 
 country; and though I should do him injustice to 
 say ' he praised only to be praised,' yet I believed 
 there was always a pretty accurately measured 
 exchange in this traffic. 
 
 " ' The gentleman is right,' said an old Eng- 
 lishman wiio sat opposite to me, and who had 
 not before vouchsafed to manifest a consciousness 
 of my existence ; ' this is all French palaver in 
 Monsieur . He cannot be such a warm ad- 
 mirer of this country. The man knows better ; 
 he has been in England.' 
 
 " I was too well acquainted with English man- 
 ners to be startled by any manifestation of that 
 conviction which an Englishman demonstrates in 
 every part of the world, that his nation has no 
 equal ; but I instinctively defended my country- 
 man, and eager for an opportunity to test the col- 
 loquial powers so much admired in the ambassa- 
 dor, I entered the lists with my English opponent, 
 and thus stimulated, I was certainly far more 
 eloquent than I ever had been before, on the his- 
 tory, the present condition, and the prospects of 
 this country. But alas for the vanity of M. Du- 
 fau ! my host, it is true, gave me all the attention 
 
 20* 
 
234 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 he could spare from the courtesies of the table, 
 but save his ear, I gained none but that half ac- 
 corded by my contemptuous, testy, and impatient 
 antagonist, who after barking out a few sentences 
 at me, relapsed into a moody silence. 
 
 " I next addressed some trifling gallantries to 
 my bashful neighbour, fancying that she who was 
 neglected by every body else, would know how 
 to appreciate my attentions ; but her eyes were 
 rivetted to a fashionable beauty at the upper ex- 
 tremity of the table, and a half a dozen ' no, sirs,' 
 and ' yes, sirs,' misplaced, were all the return I 
 could obtain from her. To remain silent and 
 passive, you know, to me, was impossible ; so I 
 next made an essay on a vinegar faced dame on 
 my left, far in the wane of life. ' If my civilities 
 have been led elsewhere, in this market,' thought 
 I, ' they will at least prove silver or gold.' But 
 here I received my cruellest rebuff; for the lady, 
 after apparently listening to me, said, ' I do not 
 understand you.' I raised my voice, but she, de- 
 termining to shelter the infirmity of age at my 
 expense, replied, ' I am not so deaf, sir, but really 
 you speak such broken English, that I cannot 
 understand you.' This was too much; and I 
 might have betrayed my vexation, if an intelligent 
 
HOMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 235 
 
 and laughing glance from my friend had not re- 
 stored my good humour ; and a second reflection, 
 suggesting that it was far more important to the 
 old woman's happiness that her vanity should re- 
 main unimpaired, than it could be to me to have 
 mine reduced, even to fragments, I humbly begged 
 her pardon, and relapsed into a contented silence, 
 solacing myself with the thought, that our en- 
 counter was but an illustration of that of the china 
 and earthen jars. But I will not weary you with 
 detailing all the trials of my philosophy, but only 
 confess that the negligence of the servants was 
 not the least of them — the grinning self-compla- 
 cency with which these apes of their superiours 
 signified to me that my wants might be deferred. 
 
 " After all, my humble position would not have 
 been so disagreeable, if I had been accustomed to 
 it. The world's admiration, like all other luxuries, 
 in the end becomes necessary, and then, too, like 
 other luxuries, ceases to be enjoyed, or even felt, 
 till it is withdra^vn and leaves an aching void. If 
 this is Irish, set it down to my broken English. 
 
 " After dinner, I followed the ladies to the 
 drawing room, and was presented by my friend 
 
 to Miss , a reigning beauty. She received me 
 
 with one of those gracious smiles, that a hacknied 
 
236 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 belle always bestows on a new worshipper at her 
 shrine. These popular favourites, be it clergy- 
 man, politician, or beauty, are as covetous of the 
 flatteries they receive, as a miser is of gold. No 
 matter how unclean the vessel from which the in- 
 cense rises ; no matter what base aUoy may min- 
 gle with the precious metal. Have you ever en- 
 countered one of these spoiled favourites in the 
 thronged street, and tried to arrest the attention 
 for a moment ; to fix the eye that was roving for 
 every tributary glance ? If you have, you will 
 understand, without my describing it, the distrait 
 manner with which the belle received my first 
 compliments. Even this was not long accorded 
 me ; for a better accredited and more zealous ad- 
 mirer than myself appearing, she left me to my 
 meditations, which w^ere not rendered the more 
 agreeable by my overhearing an old lady say, in a 
 voice, which, though slightly depressed, she evi- 
 dently made no effort to subdue to an inaudible 
 key, ' I wonder what possessed Robert Ellison to 
 bring that French portrait painter here ! How the 
 world has changed since the Revolution ! There 
 is no longer any house where you don't meet 
 mixed society.' My friend had approached in 
 time to overhear her as well as myself. ' The 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 237 
 
 ignorant old fool!' ha exclaimed, 'shall I tell 
 her that artists are the nobility of every coun- 
 try?' 
 
 " ' No,' said I, ' do not waste your rhetoric ; 
 there is no enlightening the ignorance of stupidi- 
 ty ; a black substance will not reflect even the 
 sun's rays.' 
 
 "Ellison then proposed that I should join a 
 party at whist ; but I complained of the heated 
 air of the drawing-room, and, availing myself of 
 my insignificance, I followed the bent of my in- 
 clinations, a privilege the humble should not un- 
 dervalue, and sauntered abroad. The evening was 
 beautiful enough to have soothed a misanthrope, 
 or warm.ed the heart of a stoic. Its peace, its sa- 
 lutary, sacred voice, restored me to myself, and I 
 was ashamed that my tranquillity had been dis- 
 turbed. I contemned the folly of the artificial 
 distinctions of life, and felt quite indifferent to 
 them — when alone. 
 
 " The ground in front of my friend's house 
 slopes to the Hudson, and is still embellished with 
 trees of the majestic native growth. Wliere na- 
 ture has left any thing to be supplied by art, walks 
 have been arranged and planted ; but carefully, 
 80 as not to impede the view of the river, which 
 
238 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 was now in perfect repose. A sloop lay in the 
 channel, its sails all furled, idly floating on Ihe 
 slumbering surface. While I was wishing my 
 friend were with me, for I am too much of a 
 Frenchman to relish fully even nature, the fa- 
 vourite companion of sentimentalists, in solitude, 
 I saw a boat put off from the little vessel, and 
 row slowly towards the shore. Presently a sweet 
 female voice swelled on the stillness of the night, 
 accompanied by the notes of a guitar, struck by 
 a practised hand. Could any young man's mer- 
 cury resist moonlight and such music? Mine 
 could not, and I very soon left behind me all of 
 terra firma that intervened between me and the 
 siren, and ensconced myself in a deeply shaded 
 nook at the very water's edge, where I could see 
 and hear without being observed. The boat ap- 
 proached the spot where I stood, and was moored 
 at half a dozen yards from my feet ; but as my 
 figure was in shadow, and sheltered by a thick 
 copse of hazel bushes, I was perfectly concealed, 
 while, by a flood of moonbeams, that poured on 
 my unsuspicious neighbours, 1 saw them as plain- 
 ly as if it were daylight. These were two men, 
 whom I soon ascertained to be the captain of the 
 sloop and an attendant, and that they were going 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 239 
 
 to a farm house in the neighbourhood for eggs, 
 milk, &c. The two females were to remain in the 
 boat till their return. The lady of the guitar was 
 inclined to go with them as far as the oak wood 
 on the brow of the hill j but the captain persua- 
 ded her to remain in the boat, by telling her there 
 was a formidable dog on the place, which she 
 might encounter. As soon as the captain was 
 gone, her companion, an elderly, staid looking 
 country woman, said to her, ' Now, child, as I 
 came here for your pleasure, you must sing for 
 mine. None of your new-fangled fancies, but 
 good Old Robin Grey.' 
 
 " ' Oh, Robin Grey is a doleful ditty ; but any- 
 thing to reward you for indulging me in coming 
 on shore.' 
 
 'She then sung that touching ballad. The 
 English, certainly the Scotch, excel us as much 
 in the pathos of unembellished nature and truth, 
 as we do them in all literary refinement, inge- 
 nuity, and grace. I know not how much of the 
 tribute that gushed from my heart was paid to 
 the poetry and music, and how much to the 
 beautiful organ by which they were expressed, 
 for the fair musician looked herself like one of 
 the bright creations of poetry. I would describe 
 
240 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 her, but description is cold and quite inadequate 
 to convey an idea of her, and of the scene with 
 which she harmonized. It was one of nature's 
 sweetest accords; the balmy air, the cloudless 
 sky, the river, reflecting like a spotless mirror the 
 blue arch, the moon and her bright train ; my en- 
 chantress, the embodied spirit of the evening, and 
 her music the voice of nature. I might have for- 
 gotten that I was m human mould, but I had one 
 eifectual curb to my imagination, one mortal an- 
 noyance. Argus, confound him ! had followed 
 me from the house, and it was only by dint of 
 continued coaxing and caressing that I could keep 
 him quiet. Before the ballad was finished, how- 
 ever, he was soothed by its monotonous sadness, 
 and crouching at my feet, he fell asleep, I believe. 
 I forgot him. Suddenly ' the dainty spirit' 
 changed from the low breathings of melancholy 
 to a gay French air— the very air, Berville, that 
 Claudine, in her mirthful moments, used to sing 
 to us. The transition was so abrupt that it seemed 
 as if the wing of joy had swept over the strings 
 of her instrument. I started forth from my con- 
 cealment. That was not all. Argus sprang out, 
 too, and barking furiously, bounded towards the 
 boat. The old woman screamed, ' There is the 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 241 
 
 dog!' and the young lady, not less terrified, 
 dropped her guitar, and, unhooking the boat, she 
 seized an oar and pushed it off without listening 
 to my apologies and assurances. In her agitation 
 she dropped the oar, and her companion, still 
 more tremulous than herself, in her attempt to 
 regain it, lost the other, which she had instinctive- 
 ly grasped. As soon as the first impulse impart- 
 ed to the boat was expended, it scarcely moved 
 at all, and I had leisure to explain my sudden ap- 
 pearance, and to say that my dog, far from being 
 the formidable animal they imagined, was a 
 harmless spaniel, w^ho should immediately make 
 all the amends in his power for the terror he had 
 caused. I then directed him to the floating oars. 
 He plunged into the water and brought them to 
 me, but he either did not, or would not under- 
 stand my wish that he should convey them to the 
 boat, which, though very slowly, was evidently 
 receding from the shore. 1 then, w^ithout farther 
 hesitation, threw off my coat, swam to the boat, 
 and receiving there the oars from Argus's mouth, 
 I soon reconducted the boat to its haven. There 
 was something enchanting to me in the frankness 
 with which my fair musician expressed her plea- 
 sure at the homage I had involuntarily paid to her 
 
 21 
 
242 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 art, and the grace with which she received the 
 shght service I rendered her. Perhaps I felt it 
 the more for the mortifying experience of the 
 day. I do not care very nicely to analyze my 
 feelings, nor to ascertain how much there was of 
 restored self complacency in the delicious excite- 
 ment of that hour. 
 
 " The elderly lady, for lady she must needs be, 
 since my fair incognita called her mother, ex- 
 pressed a matronly solicitude about the effect of 
 my wet garments, but I assured her that I appre- 
 hended no inconvenience from them, and I begged 
 to be allowed to remain at my station till the re- 
 turn of their attendants. The circumstances of 
 our mtroduction had been such as to dissipate all 
 ceremony. Indeed, this characteristic of English 
 manners, would have as ill fitted the trustful, in- 
 genuous, and gay disposition of my new acquaint- 
 ance, as a coat of mail her light, graceful person. 
 She sung, at my request, our popular opera airs, 
 with more effect, because with far more feehng, 
 than our best professed artists. She talked of 
 music, and of the] poetry of nature, with genius 
 and taste ; and she listened with that eager and 
 pleased attention, which is the second best gift of 
 conversation. I should have taken no note of the 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 243 
 
 passage of time but for the fidgetting of the old 
 lady, who often interrupted us with expressions 
 of her concern at the captain's delay, for which 
 he, quite too soon, appeared to render an account 
 himself. As I was compelled to take my leave, 
 I asked my fair unknown if I might not be al- 
 lowed to think of her by some more accurate 
 designation than the ' Lady of the Guitar.' 
 
 " ' My name is' — she replied promptly, and 
 then, after a moment's hesitation, added, ' No — 
 pardon me, your romantic designation better suits 
 the adventure of the night.' I was vexed at my 
 disappointment, but she chased away the shade 
 of displeasure by the graceful playfulness with 
 which she kissed her hand to me as the boat 
 pushed off. I lingered on the shore till she had 
 reached the vessel, and then slowly retraced 
 my steps towards the house. I was startled by 
 meeting my friend, for my mind was so absorb- 
 ed that I had not heard his approaching footstep. 
 'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'is this your philosophy? 
 turned misanthrope at the first frown from the 
 world V 
 
 "'My philosophy,' I replied, 'has neither 
 been vanquished, nor has it conquered, for I had 
 forgotten all its trials'. 
 
344 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 " My friend evidently believed, notwithstanding 
 my disclaimer, that my vanity required some in- 
 demnity for the humiliations it had sustained, and 
 he repeated to me some assuaging compliments 
 from his father. 'But,' he concluded, 'tell me, 
 have you really turned sentimentalist, and been 
 holding high converse with the stars V 
 
 " ' With a most brilliant star,' I replied, and rela- 
 ted my adventure. 
 
 " Ellison's curiosity was excited, and he propo- 
 sed we should take our flutes, go out in the barge, 
 and serenade the 'Lady of the Guitar.' I, of 
 course, assented, and the next half hour found us 
 floating around the little vessel like humble satel- 
 lites. We played an accompaniment and sung 
 alternately, he in English, and I in French ; but 
 there was no token given that the oflfered incense 
 was accepted; no salutation, save a coarse one 
 from the captain, who invited us to go ' on board 
 and take some grog.'' We of course declined 
 his professional courtesy, ' Then, for the Lord's 
 sake, lads,' he said, ' stop your piping, and give 
 us a good birth. Sleep, at this time o' night, is 
 better music than the j oiliest tune that ever was 
 played.' 
 
 " Thus dismissed, and discomfited by the lady's 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 245 
 
 neglect, we resumed our oars, and were preparing 
 to return to the shore, when the cabin window 
 was gently raised, and our fair incognita sung 
 a sweet little French air, beginning ^ Adieu, 
 adieu P We remained, 'sound, motion, almost 
 breath suspended, till the song was finished.' 
 
 ' So sweetly she bids us adieu, 
 I think that she bids us return.' 
 
 said my friend, and we instantly rowed our boat 
 towards the stern of the vessel. At this moment 
 the sash was suddenly dropped, and taking this 
 for a definitive ' Good night,' we retired. 
 
 " Now, dear Berville, I have faithfully related 
 the adventures of my masquerade — my boyish 
 pastime, you may call it. Be it so. This day 
 has been worth a year of care and dignity. I shall 
 return to New- York in a few days. Till then, 
 farewell. Yours, 
 
 " Constant." 
 
 But though M. Constant professed himself sa- 
 tisfied with his day, there was a lurking disquie- 
 tude at his heart. He had written to assure him- 
 self there was nothing there he dare not express, 
 and yet he had concluded without once alluding 
 
 21* 
 
246 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 to the cause of his self-reproach. He had folded 
 the letter, but he opened it, and added ; — 
 
 " P. S. I did not describe to you my friend's 
 vexation that the responded song was in French. 
 * Ah !' said he, ' I see there is no chance for such 
 poor devils as I. so long as you are neither mar- 
 ried nor betrothed.'' " 
 
 He again closed the letter, and was for a mo- 
 ment satisfied that there could be nothing in the 
 nature of that which he had so frankly commu- 
 nicated that required concealment. He walked 
 to the window and eyed the little vessel as a miser 
 looks at the casket that contains his treasure ; 
 then starting from his reverie, he took from his 
 bosom a miniature, and contemplated it steadfast- 
 ly for a few moments ; " It is my conscience that 
 reproaches me," he said, " and not this serene, be- 
 nign countenance. O Emma ! thou art equally 
 incapable of inflictmg and resenting "wrong, and 
 shall thy trust and gentleness be returned by even 
 a transient treachery ? Am I so sure of faithfully 
 keeping the citadel that I may parley with an 
 enemy V 
 
 The result of this self-examination was a deter- 
 mination to burn the letter, and to dismiss for- 
 ever from his mind the enchantress whose power 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 247 
 
 had so swayed him from his loyalty. But though 
 he turned from the window, resolutely closed the 
 blind, and excluded the moonlight, which he fan- 
 cied influenced his imagination as if he were a 
 lunatic; though he went to bed and sunk into 
 oblivious sleep, the spirit was not laid. Imagina- 
 tion revelled in its triumph over the will. He was 
 in France, in beautiful France— more beautiful 
 now than in the visions of memory and affection. 
 He was at his remembered haunts in his father's 
 grounds ; the "Lady of the Guitar" was with him; 
 she sang his favourite songs ; he saw her spark- 
 ling glance, her glowing cheek, her rich, dark 
 tints, 
 
 " Tlie embrowning of the fruit that tell3 
 
 How rich within, the soul of sweetness dwells ;" 
 
 he heard the innocent childlike laugh, that, 
 
 "without any control, 
 
 Save the sweet one of gracefulness wrung from her soul." 
 
 Then there was interposed between him and this 
 embodied spirit of his joyous clime a slowly mo- 
 ving figure; a cold, fair, pensive countenance, 
 that had more of sorrow than resentment, but 
 
^248 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 «till, though its reproach was gentle, it was the re- 
 proach of the stem spectre of conscience. He 
 east doAVTi his eyes, and they fell on the word 
 '" BETROTHED," traccd in the sand at his feet. The 
 •" Lady of the Guitar" was gaily advancing to- 
 wards him. Another step, and her flowing mantle 
 would have swept over the wwd, and effaced it for- 
 -ever. He raised his hand to deprecate her ap- 
 proach, and awoke ; and while the visions of sleep 
 still confusedly mingled with the recollections and 
 resolutions of the preceding day, he was up and 
 at the window; had thrown open the blind, and 
 •ascertained that the vessel still lay becalmed in 
 the stream. That virtue is certainly to be envied, 
 that does not need to be shielded and fortified by 
 opportunity and circumstance. If the vessel had 
 disappeared, the recollections of the evening 
 might have been as evanescent and meffectual as 
 the dreams of the night ; but there it was, in fine 
 relief, and as motionless as if it were encased in 
 the blue waters. I]i spite of M. Constant's excel- 
 lent resolutions, he lingered at the window, and 
 returned there as if he were spellbound. Strange 
 power that could rivet his eyes to an ill shapen lit- 
 tle Dutch skipper ! But that body did contain a 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE, 249 
 
 spirit, and that spirit, seemingly as perturbed as his 
 own, soon appeared, moving with a light step to 
 and fro on the deck. 
 
 The apartment M. Constant occupied, was fur- 
 nished, among other luxuries, with a fine spy- 
 glass. To resist using this facility for closer 
 communion was impossible ; and by its aid he 
 could perceive every motion of " the lady of his 
 thoughts," almost the changes of her countenance. 
 He saw she was gazing on the shore, and that she 
 turned eagerly to her companion, to point her at- 
 tention to some object that had caught her eye, 
 and, at the same moment, he perceived it was his 
 friend, who was strolling on the shore. Ellison 
 saw him too, and waved his handkerchief in salu- 
 tation. M. Constant returned the greeting, threw 
 do\vn the glass, and withdrew from the window 
 with a feeling of compunction at his indulgence, 
 as if he had again heard that word betrothed 
 spoken. Why is it that external agents have so 
 much influence over the mysterious operations 
 of conscience ? Why is it that its energy so often 
 sleeps while there is no witness to the wrong we 
 commit ? " Keep thy heart, for out of it are the 
 issues of life." 
 
 After breakfast, Ellison said to M. Constant, I 
 
250 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 ■am afraid you find your masquerade dull. Let 
 lis beguile the morning by a visit to your ' Lady 
 of the Guitar.' There is nothing lends such wings 
 •to time as a pretty girl. Our guests are a dull 
 concern." 
 
 " A dull concern, when there is a beauty and a 
 fortune among them?" 
 
 " Yes, a sated belle is to me as disagreeable as 
 a pampered child ; as my gi-andmother's little pet, 
 Rosy, whom I saw the other day, tossing away 
 her sugar plums, and crying, ' Tis not sweet 
 enough ;' and as to fortune, though I am neither a 
 philosopher nor a sentimentalist, I shall never take 
 the temple of Hymen in my way to wealth ; for of 
 all speculations, a matrimonial speculation seems 
 to me the most hazardous, and the most disgrace- 
 ful. But we loiter. Will you pay your devoirs 
 to our unknown ?" 
 
 "I believe not; I have letters to write this 
 morning." 
 
 ** To Emma 1 Pardon me— I do not mean to 
 pry into your cabinet, but if the letters are to her 
 they may be deferred. She is a dear good soul, 
 and will find twenty apologies for every fault you 
 commit." 
 
 " If they are to her, such generosity should not 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 2M 
 
 be abused. No, I will not go. But on what pre- 
 text will you ?" 
 
 " Pretext, indeed ! does a pilgrim seek for a pre- 
 text to visit my Lady of Loretto, or the shrine of 
 any other saint ? Here comes the gardener with 
 a basket of fine fruit which I have ordered to be 
 prepared, and of which 1 shall be the bearer to 
 the sufferers pent in that dirty sloop this breath- 
 less August morning — from mere philanthropy, 
 you know. Commend me to Emma," he added, 
 gaily ; " I will bear witness for you that your en- 
 thusiasm for this unknown was a mere coup de 
 la lune, and that, when daylight appeared, you 
 were as loyal, and — as dull as a married man." 
 
 Ellison's raillery did not render the bitter piH 
 of self-denial more palatable to M. Constant. He 
 turned away without reply, but, instead of return- 
 ing to his apartment, he obtained a gun, and in- 
 quiring the best direction to pursue in quest of 
 game, he sauntered into a wooded defile, that 
 wound among the hills, and was so enclosed 
 by them as not to afford even a glimpse of the 
 river.. Here he threw himself on the grass, took a 
 blank leaf from his pocket book, and began a son- 
 net to constancy, but broke off in the middle j 
 scribbled half a dozen odd lines from the differen$ 
 
ft 
 
 253 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 songs that had entranced him on the precedmg 
 evening; sketched a guitar; then rose, and, still 
 musing, pursued his way up the defile. The 
 path he had taken led him around the base of an 
 eminence to a rivulet that came frolicking down 
 a hill, now leaping, and now loitering with the 
 capricious humour of childhood. He traced it to 
 its source, a clear fountain, bubbling up from the 
 earth, at the foot of a high precipitous rock. 
 Clusters of purple and pink wild flowers hung 
 from the clefts of the rocks, wreathing its bare 
 old front, and presenting a beautiful harmony in 
 contrast, like infancy and old age. The rock and 
 the sides of the fountain formed a little amphi- 
 theatre, enclosed and deeply shaded by the moun- 
 tain ash, the aromatic hemlock, and the lofty bass- 
 wood. This sequestered retreat, with its fresh 
 aspect and sweet exhalations, afforded a delicious 
 refuge from the fierce heat and overpowering 
 light of an August day. M. Constant was linger- 
 ing to enjoy it, when his ear caught the sound of 
 distant and animated voices. He started, and for 
 a moment thought himself cheated by the illu- 
 sions of a distempered fancy ; but as the sounds 
 approached nearer, he was assured of their re- 
 ality, and they affected him like the most pain- 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 253 
 
 fill discord, tlioiigli they were produced by the 
 sweet, clear, penetrating voice of the unknown, and 
 the hitherto welcome tones of his friend. 
 
 The impropriety of a young girl straying off 
 into such a solitude with an acquaintance of an 
 hour was obvious, but was, perhaps, more shock- 
 ing to M. Constant than it would have been to a 
 perfectly disinterested observer. It gave a dread- 
 ful jar to his preconceived notions, and contrasted 
 rudely enough with the conduct of the preceding 
 night, when the lady had, with such scrupulous 
 delicacy, forborne to show herself on the deck of 
 the sloop. As they drew nearer, he thought there 
 was something in the gay, familiar tones of Elli- 
 son, disgusting ; and the laugh of the lady, which 
 before had seemed the sweetest music of a youth- 
 ful and innocent spirit, was now harsh and hoy- 
 denisli. The strain . of their conversation, too, 
 for they were near enough to be heard distinctly, 
 while the windings of the path prevented his 
 being seen, though it was graceful chit-chat 
 enough, appeared to him trifling and flippant in 
 the extreme. As they came still nearer, he lis- 
 tened more intently, for he had a personal interest 
 in the subject. 
 
 " And so, my ' Lady of the Guitar,' " said EIH- 
 
 22 
 
254 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 Bon, " yon persist in preserving that scrap of paper 
 merely, I presume, as a specimen of the sister 
 arts of design and poetry. You are sure those 
 scratches are meant for a guitar, and not a jews- 
 harp, and that the fragment is a sonnet, and not 
 a monody." 
 
 "Certainly, it is a sonnet; the poet says so 
 himself. See here—' Sonnet a la Constance: " 
 
 " Well, it is certainly in the strain of a ' la- 
 ment.' My friend was in a strait ; what he would 
 do, he could not. Constancy is a very pretty 
 theme for a boarding-school letter, but I am afraid 
 the poor fellow will not find his inspiration in this 
 tame virtue ?" 
 
 " Ah ! these tame virtues, as you call them," 
 rephed the lady, " are the salutary food of life, 
 while your themes of inspiration are intoxica- 
 ting draughts, violent and transient in their ef- 
 fects." 
 
 " A very sage lesson, and very well conned. 
 Did your grandmother teach it to you ?" 
 
 " No matter— I have got it by heart." 
 
 " O, those moral New-Englanders, they change 
 all the poetry of life to wise saws. Thank hea- 
 ven, you have escaped from them in time to re- 
 tain some portion of your original mercurial na- 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 255 
 
 ture. But now let me tell you, my sage yomig 
 friend, that same paper may prove as dangerous 
 where you are going as a match to a magazine. 
 So, let me advise you, either keep it quite to your- 
 self, or give it to the winds.-' 
 
 " You talk riddles, Mr. Ellison 3 but I will not 
 be quizzed into believing this little castaway scrap 
 of paper can be of any import." 
 
 " Let me label it for you then, if, as I see, it is 
 to be filed among the precious stores of your 
 pocket book." 
 
 There was a short pause, when the lady, as M. 
 Constant supposed, looking over Ellison's super- 
 scription, read aloud, " Love's Labour Lost," and 
 then exclaimed, " Pshav/, Robert, how absurd !" 
 and tore off the offensive label, while he laughed 
 at her vexation. 
 
 M. Constant felt that it would be very embar- 
 rassing for him to be discovered as a passive 
 listener to this conversation. He had been chain- 
 ed to the spot by an interest that he would 
 gladly not have felt, but which he could not sup- 
 press. 
 
 Another turn would bring them directly be- 
 fore him. To delay longer without bemg seen 
 was therefore impossible. As he put aside the 
 rustling branches, he heard Ellison exclaim, "Hal 
 
250 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 there are some startled quails ;" but before his 
 friend could take a more accurate observation, he 
 had sprung around an angle of the rock, and was 
 beyond sight and hearing. 
 
 The gentlemen met before dinner. M. Con- 
 stant was walking on the piazza, apparently- 
 moody and little disposed to Sympathise with El- 
 lison's extravagant expressions of admiration of 
 the unknown, or of regret that the fresh breeze 
 was now wafting the vessel and its precious cargo 
 far away. 
 
 " In the name of heaven, Constant,'^ he said, 
 " what has so suddenly turned you to ice? Last 
 night you seemed to think it necessary to inven 
 — pardon me — allege some apology for your 
 prompt sensibility, and you said it was not the 
 beauty, the voice, the grace, or any of the obvious 
 and sufficient charms of this young enchantress— 
 that was your word— that fascinated you, but it 
 was a resemblance to the globing beauties oi 
 your own clime ; and now, if you had been born 
 at the north pole, and she at the equator, you 
 could not manifest less affinity." 
 
 " There are certain principles," replied M. 
 Constant, coldly, " that overcome natural affini- 
 ties. I hope you have passed your morning 
 agreeably?" 
 
ROMANCE IX REAL LIFE. 257 
 
 *' Agreeably ? delightfully ! Our incognita is 
 more beautiful than you described her." 
 
 " Is she then still incognita to you ?" asked M. 
 Constant, with a penetrating glance. 
 
 " Not exactly ; she favoured me with her 
 name." 
 
 " Her name ! what is it ?" 
 
 " Pardon me, I am under a prohibition not to 
 tell." 
 
 "The lady certainly makes marked distinc- 
 tions. She is as reserved towards others, as frank 
 to you." 
 
 " She had her reasons." 
 
 " Doubtless, but what were they ?" 
 
 " AVhy, one was, that I refused to tell her your 
 name." 
 
 " And why did you that ?" 
 
 " I had my reasons too." 
 
 M. Constant was vexed at the mystery his 
 friend affected. He was annoyed, too, at his per- 
 fect self complacency and imperturbable good na- 
 ture, and, more than all, ashamed of his own irri- 
 tability. He made an effort to overcome it, and 
 to put himself on a level with Ellison. He suc- 
 ceeded so far in* his efforts, as to continue to talk 
 of the lady with apparent noncTialance, till he 
 
 22* 
 
258 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 was summoned to dinner ; but, tliough he tried 
 every mode his ingenuity could devise, he could 
 not draw from his friend the slightest allusion to 
 the lady's extraordinary visit to the shore, or any 
 particular of their interview, which explained the 
 perfect familiarity that seemed to exist between 
 them; and what made tliis mystery more inscru- 
 table, was the tone of enthusiasm which Ehison 
 maintained in speaking of the lady, and which 
 no young man sincerely feels without a sentiment 
 of respect. 
 
 In c:;ite of M. Constant's virtuous resolutions 
 and efforts, the "Lady of the Guitar" continued 
 to occupy his imagination, and he determined to 
 take the surest measures to dispel an influence 
 which he had in vain resisted. As he parted 
 from his friend at night, he announced his inten- 
 tion of taking his departure the following morn- 
 ing. After expressing his sincere regret, Ellison 
 said, " You go immediately to town ?" 
 
 " No ; I go to Mp. Liston's." 
 
 «Ah! is it so?" 
 
 " Even so, Ellison ; but no more till we meet 
 again. I have supported my masquerade with 
 little spirit ; but do not betray me, and we, nei- 
 ther of us, shall lose reputation." 
 
i^U3IANCE IN REAL LIFE. 259 
 
 M. Constant had for a long time been on terms 
 of intimacy and friendship with Miss Liston. 
 Tliis lady belonged to one of the most distin- 
 guished families in our country. She was agree- 
 able in her person, had a fund of good sense, was 
 well informed, and perfectly amiable. Such cha- 
 racters are admirable in the conduct of life, if not 
 exciting to the imagination ; that precious faculty, 
 which, like the element of fire, the most powerful 
 and dangerous agent, may warm or may con- 
 sume us. Long and intimate friendship between 
 unfettered persons of different sexes is very likely 
 to terminate, as that of JM. Constant and Miss Lis- 
 ton terminated, in an engagement. 
 
 He had a sentiment of deep and fixed affection 
 for her, which, probably, no influence could have 
 materially affected ; but when that being crossed 
 his path, who seemed to him to realize the bright- 
 est visions of his youth, he felt a secret conscious- 
 ness that the fidelity of his affection was endan- 
 gered. The little mystery in which the unknown 
 was shrouded, the very circumstance of calling 
 her " the unknown," magnified the importance of 
 the affair, as objects are enlarged, seen through a 
 mist. He very wisely and prudently concluded 
 that the surest way of dispelling all illusion, would 
 
260 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 be frankly to relate the particulars to Miss Lis- 
 ten, only reserving to himself certain feelings 
 which would not be to her edification, and which 
 he believed would be dispelled by participating 
 their cause with her. Accordingly, at their first 
 meeting, he was meditating how he should get 
 over the embarrassment of introducing the sub- 
 ject, when Miss Listen said, "I have a great plea- 
 sure in reserve for you," and left him without 
 any farther explanation, and in a few moments 
 returned, followed by a lady, and saying as she 
 re-entered, "Marie Angely, you, and Constant, my 
 best friends, must not meet as strangers." A half 
 suppressed exclamation burst from the lips of 
 both. All M. Constant's habitual grace forsook 
 him. He overturned Miss Listen's workstand, 
 workbox, and working paraphernalia, in advan- 
 cing to make his bow. Miss Angely's naturally 
 high colour was heightened to a painful excess: 
 she made an effort to reciprocate the common 
 courtesies of an introduction, but in vain; the 
 words fahered on her lips, and after struggling a 
 moment with opposing feelings, the truth and 
 simplicity of her heart triumpned, and, turning 
 to Miss Listen, she said, "Your friend, Emma, is 
 the gentleman I met on the river." 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 261 
 
 Miss Listen had been the confidant of all ner 
 romantic young friend's impressions from her 
 moonhght interview with the stranger, and it was 
 now her turn to suffer a full share of the embar- 
 rassment of the other parties. She looked to M. 
 Constant for an explanation. Never had he, m 
 the whole course of his diplomatic career, been 
 more puzzled ; but after a moment's hesitation 
 he followed Miss Angely in the safe path of in- 
 genuousness, and truly told all the particulars of 
 his late adventures, concluding with a goodhu- 
 moured censure of his friend Ellison, who had 
 long and intimately knoA\Ti Miss Angely, and who, 
 to gratify his mischief-loving temper, had con- 
 trived the mystery which led to the rather awk- 
 ward denouement. 
 
 Thus these circumstances, which might have 
 been woven into an intricate web of delicate em- 
 barrassment and romantic distress, that might 
 have ended in the misery of one, perhaps of all 
 parties, were divested of their interest and their 
 danger by being promptly and frankly disclosed. 
 
 Miss Angely, whom our readers have already 
 recognised as the little girl of the inn, had met 
 with Miss Liston at a boardnig school in Boston, 
 where, though Miss Liston was lier elder by se^ 
 
26'i ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 veral years, they formed an enthusiastic, and, rare 
 in the annals of boarding schools, an enduring 
 friendship. Marie Angely had faithfully discharged 
 the debt of gratitude to Mrs. Reynolds, and though 
 acquiring, as may be supposed, somewhat of the 
 fastidiousness that accompanies refined education 
 and intercourse, no one could perceive any abate- 
 ment of her respect or affection for her kind pro- 
 tectress, or the shghtest diminution of her famili- 
 arity with her. She passed a part of every 
 summer with her, always called her mother, and, 
 by the fidelity of her kindness and the charm of 
 her manner, she diffused light and warmth over 
 the whole tract of Mrs. Reynolds's existence. 
 She linked expectations, that might have been 
 blasted, to a happy futurity, and cherished and 
 elevated affections, wdiich, but for her sunny in- 
 fluence, would have been left to wither and perish. 
 Oh that the fortunate and happy could know how 
 much they have in their gift ! 
 
 Miss Angely had been on one of her annual 
 visits to her humble friend, and was on her way, 
 accompanied by her, to New-York, where she 
 was to join Miss Liston, when the incidents oc- 
 curred which we have related. 
 
 There is nothing in the termination of our tal-^ 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE 263 
 
 to indemnify the lover of romance for its previous 
 diilness ; but it is a true story, and its materials 
 must be received from tradition, and not supplied 
 by imagination. 
 
 M, Constant was, in the course of a few weeks, 
 united to Miss Liston. This lady had long che- 
 rished a hope that her friend would be a perma- 
 nent member of her family, and she used every 
 art of affection to persuade her to remain with 
 her at least so long as she should decline the suits 
 of all the lovers who were now thronging around 
 her, attracted by her beauty or loveliness, or the 
 eclat she derived from her intimacy with the wife 
 of the ambassador. M, Constant did not very 
 warmly second his wife's entreaties. He perhaps 
 had a poignant recollection of certain elective 
 affinities^ and his experience taught him the 
 truth, if indeed he had not derived it from a higher 
 source, that, in the present infirm condition of 
 hum.an virtue, it is always safest and best not vo- 
 luntarily to "enter into temptation." 
 
 Miss Angely returned to Boston. M. Constant's 
 union with Miss Liston was one of uninterrupted 
 confidence and conjugal happiness; but it was 
 not destined to be of long duration. His wife died 
 in about a year after their marriage. Among her 
 
264 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 papers was found a letter addressed to her hus- 
 band, written in expectation of the fatal issue of 
 the event that had terminated lier life, in which 
 she earnestly recommended her friend as her suc- 
 cessor. In due time her request was honoured. 
 M. Constant married Miss Angely. After resi- 
 ding for some time in America, they went to 
 France, where she was received as an ornament 
 to her noble family, and acknowledged to be 
 "the brightest jewel in its coronet." 
 
 Far from the mean pride of those who shrink 
 from recurring to the humble stages in their pro- 
 gress to the heights of fortune, Madame Constant 
 delighted in relating the vicissitudes of her life, 
 and dwelt particularly on that period, when, as 
 Mrs. Reynolds's handmaid, she considered herself 
 honoured in standing behind the chair of the wife 
 of the great General Knox. i 
 
 " The longest day comes to the vesper hour." n 
 
 Madame Constant closed at Paris a life of virtue, 
 prosperity, and happiness, in July, 1827. 
 
CAROLINE AND ISABEL. 
 
 BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. 
 
 L 
 
 Well such g:arland may ye twine, 
 
 Isabel and Caroline. 
 
 Flowers of every rainbow hue, 
 
 Roses bright and tulips gay, 
 Daisies, kissed bj' morning dew, 
 
 Jessamine and buds of May — 
 Aptly near your charms they shine, 
 Isabel and Caroline. 
 
 n. 
 
 Who your varied worth shall tell, 
 Caroline and Isabel ? 
 Fairest lilies not more fair. 
 
 Sweetest woodbines not more sweet. 
 In manners mild, in beauty rare, 
 
 O, how in you the graces meet ! 
 Your thousand charms are like a spell, 
 Caroline and Isabel ! 
 
CONNECTICUT RIVER. 265 
 
 CONNECTICUT RIYER. 
 
 BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 Fair River ! not unknown to classic song ; — 
 Which still in vatying beauty roU'st along, 
 Where first thy infant fount is faintly seen, 
 A line of silver mid a fringe of green ; 
 Or where, near towering rocks, thy bolder tide, 
 To win the giant guarded pass doth glide ; 
 Or where, in azure mantle pure and free, 
 Thou giv'st thy cool hand to the waiting sea; — 
 Though broader streams our sister realms may boast 
 Herculean cities and a prouder coast, 
 Yet, from the bound where hoarse St. Lawrence roars, 
 To where La Plata rocks the sounding shores ; 
 From where the urns of slimy Nilus shine, 
 To the blue waters of the blushing Rhine ; 
 Or where IlUssus glows like diamond spark, 
 Or sacred Ganges whelms its votaries dark ; 
 No brighter skies the eye of day may see, 
 No soil more verdant, nor a race more free. 
 — See, where, amid their cultured vales, they stand. 
 The generous offspring of a simple land ; 
 Too rough for flattery, and all fear above, 
 King, priest, and prophet in the homes they love. 
 
 23 
 
266 CONNECTICUT RIVER, 
 
 On equal laws their aiichor'd hopes -ne stay'd, 
 
 By all interpreted, and all obey'd. 
 
 Alike the despot, and the slave they hate, 
 
 And rise firm columns of a happy state. 
 
 To them content is bliss ; and labour, health ; 
 
 And knowledge, power ; and true religion, wealth. 
 
 The farmer, here, with honest pleasure sees 
 His orchards blushing to the fervid breeze, 
 His bleating flocks, the shearers care who need, 
 His waving woods, the winter fire that feed. 
 His hardy steers, that break the yielding soil, 
 His patient sons, who aid their father's toil, 
 The ripening fields, for joyous harshest drest. 
 And the white spire that points a world of rest. 
 — His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear 
 An equal burden in the yoke of care, 
 With vigorous arm the flying sliuttle heaves, 
 Or from the press the golden cheese receives ; 
 Her pastime, when the daily task is o'er. 
 With apron clean, to seek her neighbour's door, 
 Partake the friendly feast, with social glow, 
 Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow ; 
 Then, hale and cheerful, to her home repair. 
 When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care, 
 Press the full udder for her children's meal, 
 Rock the tired babe, or wake the tunefiil wheel. 
 
 See, toward yon dome, where village science dwells 
 What time the warning; clock its sujnniona swe.Us, 
 
CONNECTICUT RIVER. 267 
 
 What tiny feet the well known path explore, 
 
 And gaily gather from each sylvan door. 
 
 The new wean'd child, with mumiur'd tone proceeds 
 
 Whom her scarce taller baby brother leads, 
 
 Transferr'd as burdens, that the housewife's care 
 
 May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare. 
 
 Light hearted group ! who gambol wild and high. 
 
 The daisy pluck, or chase the butterfly, 
 
 Till by some travellers wheels aroused from play, 
 
 The stift' salute, with face demure, they pay, 
 
 Bare the curl'd brow, or stretch the ready hand, 
 
 The untutor'd homage of an artless land. 
 
 T'he stranger marks, amid the joyous line. 
 
 The little baskets whence they hope to dine ; 
 
 And larger books, as if their dexterous art 
 
 Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part. 
 
 Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame 
 
 To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame ! 
 
 Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride ! 
 Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride; 
 From germs like these have mighty statesmen sprung, 
 Of prudent counsel, and persuasive tongue ; 
 Bold patriot souls, who ruled the willing throng, 
 Their powerful nerves by early labour strong ; 
 Inventive minds, a nation's wealth that wrought. 
 And white hair'd sages, skill' d in studious thought; 
 Chiefs, who the field of battle nobly trod, 
 And holy men, who fed the flock of God. 
 
268 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 Here, mid the graves by time so sacred made, 
 The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade ; 
 He whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave. 
 In ancient days, yon pure cerulean wave ; 
 Son of that spirit, whom in storms he traced. 
 Through darkness followed, and in death embraced — 
 He sleeps an outlaw, mid his forfeit land, 
 And grasps the arrow in his moulder'd hand. 
 Here, too, those warrior sires with honour rest, 
 Who bared in freedom's cause the valiant breast. 
 Sprang from their half drawn furrow, as the cry 
 Of threaten' d liberty came thrilling by, 
 Look'd to their God, and rear'd in bulwark round 
 Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil embrown' d, 
 And bade a monarch's thousand banners yield — 
 Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field ; 
 Lo ! here they rest, who every danger braved, 
 Unmark'd, untrophied, 'mid the soil they saved. 
 
 Round scenes like these, doth warm remembrance glide, 
 Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide. 
 On western wilds which thronging hordes explore, \ 
 Or ruder Erie's serpent haunted shore. 
 Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crown'd, 
 Or red Missouri's unfrequented bound. 
 The exiled man, when midnight shades invade, 
 Couch'd in his hut, or camping on the glade, 
 Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear, 
 The boatman's song that pleas'd his boyish ear; 
 
 I 
 
CONNECTICUT RIVER. 200 
 
 While the sad mother, raid her children's mirth, 
 Paints with fond tears a parent's distant hearth, 
 Or charms her rustic babes with tender tales 
 Of thee, blest River ! and thy velvet vales ; 
 Her native cot, where ripening berries swell, 
 The village school, and sabbath's holy bell; 
 And smiles to see the infant soul expand 
 With proud devotion for that father land. 
 
 THE 
 
 FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS, 
 SARATOGA. 
 
 BY riTZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 Strangers ! your eyes are on that valley fixed 
 Intently, as we gaze on vacancy, 
 
 When the mind's w^n^s o'erspread 
 
 The spirit world of dreams. 
 
 True, 'tis a scene of loveliness — the bnght 
 Green dwellins of the Summer's first bom hours, 
 
 Smiling, through tears of dew, 
 
 A welcome to the morn. 
 
 23* 
 
270 FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 
 
 And morn returns their welcome. Sun and cloud 
 Smile on the green earth from their home in heaven, 
 
 Even as the mother smiles 
 
 Above her cradled boy — 
 
 And wreathe then: light and shade o'er plain and moun 
 
 tarn, 
 O'er sleepless seas of grass whose waves are flowers, 
 The river's golden shores, 
 The forest of dark pmes. 
 
 The song of the wild bird is on the wind, 
 The hum of the wild bee, the music wild 
 
 Of waves upon the bank. 
 
 Of leaves upon the bough. 
 
 But all is song and beauty in the land, 
 In these her Eden days — then journey on ! 
 
 A thousand scenes like this 
 
 Will greet you ere the eve. 
 
 Ye linger yet. Ye see noi:, hear not now 
 The sunny smile, the music of to-day — 
 
 Your thoughts are wandering up. 
 
 Far up the stream of time ; 
 
 And long slept recollections of old tales 
 
 Are rushing on your memories, as ye breathe 
 
FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 271 
 
 That valley's storied name, 
 Field of the Grounded Arms ! 
 
 Gazers ! it is your home — American 
 
 Is your lip's haughty smile of triumph here; 
 
 American your step — 
 
 Ye tread your native land. 
 
 And your high thoughts are on her Glory's day. 
 The solemn sabbath of the week of Battle, 
 
 When Fortune bowed to earth 
 
 The banner ©f Burgoyne. 
 
 The forest leaves lay scattered, cold and dead, 
 Upon the withered grass that autumn mom, 
 
 When, with as withered hearts, 
 
 And hopes as dead and cold, 
 
 His gallant army form'd their last array 
 Upon that field in silence and deep gloom, 
 
 And, at their conqueror's feet, 
 
 Laid their war weapons down. 
 
 Sullen and stern, disarmed, but not dishonoured, 
 Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded there— 
 
 The soldier's trial task 
 
 Is not alone to die. 
 
 1 
 
272 FIELI> OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. ■ 
 
 Honour to chivalry ! the conqueror's breath 
 Stains not the ermine of his foeman's fame, 
 
 Nor mocks his captive's doom — 
 
 The bitterest cup of war. 
 
 But be that bitterest cup the doom of all 
 Whose swords are lightning-flashes in the cloud 
 
 Of the invader's wrath, 
 
 Threatening a gallant land 1 
 
 His army's trumpet tones wake not alone 
 Her slumbermg echoes — from a thousand hilla 
 
 Her answering voices shout, 
 
 And her bells ring — " To arms !" 
 
 Then danger hovers o'er the invaders march, 
 On raven wings ; hushing the song of Fam*e, 
 
 And Glory's hues of beauty 
 
 Fade from the cheek of Death 
 
 A foe is heard in every rustling leaf, 
 A fortress seen in every rock and tree ; 
 
 The veteran eye of Art 
 
 Is dim and powerless then, 
 
 And War becomes the peasant's joy ; her drum 
 His merriest music, and her field of death 
 
FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 273 
 
 His couch of happy dreams, 
 After Life's harvest home. 
 
 He battles, heart and arm, his own blue sky 
 Above him, and his own green land around, 
 
 Land of his father's grave. 
 
 His blessing and his prayers ! 
 
 Land where he learnt to lisp a mother's name, 
 The first beloved on earth, the last forgot, 
 
 Land of his frolic youth, 
 
 Land of his bridal eve ! 
 
 Land of his claildren ! Vain your columned strength, 
 Invaders ! vain your battle's steed and fire ! 
 
 Choose ye the morrow's doom, 
 
 A prison or a grave ! 
 
 And such were Saratoga's victors — such 
 
 The peasants brave, whose deeds and death have given 
 
 A glory to her skies, 
 
 A music to her name. 
 
 In honourable life her fields they trod, 
 In honourable death they sleep below, 
 
 Their sons' proud feelings here 
 
 Their noblest monuments. 
 
274 AUTUMN MUSINGS. 
 
 Feelings, as proud as were the Greek's of old, 
 ^Vhen, in his country's hour of fame he stood, 
 
 Happy, and young, and free, 
 
 Gazing on Marathon ! 
 
 AUTUMN MUSINGS. 
 
 BY GEORGE LUNT. 
 
 Come thou with me ? — if thou hast worn away 
 
 All this most glorious summer in the crowd, 
 
 Amid the dust of cities and the din, 
 
 While birds are caroling on every spray — 
 
 If, from gray dawn till solemn night's approach, 
 
 Thy soul hath wasted all its better thoughts, 
 
 Toiling and panting for a httle gold, 
 
 Drudging amid the very lees of life, 
 
 For this accursed slave that makes men slaves — 
 
 Oh ! come with me into the pleasant fields ; 
 
 Let Nature breathe on us and make us free. 
 
 For thou shalt hold communion, pure and high, 
 With the great spirit of the universe. 
 It shall pervade thy soul ; it shall renew 
 The fancies of thy boyhood ; thou shalt know 
 
AUTUMN MUSINGS. 275 
 
 Tears, most unwonted tears, dimming thine eyes ; — 
 Thou shalt forget under the old brown oak. 
 That the good south wind and the hberal west 
 Have other tidings than the songs of birds. 
 Or the soft news wafted from fraofrant flowers. 
 
 Look out on nature's face — and what hath she 
 
 In common with thy feehngs 1 That brown hill — 
 
 Upon whose side, from the gray mountain ash 
 
 We gathered crimson berries — looked as brown 
 
 When the leaves fell twelve autumn suns aero. 
 
 This pleasant stream, with the well shaded verge, 
 
 On whose fair surface have our buoyant limbs 
 
 So often played, caressing and caressed — 
 
 Its verdant banks are green as then they were — 
 
 So, went its bubbling murmur down the tide. 
 
 Yes, and the very trees — those ancient oaks, 
 
 The crimson-crested maple, wa\ing elm, 
 
 And fair smooth ash, with leaves of graceful gold — 
 
 Look like familiar faces of old friends. 
 
 From their broad branches drop the withered leaves — 
 
 Drop, one by one, without a single breath, 
 
 Save when some eddying curl round the old roots 
 
 Twirls them about in merry sport awhile. 
 
 They are not changed ; their office is not done : 
 
 The first free breeze of spring shall see them fresh. 
 
 With sprouting twigs bursting from every branch, 
 
 As should fresh feelings from our withered hearts. 
 
27e AUTUMN MUSINGS. 
 
 Scorn not the moral ; for while these have warmed 
 
 To annual beauty, gladdening the fields 
 
 With new and ever glorious garniture, 
 
 Thou hast grown w^orn and wasted — almost gray, 
 
 Even in thy very summer. 'Tis for tliis 
 
 We have neglected Nature ! wearino- out 
 
 Our hearts and all life's dearest charities, 
 
 In the perpetual turmoil, when we need 
 
 To strengthen and to purify our minds 
 
 Amid the venerable woods ; to hold 
 
 Chaste converse with the foimtains and the vdnds ! 
 
 So should we elevate our souls : so, be 
 
 Ready to stand and act a nobler part 
 
 In the hard, heartless struggles of the world. 
 
 Day wanes ; 'tis autumn's eventide again ; 
 And, sinking on the blue hill's breast, the sun 
 Spreads the large bounty of his level blaze. 
 Lengthening the shades of mountains and tall trees, 
 And throwing blacker shadows o'er the sheet 
 Of this dark stream, in whose unruffled tide 
 Waver the bank shrub and the graceful elm. 
 As the gray branches and their trembling leaves 
 Catch the soft whisper of the coming air. 
 So doth it mirror every passing cloud, 
 And those which fill the chambers of the west 
 With such strange beauty, fairer than all thrones, 
 Blazoned with barbarous gems and gorgeous gold. 
 
AUTUMN MUSINGS. 277 
 
 I see thy full heart gathering in thine eyes : 
 
 I see those eyes sweUing with precious tears ; 
 
 But if thou couldst have looked upon this scene 
 
 With a cold brow, and then turned back to thoughts 
 
 Of traffic in thy fellow's wretchedness, 
 
 Thou wert not fit to gaze upon the face 
 
 Of Nature's naked beauty — most unfit 
 
 To look on fairer things, the lovehness 
 
 Of earth's uneartlily daughters, whose glad forms 
 
 And glancing eyes do kindle the great souls 
 
 Of better men to emulate pure thoughts. 
 
 And, in high action, all ennobling deeds. 
 
 But lo ! the harvest-moon ! she climbs as fair 
 Among the clustered jewels of the sky, 
 As, mid the rosy bowers of paradise, 
 Her soft fight, trembling upon leaf and flower, 
 Smiled on the slumbers of the first-bom man. 
 And, while her beauty is upon our hearts, 
 Now, let us seek our quiet home, that sleep 
 May come without bad dreams ; may come as light 
 As to that yellow headed cottage bo3\ 
 Whose serious musings, as he homeward drives 
 His sober herd, are of the frosty dawn 
 And the ripe nuts, which his own hand shall pluck. 
 Then, when the lark, high courier of the morn, 
 Looks from his airy vantage o'er the world. 
 And, by the music of his mounting flight, 
 
 24 
 
278 THE ICE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Tells many blessed things of gushing gold 
 Coming in floods over the eastern wave, 
 Will we arise, and our pure orisons 
 Shall keep us in the troubles of the day. 
 
 TO THE ICE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 BY JAMES O. ROCKWELL. 
 
 Grave of waters gone to rest ! 
 
 Jewel, dazzling all the main ! 
 Father of the silver crest ! 
 
 Wandering on the trackless plain, 
 Sleeping mid the wavy roar, 
 
 Sailing mid the angry storm, 
 Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, 
 
 Piling to the clouds thv form ! 
 
 i-> 
 
 Wandering monument of rain, 
 
 Prisoned by the sullen north ! 
 But to melt thy hated chain, 
 
 Is it, that thou comest forth 7 
 Wend thee to the sunny south. 
 
 To the glassy summer sea, 
 And the breathings of her mouth 
 
 Shall unchain and gladden thee ! 
 
THE MOTIIEH'S GRAV^E. 279 
 
 Roamer in the Iiitlden path, 
 
 'Neath the green and clouded wave ! 
 Tramphng, in thy reckless wrath, 
 
 On the lost, but cherished brave ; •' 
 
 Partino; love's death-linked embrace — I 
 
 Crushing beauty's skeleton — 
 Tell us what the hidden race ', 
 
 With our mourned lost have done ! 
 
 Floating Sleep ! who in the sun 
 
 Art an icy coronal ; 
 And, beneath the viewless dun, 
 
 Throw' st o'er barks a wavy pall ; 
 Shining Death upon the sea ! 
 
 Wend thee to the southern main ; 
 Bend to God thy melting knee, 
 
 Mingle with the wave again ! 
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRAYE 
 
 BY WILLIAM GRIGG, M. D. 
 
 It was a morn in summer. ■NTature smiled 
 'Neath the rich mantle of the glorious sun, 
 Who, like a god, majestically rose 
 From his bright chamber of eternity, 
 
-^80 THE mother's grave. 
 
 And o'er the earth his golden vapour poured. 
 
 The waters spread their crystal face, a wide, 
 
 Unbroken mirror of the ambient sky, 
 
 While on their polished surface lightly played 
 
 The dazzling sunbeams of that quiet mom. 
 
 The sporting zephyr, with the pensive leaves 
 
 In gentle dalliance, newer beauty gave. 
 
 As they were wakened from their holy rest, 
 
 And joyed, yet trembled, in the liquid light 
 
 Which bathed them in its flood. Day's balmy breath, 
 
 Rich with the morning tribute of the flowers, 
 
 Floated along to pour its hallowed sweets 
 
 Among the dwellings of the busy world. 
 
 I stood within a churchyard. Art had there 
 Mingled its column with the moss-grown stone 
 That marked the spot where humble beings lay. 
 The urn-crovmed monument, that proudly stood 
 Upon the ashes of the highborn dead, 
 In golden blazonry described the chain 
 Of proud, ennobled ancestry that claimed 
 The buried praised one as its brightest link. 
 With careless eye I scanned the epitaphs 
 That stained the marble's purity with words — 
 The vainest mockery of the silent dead ! 
 What work of art can speak the thrilling tones, 
 The voiceless utterance of the silent grave 1 
 The measured movement of the plumed hearse, 
 
THE mother's grave. 281 
 
 The marble pile, the gilded epitaph, 
 
 Speak not the language of the broken heart. 
 
 There was a simple stone whereon was writ 
 
 ' A Mother's Grave.' How eloquent the words ! 
 
 They wafted me far back to other times, 
 
 When in the days of artless infancy 
 
 The silent stone had told my mother's name. 
 
 That tale seemed told again. Though youth was past 
 
 And the cold calmness of maturer years 
 
 Had lulled the pangs my early boyhood knew, 
 
 Yet in that tongueless marble lurked a spell, 
 
 That wove around me memory's deathless joys. 
 
 'Twas evening when I sovight that spot again. 
 Beside the grave three Uttle children stood. 
 The oldest was a boy, who scarce could claim 
 Eight sununers' sports his own — the next, a girl 
 Whose tender spring had known but six returns — 
 And then, a lovely cherub, like the bud 
 Whose annual visit she four times had welcomed. 
 Each infant's hand was in the other's clasped — 
 A hving crescent, at their mother's grave — 
 And fondly gazing on that sacred spot 
 They read the withering words which said their friend, 
 Their dearest, truest friend, slept the deep sleep 
 Which wakens only in eternity. 
 
 9A* 
 
282 THE mother's grave. 
 
 Oh ! is there in the waste of human things 
 A stream so pure and clear as that which wells 
 From the deep fountain of a mother's heart 7 
 No ! no ! by the stern laws of nature, no ! 
 In infancy's soft hour the bud is bathed 
 In the warm fondness of maternal love, 
 And nourished to expand in the full bloom 
 Of unpolluted youth — and even when 
 It ripens into fruit of age, the same 
 Nutritious fount supplies its manly strength, 
 And knows no hind'rance to its pleasant course, 
 Down to the barriers of the eternal grave. 
 
 A mother's love ! the strongest, truest type 
 Of the pure love the Saviour bears mankind ! 
 Brightest in darkest hours ! most seen when clouds 
 Of ignominy rest upon her boy ! 
 And, like the diamond, showing best its power 
 When other gems are lost in shades of night, 
 Her love shines out and yields its secret rays, 
 When trouble lowers the blackest o'er her child. 
 
 I since have visited that holy tomb. 
 
 A pensive willow bending over it, 
 
 And a small basket filled with fresh plucked flowera 
 
 Starding beside the stone, assured my heart 
 
 That grave was not forgotten. 
 
COLONEL BOONE. 283 
 
 What rich joy 
 Those duteous children feel, whose bosoms echo 
 To the soft strains fond memory loves to wake 
 O'er some green spot on time's receding shore, 
 Brightly illumined by a mother's smile ! 
 But how much holier theirs, who, looking back 
 Along the course their devious footsteps knew, 
 Perceive no stain upon the hallowed snow 
 Of childhood's grateful duty ! 
 
 COLONEL BOONE. 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 " Colonel Daniel Boone, the first settler of Kentucky, 
 in consequence of losing all his property by the chicanery of 
 the law, exiled himself from society, and took up his residence 
 on the banks of the Grand Osage, in company with his son. 
 He there reared his rude log hut, around which he planted a 
 few esculent vegetables, and his principal food he obtained by 
 hunting. An exploring traveller, sometimes crossing the way 
 of this singular man, would find him seated at the door of his 
 hut, with bis rifle across his knees, and his faithful dog at his 
 side, surveying his shrivelled limbs, and lamenting that his 
 youth and manhood were gone, but hoping his legs would serve 
 him to the last of life, to carry him to spots frequented by the 
 game, that he might not starve. 
 
284 COLONEL BOONE 
 
 " In his solitude he would sometimes speak of his past ac- 
 tions, and of his indefatigable labours, with a glow of delight on 
 his countenance, that indicated how dear they were to his heart, 
 and would then become at once silent and dejected. Thus he 
 passed through life till he had attained the age of ninety, when 
 death suddenly terminated his earthly recollections of the ingra- 
 titude of his fellow creatures, at a period when his faculties, 
 though he had reached such an age, were not greatly impaired, 
 September 26th, 1820." 
 
 Alone ! Alone ! — How drear it is 
 
 Always to be alone ! 
 In such a depth of wilderness, 
 
 The only tliinking one ! 
 The waters in their path rejoice, 
 
 The trees together sleep ; 
 But I have not one human voice 
 
 Upon my ear to creep. 
 
 The sun upon the silent hills 
 
 His mesh of beauty weaves ; 
 There's music m the lau shiner rills 
 
 And in the whispering leaves ; 
 The red deer like the breezes fly 
 
 To meet the bounding roe, 
 But I have not a human sigh 
 
 To cheer me as I go ! 
 
COLONEL BOONE. 288 
 
 Tve hated men — I hate them now— 
 
 But since they are not here, 
 I thirst for the familiar brow ; 
 
 Thirst for the steaUng tear. 
 And I should love to gaze on one, 
 
 And feel the other creep — 
 And then again I'd be alone 
 
 Amid the forest deep. 
 
 I thought that I should love my hound; 
 
 And hear my cracking gun, 
 Till I forgot the thrilling sound 
 
 Of voices — one by one ; 
 I thought that, in the leafy bush 
 
 Of nature, they would die ; 
 But, as the kindred waters rush, 
 
 Resisted feelings fly ! — 
 
 Vm weary of my voiceless hut, 
 
 And of its blasted tree ; 
 The very lake is like my lot, 
 
 So silent constantly. 
 I've gazed upon the forest gloom 
 
 Until I almost fear — 
 When will the gushing voices coDMi, 
 
 My spirit thirsts to hear 7- 
 
286 THE FAIR PILGRIM. 
 
 THE FAIR PILGRIM. 
 
 " From fortune and from fame they fled 
 To Heaven and its devotion." 
 
 " Ellen Moore, I love you, but I cannot go 
 with you ;" said the daughter of a noble house, as 
 she stood in her youthful beauty, among the sha- 
 dowy elms of her father's park. The diminutive 
 figure of the person whom she addressed was al- 
 most hid in the foliage of the trees, but she raised 
 her dark eye, and her voice was low and sweet, as 
 she replied ; " Lady, it is not for the love you 
 bear me ; look into your own soul for some holier 
 and higher motive." The lady leaned her brow 
 on her hand, while Ellen calmly watched her 
 countenance. There seemed to be some stron^-, 
 bitter conflict within ; there was an agitated flush 
 on her cheek, and her eye was bright with the 
 fervour of intense feeling. 
 
 " Oh, Ellen," at length she said, while a deeper 
 and deeper colouring suffused her face, "how 
 can I leave parent and sister, my own pleasant 
 home, and the land of my fathers j am I not a 
 
PsititeS "I; — Cuarmiao's 
 
 * > 
 > I > t 1 . 
 
 .Tj'lt''; t.ve- 1 .' G'mlier 
 
 JLADir ®F GILIK^^IIILILIE, 
 
I 
 
 i 
 
THE FAIR PILGRIM- 287 
 
 child, a very child, and is it for me to make this 
 sacrifice, and bring down the gray liairs of my 
 father in sorrow to the grave ? and would it not 
 be sin," she added, in a deeper tone, " to go away, 
 across the wide blue waters, without my father's 
 blessing ?" There was something almost of stern- 
 ness in the voice of Ellen, as she replied ; " Lady, 
 we cannot glorify God in this land, and so he 
 hath opened for us a way in the deep, and a path 
 in the mighty waters. Lady, do you turn from 
 that path, so that you may not forfeit your fa- 
 ther's blessing ?" 
 
 " Leave me now, Ellen, leave me, for my soul 
 is dark ;" said the Lady Charlotte, in a voice of 
 eMreaty. " This night," replied the humble and 
 devoted girl, " the pilgrims set out on their weary 
 way ; sweet lady, delay not, I pray you." " But 
 leave me," said she, in a firm, decided tone, " I 
 will know my duty, and though it be the wither- 
 ing of every joy, and the blighting of every hope, 
 God shall see, and man shall see, that the sacrifice 
 can be made." 
 
 As Ellen turned to obey, she saw something 
 of the fixedness of stern resolution in the coun- 
 tenance of the noble girl ; her lip was livid and 
 compressed, and her whole face had the hue 
 
2S8 THE FAIR PILGRIM. 
 
 of death; but it seemed that the conflict was 
 over, and as her hght foot pressed the path home- 
 ward, the spirit of Ellen Moore was going up in 
 praise. 
 
 It is not for us to draw aside the veil from the 
 sanctity of that solemn hour, when the beautiful 
 lady of Glenville, amid weeping, and agony, and 
 prayer, gave up the joys that seemed ready to blos- 
 som before her, and all the hopes of a rich imagi- 
 nation, and all the loves of a warm and affectionate 
 heart. 
 
 Yet there was peace in her breast, as she turn 
 ed her step to the castle, and a serene smile shone 
 on her pale, thoughtful countenance, as she lin- 
 gered for a moment at the gate. Within was her 
 blight and beautiful sister, who had loved her 
 since the first gleamings of memory, with whom 
 she had played and laughed by the sunny foun- 
 tains in childhood, who had shared all her youth- 
 ful studies, and sorrows, and joys. And her fa- 
 ther — there was agony in the thought. She was 
 the hope, the pride, the darling of his old age. 
 Many noblt j,nd beautifid sons had he borne to 
 the grave, but rather, far rather, would he see 
 both of his sweet lone daughters lying beside 
 tliem, than embracing the religion of the Puritans. 
 
THE FAIR PILGRIM. 289 
 
 Another^ too, v/us there; one whom she loved 
 with the truest affection : the Lady Charlotte was 
 the betrothed of a noble earl, ^ill these she was 
 to see this night in mirth and gladness, and see 
 them no more for ever. Midnight was the hour 
 appointed for the meeting of the pilgrims on the 
 beach ; and it was not ten, when Lady Charlotte 
 retired to her room.. She felt that the last awful 
 parting was over, and leaning her face on her 
 hands, she now gave vent freely to her suppressed 
 feelings. She suddenly felt a liglit arm flung 
 about her neck. " Dear sister, why do you weep ? 
 Let me comfort you ;" said her sister Eliza, as 
 she bent to ki:is the tears from her cheek. The 
 lady was overcome ; she threw herself into her 
 sister's arms, and wept long and violently. 
 
 This paroxysm of grief, however, subsided, and 
 she felt the necessity of immediate exertion, for 
 midniglit was approaching, and she was yet with- 
 in the walls of the castle. So stifling her heart 
 rending sobs, she rose calmly from her sister's bo- 
 som, and throwing back her rich brown hair from 
 her fair forehead, and eyes saffiised with tears, en- 
 deavoured with a smile beautifully calm, to con- 
 ceal the anguish of an aching heart. " Pardon 
 »ne sister," she said, " that I have been betrayed 
 
 25 
 
290 THE FAIR PILGRIM. 
 
 into such weakness ; but my spirits are oppressed 
 to-night ;" she added, in a voice that was tremu- 
 lous, notwithstanding her efforts. " Have I lost 
 my sister's co]ifidence ?" said the Lady Eliza, ga- 
 zing at her with surprise and concern. " Do not 
 gaze so at me now," sa'd the unfortunate girl, "I 
 need rest and sleep, and my heart throbs so pain- 
 fully that I cannot speak. But this will tell you 
 all that I w^ould say, and more ;" she said, as she 
 presented to her a beautiful pocket Bible. " If you 
 see me no more by the sunny glade and the mossy 
 spring, it will comfort you for my absence. Eliza 
 you will be the stay of our father !" The Lady 
 Ehza gazed with astonishment at her sister, and 
 could only account for her language by supposing 
 her delirious. But Charlotte so strongly opposed 
 her alarming the family, and from that time seem- 
 ed so calm and composed, that she concluded it 
 was only a momentary wildness; and, after 
 watching her anxiously till her gentle breathings 
 indicated that she was asleep, threw herself on the 
 couch beside her, and was soon buried in pro- 
 found slumber. 
 
 It was a bright moonlight evening, and Ellen 
 Moore stood in the shadow of an ancient elm, 
 waiting the approach of the noble lady. Hour 
 
THE FAIR PILGRIM. 291 
 
 after hour she waited in vain ; at length the bell 
 of the castle tolled eleven, and she turned in bit- 
 terness of spirit to retrace, with anxious haste, 
 her path to the beach. At that moment, a shadow 
 darkened the opening in the avenue, and the lady 
 of Glenville stood, pale and breathless, by the side 
 of Ellen Moore. Arm in arm, they walked silently 
 and quickly forward. Ellen saw that the eye of 
 the lady was clear and bright, and that her brow 
 was calm with the fervency of devotion. Firmly 
 did she tread the well known path, till they reach- 
 ed the border of her father's domain ; then, in- 
 deed, she lingered to take one long, eternal fare- 
 well of all she loved in life. 
 
 There was the venecable castle, with its long 
 avenue and shady park standing in the moonlight ; 
 and the thousand remembered scenes of child- 
 hood and youth came thronging to her mind. 
 " The places which now knew her, would soon 
 know her no more for ever." But she turned 
 calmly and tearlessly away from them all, and 
 walked rapidly onward. 
 
 The moon, in her path over England that night, 
 saw many a scene of anguish like this ; but at 
 length the pilgrims stood on the beach together 
 
192 THE FAIR PILGRIM. 
 
 in the solemn moonlight. There was youth, with 
 its bright enthusiastic hope, giving up all for Hea- 
 ven ; and you might have seen the stern zeal, the 
 inflexible devotedness of manhood, glancing from 
 eye to eye. They had a common cause, a com- 
 mon sorrow, and a common hope ; their feelings 
 and affections were one, and they all rose in one 
 beautiful sacrifice to God. 
 
 'It 3i» Vp jJC 5f ?(■ 5^ 
 
 Many years after this event, in an humble vil- 
 lage on the wild New-England shore, a noble lady 
 lay on her bed of death. A light form "vvas seen 
 moving gently by her couch, and chanting, occa- 
 sionly, in low thrilling tones, some of the holy 
 hymns of our pilgrim fathers. There was a 
 brilliant hectic on the cheek of the dying lady, 
 and her eye was bright with almost unearthly 
 lustre. As her spirit had grown bright and lovely 
 amid the waves of affliction, so the beauty of her 
 countenance had only caught a sublimer charac- 
 ter amid the privations she had endured. The 
 room in which she lay was neat almost to ele- 
 gance, and the gentle assiduity of Ellen Moore 
 had hung it with festoons of fresh and fragrant 
 ^nwers. The open window was shaded with 
 
WAITING FOR THE HARVESTERS. 293 
 
 woodbine and roses, and, far away between its 
 shadowy leaves, you might see the rocky shore 
 and the blue wave of the Atlantic. 
 
 The lady, who was Avaiting in this peaceful spot 
 for death, had exhibited in her life an example of 
 moral sublimity that is not often equalled. At the 
 age of seventeen, she had left the home of her fa- 
 thers 5 she had lived in a land of strangers, bra- 
 ving the dangers of the deep and the horrors of 
 the western wilderness; she had endured with 
 calmness poverty and self-denial of every name ; 
 and now, at the age of twenty-four, worn with 
 care and hardship, she laid down and died, in her 
 youthful beauty, far from kindred and home. 
 
 WAITING FOR 
 
 THE HARVESTERS. 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 And there she sat in ripen' d loveliness, 
 An English mother ; jo5nng in her babes, 
 Whose life was bright before her, and whose lips 
 Were breaRing into language with the sweet 
 
 25* 
 
294 WAITING FOR THE HARVESTERS. 
 
 And loving sentences they learn so soon. 
 
 Her face was very beautiful, and mirth 
 
 "Was native on her lip ; but ever now 
 
 As a sweet tone delighted her, the smile 
 
 Went melting into sadness, and the lash 
 
 Droop'd gently to her eye, as if it knew 
 
 Affection was too chaste a thing for mirth. 
 
 It was the time for harvest ; and she sat 
 
 Awaiting one. A breath of scented hay 
 
 Was in the air, and from the distance came 
 
 The noise of sickles, and the voices sent 
 
 Out on the stillness of the quiet morn ; 
 
 And the low waters, coming Uke the strain 
 
 Of a pervading melody, stole in 
 
 And made all music. 'Twas a hoUness 
 
 Of nature's making, and I hfted up 
 
 My heart to Heaven, and in my gladness pray'd 
 
 That if a heart were sad, or if a tear 
 
 Were living upon earth, it might be theirs 
 
 To go abroad in nature, and to see 
 
 A mother and her gentle babes like these. 
 
THE SENTRY BOX. 
 
 BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. 
 
 Ah ! gentle widow ! what a plan 
 
 To snare the good, kind-hearted man ! 
 
 How could'st thou have the hardihood 
 
 To sap his unsuspecting heart, 
 And aim to stir his sober blood, 
 
 Fair dame ! with thy delusive art ? 
 How all unconscious does he swear 
 He can discern no atom there. 
 
 Dear Uncle Toby ! canst not spy 
 A cupid in the widow's eye, 
 That seeks to rob thee of thy rest 
 
 By means which thou canst not surmise, 
 And aims an arrow at thy breast. 
 
 Whose point is dipped in tears and sighs ? 
 Nay, Uncle Toby ! turn away, 
 Lest woman's eye thy heart betray. 
 
U\f\ 
 
 i^mm gusT'i^iE^ m(m 
 
C- c I 
 
 'I 
 
 C C t £ 
 
 1 
 
TO A LADY. 295 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 WITH A WITHERED LEAF. 
 BY W. G. CROSBY. 
 
 What ofiering can the minstrel bring 
 To cast upon affection's shrine 7 
 
 'Twas hard thy magic spell to fling 
 O'er the fond heart already thine ! 
 
 Thou wouldst not prize the glittering gem. 
 Thou wouldst but cast the pearl away ; 
 
 For thine is now a diadem, 
 
 Of lustre brighter far than they. 
 
 ,1 will not bring the spring tide flower 
 
 Reposing on its gentle leaf; 
 Its memory lives but for an hour — 
 
 I would not thine should be as brief. 
 
 My heart ! but that has long been thine — 
 'Twere but a worthless offerincr ; 
 
 The ruin of a nfled shrine, 
 A flower that fast is withering. 
 
 
296 TO A LADY. 
 
 My song! — 'tis but a mournful strain, 
 
 So deep in sorrow's mantle clad, 
 E'en echo will not wake again 
 
 The music of a strain so sad. 
 
 A withered leaf! — nay, scorn it not, 
 
 Nor deem it all unworthy thee ; 
 It grew upon a hallowed spot, 
 
 And sacred is its memory. 
 
 I pluck' d it from a lonely bough 
 
 That hung above my mother^ s grave 
 
 And felt, e'en then, that none but thou 
 Couldst prize the gift affection gave. 
 
 She faded with the flowers of spring. 
 That o'er her Ufeless form were cast — 
 
 And when I plucked this faded thing, 
 'Twas shivering m the autumn blast. 
 
 'Twas the last one ! — all — all were gone, 
 
 They bloom' d not where the yew trees wave; 
 
 This leaf and I were left alone, 
 
 Pale watchers o'er my mother's grave. 
 
 I mark'd it, when ftill oft I sought 
 That spot so dear to memory ; 
 
VOYAGE OF THE PHILOSOPHERS. 297 
 
 I loved it — for I fondly thought, 
 It linger' d there to mourn with me! 
 
 I've moisten'd it with many a tear, 
 
 I've hallow 'd it with many a prayer, 
 And while this bursting heart was clear 
 
 From guilt's dark stain, I shrined it there. 
 
 Now, lady, now the gift is thine ! 
 
 Oh, guard it with a vestal's care ; 
 Make but thine angel heart its shrine, 
 
 And I will kneel and worship there ! 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
 AN EASTERN TALE. 
 
 The celebrated Hiram, king of Tyre, was not 
 only a patron of the arts, but a promoter of learn- 
 ing also. He founded, seminaries, encouraged 
 talent, and favoured men of letters. 
 
 In a simple state of society, the disputes of men 
 arise out of questions of conduct* but as they 
 
298 VOYAGE OF THE PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
 grow more learned and refined, they quarrel 
 about matters of speculation. After the rights of 
 property and the rules of duty are well ascertain- 
 ed, there is little opportunity for the exhibition of 
 superior sagacity, except in the discussion of 
 misty points of doctrine. Those, therefore, who 
 are ambitious of display, leaving vulgar questions 
 of right and wrong in action, to less ambitious 
 minds, soar aloft into the divmer regions of doubt 
 and abstraction. 
 
 Thus it happened m Phoenicia. The princi- 
 ples of morality, embracing the social and reli- 
 gious duties, having been settled so that "the 
 wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err 
 therein," the philosophers began to wrangle about 
 subtle points of belief. Sundry questions were 
 started relating to the destiny of the soul after 
 death. The general notion of the future happi- 
 ness of the virtuous and the misery of the wicked, 
 was too easily comprehended, and too generally 
 admitted, to satisfy these acute metaphysicians. 
 They must needs penetrate the curtain that is 
 dropped between the mortal and immortal state, 
 and gain as exact knowledge of things unseen as 
 of things seen. 
 
 We cannot undertake to detail the various the- 
 
VOifAGE OF THE PHILOSOPHERS. 299 
 
 ories which were noAV started by the philoso- 
 phers, or attempt to give an account of the nu- 
 merous sects into which they divided the inhabi- 
 tants of Phcenicia. One of the leading questions, 
 however, which seemed to separate the people 
 into two great divisions, was this : WTiat is the 
 shape of the vast island which forms the para- 
 dise of the blessed ? It was generally agreed that 
 this island lay far away in the ocean ; that it was 
 the abode of perpetual spring, and the seat of uni- 
 versal and unbounded bliss. But what was its 
 shape ? Was it circular or triangular ? These 
 were questions which agitated the people, and 
 shook society to its foundation. 
 
 King Hiram was a man of sense, and of a 
 practical turn ; he determined, therefore, that the 
 question should be settled by occular demonstra- 
 tion. He accordingly ordered an expedition to be 
 fitted out, consisting of as many vessels as there 
 were sects. He then selected the leading philo- 
 sophers of every sect, gave each the command 
 of a vessel, and ordered them to sail forth upon 
 the sea in quest of the happy isle, and bring him 
 tidings of the result. 
 
 The squadron consisted of several hundred 
 vessels, manned by expert seamen. Having en- 
 
300 VOYAGE OF THE PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
 tered the Indian ocean, by the way of the Red 
 Sea, they bade adieu to the shore, and stretched 
 forth upon the bhie main, guiding their course 
 by the heavenly bodies. They kept together for 
 many days ; but at length the skies became in- 
 volved in clouds, and violent disputes arose among 
 the philosophers. Under these circumstances, 
 the great question shoidd have been as to their 
 course ; but, instead of this, they went to logger- 
 heads about tlie shape of the happy island. From 
 words they almost came to blows, and finally the 
 philosophers parted in anger. One portion set 
 off in one direction, another portion in the oppo- 
 site direction, while a large number, unable to 
 make up their minds amid such contending 
 views, furled their sails, and left their vessels to 
 drift with the tide. 
 
 The two squadrons stretched away, the one 
 east, the other west, and, so long as they kept in 
 sight of each other, their activity seemed stimu- 
 lated by a desire to be as far from each other as 
 possible. After sailing for many days in an 
 easterly course, and having encountered innume- 
 rable dangers and hardships, one of the squadrons 
 approached the happy isle. A lovelier light than 
 that of summer shone over it, and sweeter land- 
 
VOYAGE OF THE PHILOSOPHERS 301 
 
 scapes than those of Arabia spread along its 
 coast. The inhabitants received them with the 
 kindest welcome, and such happiness thrilled in 
 the bosoms of the philosophers, that all feelings 
 but those of benevolence subsided, and forgetting 
 their anger, they wished that their antagonists 
 might be partakers of their joy. Scarcely had 
 they expressed these feelings, when in the east- 
 ern horizon they discovered the other squadron 
 under full sail coming down upon the island in a 
 direction opposite to that by which they had ar 
 rived. They soon reached the shore, and the 
 philosophers, who had parted in malice, now met 
 in peace. 
 
 Having spent some time at the happy isle, they 
 entered their ships, and, bidding a reluctant adieu 
 to the place, returned to Tyre. On being re- 
 quired by the king to tell him the shape of the 
 island, the grand object of the expedition, the phi- 
 losophers looked at each other, and appeared to be 
 abashed. The king was angry, and imperiously 
 commanded them to answer his question. They 
 then confessed that they had forgotten to ask about 
 the shape of the island. " Let me have no more 
 quarrels then," said the king," about idle questions 
 of belief ; let your arrogance and dogmatism be 
 
 26 
 
302 THE TWINS. 
 
 humbled by the recollection, that opposite courses 
 have led to the same point ; and remember, that 
 matters of speculation, which are wrought into 
 consequence by contention, sink into insignifi- 
 cance in the light of truth," 
 
 THE TWINS. 
 
 BY S. GRISVv OLD GOODRICH. 
 
 " I tell it to you as 'tw'as told to me." 
 
 In the autumn of 1826, I had occasion to visit 
 
 the tOAMi of N , beautifully situated on the 
 
 v/estern bank of the Connecticut river. My busi- 
 ness led me to the house of B . a lawyer of 
 
 threescore and ten, who was now resting from 
 the labours, and enjoying the fruits of a life strenu- 
 ously and successfully devoted to his u'-ofession. 
 His drawing room was richly furnished, and 
 decorated with several valuable paintings. There 
 was one among them, that particularly attracted 
 my attention. It represented a mother with two 
 beautiful children, one in either arm, a light veil 
 thrown over the group, and one of the children 
 pressing its lips to the cheek of the mother. 
 
THE TWINS. 303 
 
 " Tliat," said I, pointing to the picture, " is very- 
 beautiful. Pray, sir, what is the subject of it ?" 
 " It is a mother and her twins," said he ; " the 
 picture in itself is esteemed a fine one, but I value 
 it more for the recollections which are associated 
 with it." I turned my eye upon B ; he look- 
 ed communicative, and I asked him for the story. 
 " Sit down," said he, " and I will tell it." We 
 accordingly sat down, and he gave me the follow- 
 ing narrative. 
 
 During the period of the war of the revolution, 
 there resided, in the western part of Massachu- 
 setts, a farmer by the name of Stedman. He was 
 a man of substance, descended from a very re- 
 spectable English family, well educated, distin- 
 guished for great firmness of character in general, 
 and alike remarkable for inflexible integrity and 
 steadfast loyalty to his king. Such was the re- 
 putation he sustained, that even when the most 
 violent antipathies against royalism swayed the 
 community, it was still admitted on all hands, that 
 farmer Stedman, though a tory, was honest in his 
 opinions, and firmly believed them to be right. 
 
 The period came when Burgoyne was advan- 
 cing from the north. It was a time of great anxie- 
 ty with both the friends and foes of the revolution, 
 
304 THE TWIN'S, 
 
 and one which called forth their highest exer- 
 tions. The patriotic militia flocked to the stand- 
 ard of Gates and Stark, while many of the tories 
 resorted to the quarters of Biirgoyne and Baum. 
 Among the latter was Stedman. He had no 
 sooner decided it to be his duty, than he took a 
 kind farewell of his wife, a woman of uncommon 
 beauty, gave his children, a twin boy and girl, a 
 long embrace, then mounted his horse and depart- 
 ed. He joined himself to the unfortunate expe- 
 dition of Baum, and was taken with other prison- 
 ers of w^ar by the victorious Stark. 
 
 He made no attempt to conceal his name or 
 character, which were both soon discovered, and 
 he was accordingly committed to prison as a tr^v 
 tor. The gaol, in which he was confined, was in 
 the western part of Massachusetts, and nearly in 
 a ruinous condition. The farmer was one night 
 waked from his sleep by several persons in his 
 room. " Come," said they, " you can now re- 
 gain your liberty : we have made a breach in the 
 prison, through which you can escape." To 
 their astonishment, Stedman utterly refused to 
 leave his prison. In vain they expostulated 
 with him ; in vain they represented to him that 
 life was at stake. His reply was, that he was a 
 
THE TWINS. 305 
 
 true man, and a servant of King George, and he 
 would not creep out of a hole at night, and sneak 
 away from the rebels, to save his neck from the 
 gallows. Finding it altogether fruitless to attempt 
 to move him, his friends left him, with some ex- 
 pressions of spleen. 
 
 The time at length arrived for the trial of the 
 prisoner. The distance to the place where the 
 court was sitting was about sixty miles. Stedman 
 remarked to the sheriff, when he came to attend 
 him, that it would save some expense and incon- 
 venience, if he could be permitted to go alone, 
 and on foot. "And suppose," said the sheritf 
 "that you should prefer your safety to your 
 honour, and leave me to seek you in the British 
 camp ?" " I had thought," said the farmer, red- 
 dening with indignation, " that I was speaking to 
 one who knew me." " I do know you, indeed," 
 said the sheriif ; "I spoke but in jest ; you shall 
 have your way. Go, and on the third day I shall 
 
 expect to see you at S ." * * * * The farmer 
 
 departed, and at the appointed time he placed 
 himself in the hands of the sheriff. 
 
 I was now engaged as his counsel. Stedman 
 insisted, before the court, upon telling his whole 
 story ; and, when I would have taken advantage 
 
 26* 
 
306 THE TWINS. 
 
 of some technical points, he sharply rebuked me, 
 and told me that he had not employed me to 
 prevaricate, but only to assist him in telling the 
 truth. I had never seen such a display of simple 
 integrity. It was affecting to witness his love of 
 holy, unvarnished truth, elevating him above 
 every other consideration, and presiding in his 
 breast as a sentiment even superior to the love 
 of life. I saw the tears more than once spring- 
 ing to the eyes of his judges ; never before, or 
 since, have I felt such an interest in a client. I 
 plead for him as I would have plead for my own 
 life. 1 drew tears, but I could not sway the judg- 
 ment of stern men, controlled rather by a sense 
 of duty than the compassionate promptings of 
 humanity. Stedman was condemned. I told 
 him there was a chance of pardon, if he would 
 ask for it. I drew up a petition, and requested him 
 to sign it, but he refused. " I have done," said he, 
 " what I thought my duty. I can ask pardon of 
 my God, and my king ; but it would be hypocri- 
 sy to ask forgiveness of these men, for an action 
 which I should repeat, were I placed again in 
 similar circumstances. No ! ask me not to sign 
 that petition. If what you call the cause of 
 American freedom requires the blood of an ho- 
 
THE TWINS. 307 
 
 nest man for a conscientious discharge of what he 
 deemed his duty, let me be its victim. Go to my 
 judges, and tell them that I place not my fears 
 nor my hopes in them," It was in vain that I 
 pressed the subject ; and I went away in despair. 
 In returning to my house, I accidentally called 
 on an acquaintance, a young man of brilliant 
 genius, the subject of a passionate predilection for 
 painting. Tnis led him frequently to take excur- 
 sions into the country, for the purpose of sketch- 
 ing such objects and scenes as were interesting to 
 him. From one of these rambles he had just 
 returned. I found him sitting at his easel, giving 
 the last touches to the picture which attracted 
 your attention. He asked my opinion of it. 
 " It is a fine picture," said I ;" is it a fancy piece, 
 or are they portraits ?" " They are portraits," 
 said he ; " and save perhaps a little embellishment, 
 they are, I think, striking portraits of the wife 
 and children of your unfortunate client, Stedman. 
 In the course of my rambles, I chanced to call at 
 his house in H . I never saw a more beauti- 
 ful group. The mother is one of a thousand ; 
 and the twins are a pa'r of cherubs." " Tell me," 
 said I, laying my hand on the picture, " tell me, 
 are they true and faithful portraits of the wife 
 
308 THE TWINS. 
 
 and children of Stedman ?" My earnestness 
 made my friend stare. He assured me that, so 
 far as he could be permitted to judge of his own 
 productions, they were striking representations. 
 I asked no farther questions ; I seized the picture, 
 and hurried with it to the prison where my chert 
 was confined. I found him sitting, his face co- 
 vered with his hands, and apparently wrung by 
 keen emotion. I placed the picture in such a 
 situation that he could not fail to see it. I laid 
 the petition on the little table by his side, and left 
 the room. 
 
 In half an hour I returned. The farmer grasp- 
 ed my hand, while tears stole down his cheeks ; 
 his eye glanced first uponthe picture, and then to 
 the petition. He said nothing, but handed the 
 latter to me. I took it, and left the apartment. 
 He had put his name to it. The petition was 
 granted, and Stedman was set at liberty. 
 
CATSLILL. 309 
 
 CATSKTLL. 
 
 A JOURNAL OF THE GRAND AND GLORIOUS. 
 
 S. Nay — you shall see mirie orchard , where, in an arbour, 
 
 we will eat a last year's pippin, of my oavti grafting, with a dish 
 
 of caraways, and so forth : — come, cousin Silence — and then to 
 
 bed. 
 
 F. Fore God, you have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
 
 S. Marry, good sir — spread, Davy — spread. 
 
 Shaksfeare. 
 
 It was a sultry morning in the dog days of the 
 last memorable year, when I stepped on board 
 the Constellation Aviih three friends, whose spirits 
 are as elastic and healthful as the air of the moun- 
 tains that we trod together. Perhaps it may not 
 be uncivil to say something about them. The 
 first, and tallest, was an honest hearted, noble fel- 
 low, with a well-shaped head, and almost bald. 
 He was a man of exceeding jest, a good politician, 
 and a decided opponent of Governor Clinton. One 
 of his greatest sins is being the conductor of a 
 popular newspaper in New- York ; but, as a writer 
 and a man of genius, he holds a very respectable 
 rank. He told an admirable story, knew all the 
 
310 CATSKILL. 
 
 lions, was a downright yankee ; and, what was 
 better than all, had been to Catskill often afore- 
 time, and was thus excellently well fitted for tell- 
 ing us all about the matter. The second was one 
 of those generous, high souled fellows, who re- 
 main ever the same to j^ou, through all the wear 
 and tear of life; one M^ho had seen much of the 
 world for his years, and who could laugh at its 
 follies with infinite glee, and ruffle it heartily with 
 all he met in it, in the style of that true philoso- 
 phy which takes things as they come, and asks 
 few questions. He was as sl^m as any genius in 
 the world, and had a nose that bore the true Wel- 
 lington stamp. He was as fond of porter as an 
 alderman, and sometimes subject to the heart- 
 burn. But that is a small matter, as long as the 
 heart lies in the right place. His did lie so, empha- 
 tically. The third was a law student ; a young 
 gentleman of talent, and of a philosophical turn. 
 He had a keen relish for a joke ; and ^vith his 
 small portion of tobacco in mouth, seemed to en- 
 joy equally politics or puns. Here, then, we were 
 congregate with much company, on board the 
 steam-boat, at the foot of Courtlandt-street, on 
 the morning aforesaid. Our object was a visit to 
 the Catskill mountains, and we had determined in 
 
CATSKILL. 311 
 
 the way to take our route up the waters of the 
 Hudson. There was something animating in the 
 bustle of this business. In a slip hard by lay the 
 Lady Clinton, also full of merry faces, all lighted 
 up with the excitement of the occasion ; and on 
 the deck, by way of enticement, a fine band was 
 thundering away, asking every one to bestow his 
 ziioney where he might have music as well as 
 merriment. For our OAvn parts, we were deter- 
 mined to remain by the Constellation ; and in a 
 short time we swung off, and began to dash up 
 the river. It would be swelling this description 
 to an unmerciful length, to dwell upon the beau- 
 ties and wonders that are continually breaking 
 upon you in sailing up this noble stream. Nature 
 has congregated so many of her imposing and 
 glorious things here, that each of them would fur- 
 nish a volume, and still half the story would be 
 left untold. Nor is nature alone in calling upon 
 your deep and powerful feelings. Memory is 
 busy with the traveller, as he passes scenes around 
 which a thousand associations cluster ; and the re- 
 collection of revolutionary times lends to the 
 banks of the North River an interest hardly 
 equalled, certainly not surpassed. Leaving all 
 these things, therefore, to be viewed by the pil- 
 
312 CATSKILL. 
 
 grim, rather than go into any history about them, 
 we will, with permission, land the gentle reader 
 at once on the left bank of the Hudson, recom- 
 mending to him, should he ever be inclined to 
 wend this way, to enter himself on board the 
 aforementioned boat, where Captain Cruttenden 
 (should he still hold his place) will supply him 
 with every comfort which can be anticipated, or 
 which can result from good living, good quarters, 
 a good engine, and last, not least, gentlemanly at- 
 tention. 
 
 It was near eleven at night, when we arrived at 
 the town of Catskill. Here a spruce, stirring, 
 and, above all, a civil and obliging landlord, con- 
 trived speedily to make us as comfortable as rea- 
 sonable men could wish to be. We were by no 
 means inclined to be fastidious ; for to persons 
 who have been fifteen hours under the influences 
 of a hot sun and hotter boilers, and who have en- 
 dured for a still greater length of time the trill of a 
 steam-boat, even though she bear them over wa- 
 ters as delightful as the Hudson ; to such persons 
 a still bed and a land breeze let gently in at the 
 attic, are matters generally taken advantage of 
 without much question or delay. After a bad 
 night's rest, the misery of a busy and popular ho- 
 
OATfSKILL. 313 
 
 tel, we started at six A. M. on a tolerable Sunday 
 morning, for the mountain house, or, as it is more 
 singularly and unaccountably termed, the Pine 
 Orchard. I apprehend this cognomen is about 
 as legitimate as that of lake applied to the ponds 
 in England and Scotland ; but for an orchard I it 
 would have puzzled Master Slender himself to 
 make out the case. Slow, silent, and sure, we 
 wound our way along a rocky, though quite a 
 decent and comfortable road \ but our expectations 
 were somewhat damped and dimmed by the great 
 thickness of the atmosphere, which had for some 
 time been unusually smoky. After an hour's ride, 
 the hotel was descried through the dense air, 
 planted far over our heads, at a height which, at 
 first view, astonishes the beholder. He is not pre- 
 pared to look so high for a large house, and a 
 place of fashionable resort ; and when he becomes 
 satisfied that he is really gazing upon the moun- 
 tain dwelhng, he almost doubts the practicability 
 of attaining it. The ascent soon became tedious 
 and steep ; and, to those of us who had been ac- 
 customed to toil to loftier eminences by a mere 
 footpath, and that an intolerable one, this convey- 
 ance by carriage over a comparatively good road; 
 was a relief of which we were peculiarly sensible. 
 
 27 
 
314 CATSKTLL. 
 
 We halted at Rip Van Winkle's. This august per- 
 sonage, who sits in his shanty chair with all the 
 importance of one who has suffered classical ca- 
 nonization, met us with much solemnity ; and it 
 was with great satisfaction we partook of the 
 mountain dew, which distilled mysteriously in at 
 his window, and admirably comported, in its in- 
 troduction, with the thousand wonderments that 
 centre round the old man's dwelling. Having, 
 like good pilgrims, cut our canes, we left him in 
 the midst of a story about a sea serpent, which 
 Rip maintained was then committing divers atro- 
 cities in Schoharie. 
 
 Within a mile of our destination, on a gradual, 
 though a short descent, we were brought to a 
 sudden and splendid view of the mountain house, 
 literally hanging, like some brilliant work of en- 
 chantment, over our very heads. Perhaps there 
 is no point at which the mind is so powerfully 
 struck with the temerity of man as at this, where 
 a massive pile is seen projected by him to the very 
 brink of a yawning precipice. More than two 
 hundred feet above us stood this building, the 
 abode of elegance and ease; and round it the 
 bare and thunder-stricken trees were lifting them- 
 selves J and above and below lay the riven rock^ 
 
CATSKILL. 315 
 
 in varied and indescribable grandeur ; wnile, to 
 the eye, the cliff on which it rested seemed but a 
 frail spot for the mansion that loomed above it. 
 A single whirl of the coach, and this imposing 
 scene was closed on us. In a few moments, we 
 alighted in front of the hotel, within twenty feet 
 of the bold, gray precipice. The first impression 
 is that of the dangerous location of this house ; 
 but, when the eye glances at the solid foundation 
 on which it rests, you feel satisfied that nothing 
 but the earthquake can shake its deep and endu- 
 ring base. 
 
 The atmosphere still continuing hazy, we could 
 obtain but a partial and indistinct view of the 
 country below us through such a medium. 
 Enough, however, was visible, to convince us that 
 this was one of the proud places of nature ; and 
 that we only wanted a clear air and an unclouded 
 sun to enable us to gaze out upon a world of va- 
 ried and wonderful beauty. We now stood on 
 an eminence more than three thousand feet above 
 the level of the Hudson ; and I believe myself 
 safe in saying, that the earth could not present a 
 scene of greater sublimity, softened with more 
 delightful traits of mellowness and richness. Tlie 
 fertility of the landscape on the North River is 
 
316 CATSKILL. 
 
 proverbial. One can scarcely conceive of the as- 
 tonishing extent of elegant cultivation Avhich un- 
 bosoms itself to the eye, as it wanders over the 
 teeming land from this vast and commanding ele- 
 vation. On the day after our arrival, we enjoyed 
 this prospect in all its unrivalled magnificence. 
 Beneath our feet lay the villages in little clusters, 
 as things that we could cover or remove with our 
 hands. The broad fields, waving with all the opu- 
 lence of early harvest, were contracted into spots 
 of singularly mellowed beauty, as the brilliant 
 sun poured his rays upon them. The forests, that 
 would seem interminable to the traveller, pursu- 
 ing his way through their intricacies and gloom, 
 were but dark lines upon the map that was un- 
 rolled before us ; and under us, like a line of light 
 upon the landscape, lay the broad North River, 
 glittering as it stretched away among its hills, un- 
 til lost in the immense distance that it brightened 
 to the last. On its narrow and silvered bosom, you 
 might discover little objects moving slowly away, 
 like specks upon a streamlet ; and sometimes a 
 small black vapour would seem to hover over 
 them, or stretch itself in a dull line behind their 
 weary track. Then some pigmy sail might be 
 seen floating on those distant waters, or faintly re- 
 
CATSKILL. 317 
 
 lieved against the dark shores between which it 
 phed. Should you lessen the distance with the 
 telescope which lies at your side, you w^ould find 
 these atoms coming to your eye in form very like 
 steam-boats and sloops, that are ploughing and 
 smoking along a mighty river, to cities and towns 
 which a moment before lay like points under 
 your feet. 
 
 Still further away, the mountains of some sister 
 state were seen rising, like small hills, upon the 
 horizon. In some distant interval, small, dark 
 clouds were hanging over the land, and the dim- 
 ness that sometimes gathered beneath them, di- 
 rected us at once to the spot where the shower 
 was refreshing a portion of the heated country. 
 But the eye reposed with the most pleasing satis- 
 faction upon the cultivated and blooming acres 
 that smiled along the whole region which it com- 
 manded ; and it made us feel proud of our home, 
 to reflect that we could point from such an emi- 
 nence to such a scene, and tell the stranger that 
 this was but one of the beautiful pictures of our 
 native land. 
 
 At sunrise, we were gazing upon one of the 
 most grand and imposing scenes which the world 
 ever presented to painter or poet. Immediately 
 
 27* 
 
318 CATSKILL. 
 
 below us, and then as far away as the highlands 
 that embosom the Hudson, lay a huge and undu- 
 lating mass of fleecy clouds, veiling the landscape 
 entirely, and presenting to the most unimpassion- 
 ed eye a striking resemblance of a silent and out- 
 stretclied ocean. Anon, as the wind, moving 
 amidst and below them, effected a change in their 
 volumes, the green and variegated earth would 
 burst from beneath their massy folds, and for a 
 moment lie unveiled before you, as the immense 
 and shifting curtain was lifted from its resting 
 place. Then again the impenetrable vapour 
 would settle over the whole, and envelope it, as it 
 would seem, for ever. A hundred times did this 
 glorious scene pass before us ; until, as day ad- 
 vanced, the vast clouds consolidated into gorgeous 
 columns, or, taking numberless beautiful and fan- 
 tastic forms, swept away into the north, to descend 
 in rain upon the distant hills. Around and above 
 us (for this is not the highest land in the vicinity) 
 every thing was reposing in a clear and dry at- 
 mosphere ; and it was delightful to observe that, 
 while the world below us was waking to a dull, 
 foggy, heart-killing morning, here, above the 
 clouds, were some scores of good-natured, down- 
 right gentlemen and ladies, early risen to be sure, 
 
CATSKILL. 319 
 
 Willi braced spirits and bright eyes, chatting over 
 a precipice, upon a modern settee, drawn within 
 four feet of its verge, and laugliing, and exclaim- 
 ing, and roaring (genteelly) with all their might, 
 over a sea of clouds tost into a storm underneath 
 them — piercing the mass of mist, now with a peal 
 of merriment, and now with a projectile, and at 
 last turning from cliff to breakfast-hall, with no 
 more feeling of Olympus on Catskill, than they 
 had had of comfort at Saratoga! Ehue! — what 
 mundane creatures some of us are I 
 
 Ingrediturque solo, caput inter nubila condit. 
 
 A chief amusement with all true travellers at 
 Catskill, consists in casting stones, or rocks, insiar 
 montis, over the cliffs, and watching their course 
 as they go smoking and thundering into the ra- 
 vine. Much does it shame me to say, that in this 
 species of delight did our party spend some hours 
 of the Sabbath after our arrival. Though there 
 was something grand in witnessing the posthaste 
 with which the rocks projected made their way 
 into the depths below, leaping from precipice, 
 hundreds of feet, to precipice beneath, and rat- 
 tling and crashing into the valleys; still there 
 was something irresistibly ludicrous in the inli- 
 
320 CATSKILL. 
 
 nite pains taken by some of us to effect all this, 
 A long armed Southerner did the business best. 
 He would dig out the ledge like Polyphemus. 
 Our law student thought it matter of trespass, and 
 would have nothing to do with it, but to look on 
 and enjoy it. My friend in the Wellington nose 
 worked well, and spared not,— soiling his hands 
 as he rolled heavy masses among the burnt bushes, 
 and taking no note of the day,— while the edi- 
 tor, to his shame be it spoken, would not lift a 
 finger in the business, after the first essay, because, 
 forsooth, his white pantaloons had suffered mate- 
 rial detriment in contact with the snmtty points 
 of the pestilent bushes. For myself, as I was to 
 give a description of the whole thing to the world, 
 it was no more than right and natural that I 
 should stand in my Florence fiannel jacket, a 
 calm and silent spectator. Thus historians should 
 ever do. 
 
 On the following morning, after a walk of two 
 miles, we reached the Falls. The approach to 
 this spot might be made much more convenient — 
 and it should be ; for to ladies, it is one of the worst 
 of pilgrimages ; especially to those of the beauti- 
 ful who are not Dianas in the art of threading 
 woods, or who have fallen off" from the good old 
 
CATSKILL, 321 
 
 custom of wearing thick-soled shoes on tremen- 
 dous occELsions. The carriage to the falls was bad 
 enough : it is reasonable enough to wish that the 
 path near them may be made better. Meanwhile, 
 if improvement have taken place in that quarter, 
 in these particulars, like honourable men, our 
 whole party begs pardon of the authorities, as in 
 duty bound. But I will introduce the reader to 
 this grand and extraordinary spectacle. We first 
 came to the verge of the precipice, from which the 
 water takes its leap upon a platfonii that projects 
 with the rock many feet over the chasm. Here 
 we gazed into the dell and the basin into which 
 the stream pours itself from the beetling cliff. But 
 the prospect from this point is far less thrilling 
 than from below ; and we accordingly began our 
 descent. Winding round the crags, and following 
 a foot-path between the overhanging trees, we 
 gradually and with some difficulty descended so 
 far as to have a fine view of the station which we 
 had just left. The scene here is m.agnificent be- 
 yond description. Far under the blackened cano- 
 py of everlasting rock that shoots above to an 
 alarming extent over the abyss, the eye glances 
 round a vast and regular amphitheatre, which 
 fseems to be the wild assembling-place of all the 
 
322 CATSKILL. 
 
 spirits of the storms, — so rugged, so deep, so se- 
 cluded, and yet so threatening does it appear! 
 Down from the midst of the cliff that overarches 
 this wonderful excavation, and dividing in the 
 midst the gloom that seems to settle within it, 
 comes the foaming torrent, splendidly relieved 
 upon the black surface of the enduring walls, and 
 throwing its wreaths of mist along the frowning 
 ceiling. Following the guide that had brought 
 us thus far down the chasm, we passed into the 
 amphitheatre, and, moving under the terrific pro- 
 jection, stood in the centre of this sublime and 
 stupendous work ; — the black iron-bound rocks 
 behind us, and the snowy cataract springing be- 
 tween us and the boiling basin, which still lay 
 under our feet. Here the scene was unparalleled 
 Here seemed to be the theatre for a people to stand 
 in, and behold the prodigies and fearful wonders 
 of the Almighty, and feel their o^\^l insignificance. 
 Here admiration and astoni-shment come unbidden 
 over the soul, and the most obdurate heart feels 
 that there is something to be grateful for. Indeed, 
 the scene from this spot is so sublime and so well 
 calculated to impress the feelings with a sense of 
 the power and grandeur of nature, that, apart from 
 all other considerations, it is worthy of long jour- 
 
CATSKILL. 323 
 
 neying and extreme toil to behold it. Having ta- 
 ken refreshment, very adroitly managed to be con- 
 veyed to us from above by John, — whom, by the 
 way, I would name as an excellent guide as well 
 as a reputable boy, — we descended to the extreme 
 depth of the ravine, and, with certain heroic la- 
 dies, who somehow dared the perils of the path, 
 we gazed from this place upon the sheet of wa- 
 ter, falling from a height of more than two hun- 
 dred and fifty feet. This is a matter of which 
 Niagara would not speak lightly; and there is 
 wanting only a heavy fall of water to make this 
 spot, not only magnificent, — for that it is now, — 
 but terribly sublime. Mountains ascend and over- 
 shadow it ; crags and precipices project them- 
 selves in menacing assemblage all about, as though 
 fro\vning over a ruin which they are only waiting 
 some fiat to make yet more appalling. Nature 
 has hewed out a resting place for man, where he 
 may linger, and gaze, and admire ! below him 
 she awakens her thunder and darts her lightning, 
 above him she lifts still loftier summits, and 
 round him she flings her spray and her rain- 
 bows ! 
 
 It was with reluctance we quitted a scene of 
 such surpassmg and varied grandeur. A toilsome 
 
324 CATSfvlLL, 
 
 ascent was at length effected, and the experiment 
 of lowering refreshment from the heights, in a 
 basket, was repeated, to the satisfaction of many 
 who were not content with the exhilarating prin- 
 ciple of simple port and fountain water. We now 
 stood on what may be termed the table rock j 
 and, after calling to mind, as our basket went up, 
 the gatherers of " samphire" on the cliff of Dover, 
 and amusing ourselves with thundering a few 
 roeks into the abyss, we again ascended, and en- 
 dured a conveyance back to the mountain house. 
 Having taken an excellent dinner, whereat the 
 editor immortalized himself by exhibiting to a 
 large table the method of uncorking stale cham- 
 paign, at four P. M. we bade adieu to the mansion 
 and the clouds, and to No. 35, and thereabouts^ 
 whisked by Rip, still maintaining stern state by 
 his counter — rushed into the warm latitudes — em- 
 barked late at night on board the Chief Justice 
 Marshall, in the midst of thunder and lightning, 
 the roar of steam, two cases of elegant distress, 
 and a numerous company, and early next morn- 
 ing were landed, safe, comfortable, and delighted, 
 in the noisy city of Gotham. 
 
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MRS. HEMANS. 325 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 This eminent female poetic A^Titer was born 
 in Duke Street, Liverpool, 25th September, 
 1794. Her maiden name was Felicia Doro- 
 thea Browne. Her father was a native of Ire- 
 land; her mother was a German lady, a Miss 
 Wagner, but descended from a Venetian family. 
 To these circumstances Mrs. Hemans would 
 often playfully allude as accounting for the 
 strong tinge of romance and poetry which per- 
 vaded her character from her earliest years. 
 Another circumstance which undoubtedly ope- 
 rated strongly in the development of these 
 traits, was the^ removal of her family, when 
 she was only five years of age, to Denbigh- 
 shire, in North Wales. That land of wild 
 mountain scenery and ancient minstrelsy was 
 the fitting place to impart sublimity to her 
 youthful fancies, and elevate her feelings with 
 the glow of patriotism and devotion. 
 
 In the year 1812, at the early age of seven- 
 teen, she was married to Capt. Hemans, of the 
 
326 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Fourth Regiment, and settled in the neighbor- 
 hood of St. Asaphs — but her married life was 
 not happy. This domestic infelicity was to her 
 a most painful subject, one to which she could 
 bear no allusion ; and the tenderness and for- 
 bearance with which she, while living, treated 
 the faults of her husband, render it the duty of 
 those who love her memory to forbear, as far 
 as possible, from adverting to scenes and suf- 
 ferinofs that so tried and tortured her sensitive 
 heart. Suffice it to say, that her husband left 
 her and his five young sons to struggle as they 
 might with sorrow and the cold, selfish world. 
 Mrs. Hemans continued to reside at " Rhyllon, 
 near St. Asaphs," with her mother. This was 
 her most favorite residence, where she \vrote 
 many of her best poems. 
 
 A small woodland dingle near Rhyllon was 
 her favorite retreat. Here she would spend 
 long summer mornings to read and project and 
 compose, while her children played about her. 
 " Whenever one of us brought her a flower," 
 writes one of them, " she was sure to introduce 
 it into her next poem." 
 
 After the death of her mother, Mrs. Hemans 
 
MRS. HEMANS. 327 
 
 removed to Waverlree, near Liverpool, where 
 she resided about three years^ and then again 
 removed to Dublin, where the expense of edu- 
 cating her sons would, she foimd, be more 
 within her means. But sorrow, care, and the 
 " wasting task and lone " of her minstrel voca- 
 tion, had brought on a deep disease, which the 
 sympathy of friends (and who that ever read 
 the outpourings of her soul was not her friend ?) 
 could not alleviate or remove. She closed her 
 life May 30th, 1835, " and died as stars go 
 down," her genius bright and expanding to the 
 last, and trust in her Redeemer calming every 
 fear, and cheering the darkness of the tomb 
 with the holy light of faith and love. She has 
 gone from us, but the light of her genius will 
 never be dimmed, nor the song of her harp for- 
 gotten. She has thrilled those chords of the 
 human soul which, while the race of man con- 
 tinues, cannot but respond to her sentiments. 
 Love, in all its purest, holiest, sweetest emo- 
 tions of household affections, patriotism, and 
 devotion, was the mighty spell by which she 
 wrought, and till love shall cease from earth 
 her name can never die. 
 
328 
 
 THE CHARNEL SHIP. 
 
 THE CHARNEL SHIP. 
 
 The Charleston Courier of the 20th December, 1828, containa 
 the account of a vessel discovered in 1773, by a Greenland whale 
 ship. It had been for seventeen years frozen up among the ice- 
 bergs in the North Polar Sea ; and, when found, the corses of seve- 
 ral persons, in an almost perfect state of preservation, were on 
 board. Those of the master, his wife, and a man with a book, in 
 which he had probably been writing when he died, particularly 
 attracted the attention of Captain Warren and his men. 
 
 The night — the long dark night — at last 
 
 Passed fearfully away -, 
 'Mid crashing ice and howling blast 
 
 They hailed the da^oi of day, 
 Which broke to cheer the whaler's crew, 
 And wide around its gray light threw. 
 
 The storm had ceased — its wrath had rent 
 
 The icy wall asunder — 
 And many a piercing glance they sent 
 
 Around in awe and wonder ; 
 And sailor hearts their rude praise gave 
 To God, that morn, from o'er the wave. 
 
 The breeze blew freshly, and the sun 
 
 Poured his full radiance far 
 On heaps of icy fragments, won — 
 
 Sad trophies — in the past night's war 
 Of winds and waters, and in piles 
 Now drifted by bright shining isles ! 
 
THE CHARNEL SHIP. 329 
 
 But, lo ! Still farther off appears 
 
 A form, more dim and dark ; 
 And anxious eyes — and hopes, and fears 
 
 Its slow, strange progress mark. 
 It moves towards them — by the breeze 
 Borne onward from more northern seas. 
 
 Near, and more near — and can it be, 
 
 More vent'rous than their own, 
 A Ship, whose seeming ghost they see 
 
 Among the icebergs thrown — 
 With broken masts — dismantled all, 
 And dark sails like a funeral pall ? 
 
 " God of the mariner ! protect 
 
 Her inmates, as^he moves along 
 Through perils, wnich ere now had wrecked, 
 
 But that thine arm is strong ! " 
 Hal she has struck — she grounds — she stands 
 Still — as if held by giant hands ! 
 
 " Quick, man the boat" — away they sprang, 
 
 The stranger ship to aid, 
 And loud their hailing voices rang, 
 
 And rapid speed they made ; 
 But all in silence, deep, unbroke, 
 The vessel stood — none answering spoke. 
 
 'Twas fearful ! not a sound arose — 
 No moving thing was there, 
 
' 
 
 330 THE CHARNEL SHIP. 
 
 To interrupt the dread repose 
 
 Which filled each heart with fear. 
 On deck they silent stepped — and sought, 
 Till one; a man. their sad sight caught. 
 
 He was alone — the damp-chill mould 
 
 Of years hung on his cheek ; 
 While the pen within his hand had told 
 
 The tale no voice might speak : 
 " Seventy days," the record stood — 
 " We have been in the ice, and wanted food ! " 
 
 They took his book, and turned away, 
 
 But soon discovered where 
 The wife, in her death-sleep, gently lay 
 
 Near him in life most dear — 
 Who, seated beside his you^ heart's pride, 
 Long years before had calmly died. 
 
 Oh, wedded love ! how beautiful, 
 
 How pure a thing thou art. 
 Whose influence e'en in death can rule 
 
 And triumph o'er the heart ; 
 Can cheer life's roughest walk, and shed 
 A holy light around the dead ! 
 
 There was a solemn, sacred feeling 
 
 Kindled in every breast, 
 And, softly from the cabin stealing 
 
 They left them to their rest ; 
 The fair, the young, the constant pair — 
 They left them with a blessing there. 
 
THE CHARNEL SHIP. 331 
 
 And to their boat returning, each 
 
 With thoughtful brows, and haste, 
 And o'ercharged hearts, too full for speech, 
 
 Left 'midst the frozen waste 
 That charnel ship, which years before 
 Had sailed from distant Albion's shore. 
 
 They left her in the icebergs, where 
 
 Few venture to intrude, 
 A monument of death and fear, 
 
 'Midst Ocean's solitude ; 
 And, grateful for their own release, 
 Thanked God, and sought their homes in peace. 
 
 # 
 

 1^ 
 
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 M6448 
 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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