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 PUBLISHED BY LEAVITT & ALLEN, 
 
 37 DEY STREET 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface, 
 
 Henry Morley, .... 
 Rambles about London, 
 The Old Brick Church Yard, 
 Spring, .... 
 Novel "Writers and Readers, 
 The Brother's Farewell, 
 Battle of Monmouth, 
 Education of Females, 
 
 The Novice, 
 
 The Years, .... 
 
 Adaptation of Intellect, 
 The Tale of an Italian, 
 
 Death, 
 
 The Mother of President Edwards, 
 
 English Notabilities, 
 
 Evening, .... 
 
 Three Days in the Appenines, 
 
 To a Mother, .... 
 
 The Hostile Brothers, . 
 
 Henry Nelson, 
 
 Summer Moonlight Hour, 
 
 Influence of Circumstances, 
 
 Retribution, .... 
 
 Christraaa Eve, . . . 
 
 The Waldensea, .... 
 
 Fading Scenes Recalled, 
 
 "Washington's Farewell to his Officers, 
 
 Notes on my Travels, 
 
 Tlie Dragon of Vincennes, 
 
 Valley and Church of Bobi, 
 
 Trust in God, 
 
 The Victim of Consumption, 
 
 Kenilworth Castle, 
 
 The Past, .... 
 
 Gold Threads, . . 
 
 Faith, . . '. 
 
 Shadow, .... 
 
 Benevolence, .... 
 
 The Blossoming Vine, , , 
 
 The Battle of Salabertrann, 
 
 PAGE. . 
 
 5 ? The Firmament^ 
 
 6 I The Doctor's Story, . 
 13 I The Poet's Heart, 
 
 15 5 Conversion of St. Paul, 
 
 11 > English Cities, 
 
 18 < The Mississippi, 
 
 21 5 Carlyle and his Imitators, 
 
 22 > Paix a Vous, 
 
 . 27 \ Stray Thought?, . 
 31 < Invocation to Peace, 
 
 39 \ The Grave-Stone, 
 
 40 > The Young Gleaner, 
 
 43 ( Stanzas, .... 
 
 47 < The Farm Fence, 
 
 48 S The Valley of Prajelas, 
 
 49 > A Mother is at Rest, 
 
 52 } Marannis, 
 
 53 < Valley of Sweet "Waters, 
 63 s Scenes in the East, 
 
 63 > Siege and Defence of Balsille, 
 68 ? Father and Daughter, 
 
 71 < God seen in his "Works 
 
 72 s Two men and Two Countries, 
 76 ) Unseen but not Dead, 
 
 83 > Catskill Mountains, 
 
 85 i Reals and Ideals, 
 
 87 < Song 
 
 92 s Modern Witchcraft, . 
 
 93 < Tlie Royal Execution, . 
 96 } The "Wayfaring Laborer, 
 
 . 102 I Rambles in "Wales, 
 
 104 The Medical Student, 
 . 105 I Before the Wind, 
 
 111 I Register of a New- York Lawye 
 . 114 ^ Roman Children, 
 
 115 I Adelaide, 
 . 117 The St Regis Indians, 
 
 118 The Suicide, 
 . 118 I Meeting, 
 
 119 ^ Thy will be done, 
 . 120 i The Vesper Bell, . 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 122 
 123 
 134 
 135 
 137 
 139 
 140 
 116 
 147 
 149 
 150 
 153 
 154 
 1.54 
 155 
 157 
 159 
 161 
 162 
 169 
 172 
 176 
 177 
 181 
 182 
 183 
 184 
 186 
 194 
 197 
 198 
 201 
 206 
 207 
 222 
 224 
 225 
 227 
 234 
 235 
 289 
 
 ^38903 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Emigrants, 240 
 
 My Mother's Birth-Day, ... 243 
 Hannah More and Mde. de StaCl, . . 244 
 Pope Pius IX. and Italy, ... 247 
 War, . . . . . . .254 
 
 The Spectre Haunted, . . 255 
 
 Tribute to the Departed, . . .261 
 
 The Nun, 262 
 
 Old Traditions, 265 
 
 Soul, 269 
 
 To Hesperus, . . . . . 270 
 Poor and Rich, 271 
 
 A Paper on Corals, . . . 
 
 Pioneer Life, 
 
 Poetry of the Heavens, 
 
 Byron and Shakspeare, 
 
 Our Cousins across the Way, 
 
 Invocation to the Muse, 
 
 Tlie Sailor's Widow, 
 
 Passage in the Life of a Physician, 
 
 Trust not, .... 
 
 Sketches of Western Life, 
 
 The Soul's Unrest, 
 
 Ocomo, . . . . 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 276 
 278 
 279 
 280 
 
 , 282 
 287 
 
 . 288 
 289 
 293 
 294 
 
 , 298 
 299 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 1. CEOSS PUEP0SE8 
 
 frontispiece. 
 
 2. MOUNT VEENON, . 
 
 before title. 
 
 8. SEEING, .... 
 
 . ir 
 
 4. BEDFOED SPEINQS, . 
 
 52 
 
 6. THE WALDEN8E3, 
 
 . 86 
 
 6. PEOTESTANT CHUECH AT BOBI,. 
 
 102 
 
 7. BATTLE OF SALABEETEANN, 
 
 . 120 
 
 a THE DOCTOE, 
 
 188 
 
 9. THE YOUNG GLEANEE, . . .153 
 
 10. VALLEY OF PEAJELAS, . . 155 
 
 11. VALLEY OP SWEET WATERS, . . 161 
 
 12. THE BALSILLE, .... 169 
 18. MEDICAL COLLEGE OF GEOEGIA, . 201 
 
 14. ST. EEGIS INDIAN VILLAGE, . . 225 
 
 15. MOUNT OF OLIVES, . . . .247 
 le. THE DEPAETUEE, . . . . 2S8 
 
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 /^') ^^#f ^ ~ T is the design of the Home Annual, 
 ^ to fill a place in lighter literature without the 
 
 objectionable features too often connected with 
 ' it. In this department, the effort has been too 
 much to please the fancy, without cultivating 
 the feelings or enriching the mind. Those 
 exciting love tales which an"est and inflame the youthful heart, are 
 apt to create an ideal world for the early dreamer, which renders 
 practical life insipid, and its duties irksome. This evil has become 
 so striking and apparent, that many have condemned, without dis- 
 tinction, all kinds of light reading. But we have our hours of re- 
 laxation as well as study — our love for the beautiful as weO as for 
 the substantial ; and it is poor policy to give up the world of taste 
 to those who will abuse it. Nature is diversified in her scenery ; 
 there are the solid cliff and the gi-aceful vine depending from its 
 sides — the substantial wall, and the flowers it encloses — the thun- 
 der-cloud and the rainbow — the deep, broad river, and the gi-ace- 
 ful rivulet — the terrific swoop of the eagle, and the arrow-like dart ^ 
 of the swallow — all attractive, yet all diversified. It is the 
 same in the wide field of literature ; and if we reject every 
 thing except that which seems made for mere utility, we 
 
 r" 
 
 ■■-PI 
 
6 
 
 HENRY MORLEY. 
 
 reject h^lf that tba ' Deity had besto^-ed. To 
 refine and polish is a part of our work in this 
 world. The mind takes its hue from the 
 outward and real; and its inward creations 
 are but the representation, in some form or 
 other, of materials which the Creator has 
 scattered around us on every side. If, with 
 such a furnished storehouse before us, we 
 cannot select objects of beauty and taste with- 
 out sinking into the tameness of essay writing 
 on the one hand, or merging into the insipid- 
 
 ity and folly so common on the other hand, the 
 fault lies in ourselves and our depraved inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 Light reading has become widely popular 
 in this country, and an extensive medium 
 through which thought and expression are 
 conveyed, and it is not proper or wise that the 
 religious and moral world should surrender 
 it without an effort. The good is eveiy where 
 mixed with the beautiful, and it needs only 
 the disposition ever to keep them so united. 
 
 HENEY MORLEY. 
 
 A THRILLING INCIDENT. 
 
 Few who lived in the summer of 1832 in 
 this country can ever forget it. It was made 
 terrifically memorable by the devastations and 
 woe left in the track of the so-called Asiatic 
 Cholera. I well recollect the intense anxiety 
 with which its progress through Europe was 
 watched by almost every individual — the terri- 
 ble sensation of despair the news of its arrival 
 on this continent created — ^the expectation in 
 every breast of its soon being in their neigh- 
 borhood, and the pang with which the certainty 
 of its proximity fell upon every heart. Vast 
 multitudes died of the disease. Still greater 
 numbers died of fear, or at least of the disease, 
 provoked and driven rapidly on to a fatal issue 
 by it. My notes of my own experience furnish 
 abundant evidence of the strong predisposition 
 which fear created for the disease, and of the 
 speedy termination of it in all such cases. I 
 see the names of strong and hale men, in the 
 pride and vigor of manhood, men who would 
 have marched up fearlessly to the cannon's 
 mouth, who yet quailed and towed down in 
 turn before the mysterious foe they could not 
 see, and died in a few hours. 
 
 The scourge fell upon all places alike. It 
 gave no notice of its approach ; it did not even 
 creep gradually on from town to town, but, 
 having done its fearful work in one city or 
 village, fell with appalling suddenness upon 
 some distant point, and men rose from their 
 beds in the morning to learn the dreadful news 
 that the scourge had come. It despised all 
 quarantine laws and health regulations. 
 
 J I was appointed health officer for the village 
 in which I lived, and regularly boarded every 
 steamer that made its daily approach to our 
 wharves. I never detected a case of sickness 
 of any kind on board, and yet, while engaged 
 in the performance of the duty, the disease 
 made its appearance in the midst of the place, 
 under such circumstances as to put to fault all 
 the theories of contagionists. 
 
 I believe no class of men was exempt. It 
 fell upon all alike. At least, such is my own 
 experience, and few saw more of it than I did. 
 The strong and vigorous, the sickly and weak, 
 old and young, beauty and deformity, all fur- 
 nished their victims to swell the hecatomb 
 offered to the destroyer. No precautions could 
 ward off the attack. The drunkard forsook his 
 cups, or the glutton began a life of abstemious- 
 ness in vain. If there was any one thing more 
 than another that procured exemption, I believe 
 it was courage, or rather fearlessness. To 
 this I attribute my own escape. I was in the 
 midst of the disease for several weeks, and saw 
 it around me in all its horrors, but I had not 
 the faintest idea that I could take it myself. I 
 should scarcely have believed it if I had found 
 myself laboring under the symptoms of its ap- 
 proach. 
 
 When it fell upon New York thousands upon 
 tliousands fled. The city was desolate. I 
 well remember the feeling of loneliness witli 
 which I was oppressed as I wandered through 
 parts of the city usually the most frequented, 
 now desolate and deserted ; for I had early jrc- 
 
HENRY MORLEY. 
 
 paired thither to see the disease and make my- 
 self familiar with its character and treatment. 
 I frequented the public hospitals, and was con- 
 stantly occupied in them, day and night, and 
 now, like the rest of my profession, I must con- 
 fess an utter ignorance of the true character 
 of the disease, so far as any practical know- 
 ledge is concerned. It is yet most emphatically 
 the scourge of God, whose ways are hid from 
 man. The many die of it ; tlie few recover, 
 and they scarcely from the aid of medicine. 
 
 With what information and experience I had 
 acquired, however, I was as well prepared as I 
 
 could be, when I was called to Prison, 
 
 where it had broken out, to take my place in 
 the hospital there. More than a thousand men 
 were confined at that time within its walls, and 
 it was expected that the disease would find food 
 of the kind best suited to it there. It did rage 
 terrifically. In the short space of thirty days, 
 more than eight hundred had been treated, and 
 of that number about ninety had died. It might 
 have been expected that the convicts would 
 have been driven to despair — that they would 
 have felt as if they wore tied up to certain 
 and inevitable death, and so would have been 
 disposed to escape. But such was not the 
 case. They knew the whole history of tlie 
 progress of the disease — I know not how — and 
 had been expecting it, and when it came I ven- 
 ture to say no community was better prepared 
 for it. They were well cared for, and they 
 took good care of each other. It is probably 
 owing to this that the record of that hospital 
 will show a greater per centage of recoveries 
 than any other in America or Europe. 
 
 From the first day on which the cholera ap- 
 peared in the prison it gradually increased, till 
 at almost every hour of the day and night, 
 some new subject was added to the list. At 
 that time its virulence and severity was such, 
 that almost all who did not recover died in 
 from five to seven hours after the attack, and 
 some as early as in three hours. The distress 
 and anguish were such as to appall the stout- 
 est heart, and were aggravated not a little, to 
 the looker on, by the fact that the sufferers 
 were criminals confined in hopeless bondage, 
 and could not fly from this still terror. This 
 circumstance, added to the fear which it served 
 to augment, was no doubt one cause of the 
 rapid increase of the disease ; so that at the 
 end of a month it had expended its violence, 
 and, as if satiated with the blood of its victims, 
 though not foiled nor conquered, it withdrew 
 
 as suddenly 'a§ it nad made its' descent. It ap- 
 peared in a night, and it vanished in a night. 
 On the evening of the thirtieth day, with the 
 hospital overflowing with patients, every ward 
 filled, and every bed occupied, in the midst of 
 one of the most terrible thunder-storms ever 
 witnessed in this country, the last name was 
 added to the list of victims, and in a few days 
 the hospital was clear, and nothing was left to 
 tell the tale of how fearful a pestilence had 
 swept by. It passed like an angel of wrath on 
 that fierce thunder-cloud, and returned no more. 
 
 Among the large number of convicts at that 
 time in the Penitentiary, it would have been 
 wonderful if there had not been some men of 
 education and talents. Accordingly there were 
 representatives from all the learned professions. 
 The clergy were represented by two individu- 
 als, one from the Presbyterian and one from 
 the Methodist Church ; the former, a young 
 man of most profound knowledge for his years 
 — a fluent speaker of several modern languages, 
 and well versed in the ancient classics. The 
 bar sent two of its own number there — men of 
 no small eminence at the time, in a profession 
 where eminence is of so difficult attainment. 
 Our own profession was not without a wit- 
 ness. He was a man who, under favorable 
 circumstances, would have been an ornament 
 to the science, but poverty and ambition drove 
 him to crime. He forged his own father's 
 name to a note of hand, and his own father 
 sent him to prison. There was a quack also 
 there, and, I doubt not, if he had been left at 
 liberty he would have been a prince among his 
 fellows. The trade was not as prosperous 
 then as- it has become since under more honor- 
 able names, and he took to stealing to increase 
 his income. I learned the histories of these 
 individuals from their own lips at the time, and 
 have had them corroborated since. To them 
 the prison was a solitude and a hell. 
 
 On the seventeenth day of the prevalence of 
 the disSase, a patient was presented who imme- 
 diately attracted my attention. I will not at- 
 tempt to describe any peculiarities in his person 
 or manner which struck me. It may have been 
 nothing but an impulse which we often feel, 
 driving us to exercise kinder feelings towards 
 one than another. I know that I spoke to him 
 with more than common kindness of manner 
 and tone, and I know also that I felt at once 
 an interest in him which had been excited by 
 no other. In answer to my inquiry for his 
 name, he replied in a distinct, but wonderfully 
 
HENRY MORLEY. 
 
 soft tone,' '" Henry' Morley.''"' Mb was affected 
 with some of the sjTnptoms which generally 
 preceded a severe attack of the cholera. He 
 made no complaints, but only stated his symp- 
 toms, and that the keeper had directed him to 
 apply for medical aid. I made the usual pre- 
 scriptions and dismissed him, and amid my 
 ceaseless duties he passed from my mind. 
 
 It was about a week before I saw him again. 
 He was then brought in, prostrated by a sudden 
 and severe attack of cholera. With an instan- 
 taneous revival of even more than my former 
 interest, I directed every care to be taken of 
 him, and myself paid every attention to him. 
 Under a full sense of the severity of his attack, 
 he was calm and undisturbed, and seemed to 
 have lain down to die. I said to him : " Mor- 
 ley, you are worse than when you were here 
 before." 
 
 *' Yes," he replied. " Do you think I will 
 die, ioctor ?" 
 
 I baid I could not tell- -that his attack was 
 very severe — but we would do all we could for 
 him. 
 
 " Oli ! do not try to encourage me with hopes 
 of life— toll me that I shall die — that I cannot 
 recover-— that there is no hope of my living — 
 but do not talk of getting well again. I do not 
 wish to live." 
 
 I could not forbear a gentle reproof, even 
 under circumstances of such a nature, and 
 feeling that much depended on the quiet of his 
 mind I left him for the night, having given the 
 attendants directions to spare no efforts in his 
 case through the night, or as long as he might 
 live. 1 might not see him alive again. 
 
 I cannot better continue the present narra- 
 tive than by referring to my journal, which I 
 kept at the time, for the history of this case. 
 It is as follows, omitting notes of mere prac- 
 tice : 
 
 Sunday morning. — Morley is still alive, and 
 I think his desire to die is the great reason 
 why he lives. He is no better, but in the utter 
 prostration of body under which he suffers, his 
 mind is yet active. Such is not usually the 
 case in this disease. As I approached his bed 
 this morning, he said to me : " You may think 
 me very foolish, and perhaps mad, to utter the 
 wish which you heard last night. I am 
 ashamed of myself, doctor, but I have suffered 
 80 much — so much !" 
 
 ♦' But you suffer no more than these thousand 
 others, your fellows, whom like circumstances 
 have subjected to the same fate," said I. 
 
 " Oh ! you mistake me, doctor," he replied. 
 " It is not this. It is not my confinement — I 
 would not murmur if justice demanded chains 
 and stripes. It is not this marble coldness of 
 body, nor these cramps which rack my limbs 
 like torture. Oh, no ! It is none, nor all of 
 these — it is that one crime — that deep disgrace 
 to myself — the deeper disgrace to my religion. 
 I am a fallen angel — and I fear I added the 
 crime of murder to my other sin." 
 
 His effort and excitement overcame him, 
 and I left him to the care of his nurses, with 
 orders that he should be kept perfectly quiet. 
 I am more and more impressed with the idea 
 that he is worthy of more sympathy than the 
 common felon. 
 
 5 o'clock p. M. — Nature, or constant appli- 
 cation of efforts, has at length produced a 
 slight change for the better. His eye is 
 brighter, and the cold, marble-like feeling of his 
 body has given place to a gentle warmth. The 
 cramps have ceased, and on the whole his gen- 
 eral symptoms are all more favorable. I think 
 he may yet recover, I have therefore refused 
 to hold any conversation with him for the pre- 
 sent. 
 
 Monday, 12 o'clock. — My patient is decidedly 
 better to-day, and since morning has made con- 
 siderable improvement. I regard his case as 
 one to strengthen my opinion that in tliis dis- 
 ease especially fear is a powerful exciting 
 cause. His utter indifference to it has, I be- 
 lieve, done much to conquer it. I told him I 
 thought he would now recover rapidly, and he 
 replied : " And yet I cannot but feel a regret at 
 the prospect. Were I free, it would be all the 
 same, for death would certainly be preferable 
 to this anguish under which I must forever 
 live. How infinitely happy must they be who 
 have never been guilty of actual, open crime 
 against the laws. And yet, what man is he 
 that sinneth not ?" 
 
 I suggested to him that perhaps it might be 
 of service to him to converse with the chaplain, 
 who was a very kind and good man. 
 
 " Oh, no !" he answered. " The heart know- 
 eth its own bitterness, and I know all he would 
 say to me. Yet, doctor, if I might venture to 
 make a request, which of course I have no 
 right to make, and your kindness in this place 
 can scarcely sanction, it would be that I might 
 have a little more solitude while I am sick. 
 You smile as if you suspected some sinister 
 designs. I assure you I have none. I only 
 wish to have more opportunity of communing 
 
HENRY MORLEY. 
 
 with my own heart, than I can have, surround- 
 ed by so much misery that I can do nothing to 
 alleviate, and which seems to remind me so 
 strongly and so constantly of what I am." 
 
 The room now occupied as the hospital is 
 the chapel, a room capable of seating about fif- 
 teen hundred pwsons. The seats have all been 
 removed, and the whole area, below and above, 
 is occupied by beds. I have had Morley re- 
 moved to the extreme end of the south gallery, 
 and a sort of small room made by surrounding 
 his bed with blanket curtains. One of the 
 small windows, closely barred, lets in the light 
 over his head, and altogether it looks quite 
 comfortable and cheerful. Morley is very 
 thankful, and his eyes filled with tears as I 
 stepped within the curtain after lie was re- 
 moved. 
 
 " God bless you for this, doctor !" said he. 
 " I did not expect it. Your kindness makes 
 me feel that all is not dark." 
 
 " Try, ' said I, " to open your own heart to a 
 little light. You may yet be far happier than 
 you now think." 
 
 " You do not know all, my dear sir," he re- 
 plied. " If a man's guilt, and the consequent 
 disgrace and misery, extended no farther than 
 himself, he might harden his heart, or bury his 
 sorrow out of sight. But it is not so. And 
 mine has fallen like a mildew on one heart that 
 was too pure and good for me, and I fear it 
 broke. I do not feel so much for myself as for 
 that one effect of my crime, and sometimes I 
 think I shall go mad. I have such an agony 
 here, in my forehead, and I want so to shrink 
 down into some dark comer, and yield myself 
 up to madness or gibbering idiocy. If I only 
 knew that she were afive, and had. forgotten 
 me and my crime, that my curse had passed 
 by her — but it cannot be, for she loved me to 
 the last. Doctor, I have had a letter from her 
 Aere— since I have been in prison, a convicted 
 felon. I have preserved it, and I have it now ; 
 and all the vigilance of our argus-eyed keepers 
 has not. detected it through two long years. It 
 told me she still loved me ; and it is a canker 
 eating into my heart, for I never read it but to 
 feel how unworthy I am of tliat love." 
 
 This conversation has opened my eyes to a 
 new feature in the character of my patient 
 But there is something — much still behind. It 
 is no love, nor care for woman's love, that has 
 made the burden of this man's sorrow. I shall 
 seize upon the first opportunity to learn more. 
 The fact of his having received a letter since 
 
 he was imprisoned, and preser\'ing it till tiiis 
 time, shows how vain in many respects are all 
 attempts to prohibit intercourse between men 
 who work together. Indeed, all the convicts 
 seem to be perfectly familiar with the news 
 of the world without. 
 
 I tried to show Morley that the consequences 
 of his crime, whatever that might be, were not 
 to be alleviated by vain regret, and that in no 
 case could there be cause for such unmitigated 
 remorse. But he has so long accustomed him- 
 self to viewing it in his own way, that his 
 strong mind has given a deeper hue to his guilt 
 than even the strongest moral code confers. 
 He will not allow that repentance should make 
 the mind more quiet, viewing, as he does, the 
 consequences as reaching to, and involving the 
 happiness of others. " Nothing," he says, 
 " can ever restore to them what my crime has 
 taken from them." Such feelings of remorse 
 as these must originate in a benevolent mind. 
 
 Tuesday morning. — Still improving, but an 
 incident has occurred this morning which must 
 exert a powerful influence upon him. We do 
 meet, now and then, with strange coincidences, 
 as they are called. 
 
 I had scarcely entered the hospital this morn- 
 ing before I was surprised by a visit from my 
 
 young friend, tlie Rev. Mr. E . Being in 
 
 the neighborhood, with a fearlessness perfectly 
 characteristic of his noble mind, he had come 
 in to see me and my patients. Of course I 
 was glad to see him, and after the first few 
 words of kindly greeting and mutual inquiry, 
 I took him with me in the morning round of 
 the hospital. He had many questions to ask 
 as we stood by the bedside of the various pa- 
 tients, and with his natural kindness and be- 
 nevolence, he would often address a few words 
 of hope or comfort to the sufferers. I left him 
 thus occupied while I visited Morley. I had 
 hardly finished my inquiries to him, and con- 
 gratulated him on his improvement, before the 
 
 curtain was drawn aside, and E entered. 
 
 The scene that ensued I shall not attempt to 
 describe. I left them a few moments together, 
 
 when E again joined me. His face was 
 
 expressive of the most profound grief, and his 
 eyes showed that he had been weeping. 
 
 " It is very strange," said he. " I knew he 
 was here, and had intended to inquire all about 
 him ; but meeting him so suddenly, and under 
 such circumstances, quite unmanned me." 
 
 " I saw at once," I said, " that you knew 
 him." 
 
10 
 
 HENRY MORLEY. 
 
 " Knew him ! We were the nearest of 
 friends from our boyhood. We grew up to 
 manhood together ; we studied together — ^I had 
 almost said, out of the same books — the same 
 through college. We were examined together 
 and licensed at the same time, as ministers of 
 the Gospel of Jestis Christ. Should I not know 
 him ? And he here !" he groaned aloud. 
 
 I did not interfere for a moment with this 
 burst of feeling, but when he became more 
 calm I told him of my interest in the man from 
 the first, and of my conviction that he was no 
 common person, though I knew nothing of his 
 history. 
 
 " You must know it," he replied ; " and if 
 you say so, I will spend this evening with you, 
 and we will talk about him. You may rest 
 assured he is not a depraved man, and I never 
 loved him as I do now, and I am certain he was 
 never more worthy of it." 
 
 It is arranged that he should pass the even- 
 ing in my little office adjoining the hospital ; 
 I shall then know something of the history of 
 this singular man. 
 
 6 o'clock. — Morley has spent a restless day, 
 and I have been fearful of a relapse. His in- 
 terview of this morning agitated him greatly. 
 This evening, however, he is more quiet and 
 comfortable. If he pass a quiet night, I shall 
 feel relieved of great anxiety. 
 
 10 o^dock. — N. B. I here enter as part of my 
 journal, and as necessary to fill out the narra- 
 tive I may one day write of this interesting in- 
 dividual, the history I have just listened to from 
 the mouth of my friend E . 
 
 " I told you this morning," he began, " that 
 we grew up together from childhood. I knew 
 every thought of his heart, as he did of mine. 
 I told you we studied together. It v/as only 
 our lessons, however, that we thus studied. 
 His other studies he pursued alone, not because 
 he did not choose to have me with him, but be- 
 cause he was immeasurably beyond me in the 
 faculty or power of acquiring knowledge. He 
 commenced in his mere boyhood with old 
 scholars and writers of former times. He 
 drank in knowledge as the earth drinks in the 
 dews of heaven. It seemed the aliment of his 
 Boul ; and, day and night, he read, and wrote, 
 and thought, and listened to the lectures of 
 learned men, and went away and pondered on 
 them, till he had made their thoughts his own. 
 Ho would thus have grown infinitely beyond 
 ray reach, had it not been that in the routine 
 of recitations and the duties of the classes in 
 
 school and college, we were obliged to be to- 
 gether. But as it was, I early began to look 
 up to him, and wonder at the difference there 
 can be between two men. 
 
 " It was only in the pursuits of learning that 
 he went beyond me. Our affection for each 
 other remained the same, unchanged and un- 
 changing through all the intercourse of years. 
 It may be that we loved each other, as the 
 strong and the weak mutually cling together, 
 from innate conviction of dependence and sup- 
 port. We read together the poets of our own 
 language, and from them we went to those of 
 others, and he led me like a child, encouraging 
 me when I faltered, putting words into my 
 mouth when we talked of what we had read, 
 filling my mind with great and stupendous 
 imETginings, and thus moulding me more and 
 more after himself. 
 
 " Such was our life at school and college. 
 He mingled little with the sports of others, yet 
 so much as never to be thought austere or 
 cynical. He was esteemed by all, and no one 
 felt aggrieved when he bore off the highest 
 honors of his class. They belonged to him. 
 He then commenced his studies preparatory to 
 becoming a minister of Christ. Here, as a 
 student, he relaxed not a particle of his ardor, 
 while, through all his course, none was more 
 exemplary as a Christian, none, I believe, more 
 in heart one. It is this, I find from his conver- 
 sation this morning, that gives the darkest hue 
 to his crime, dark enough of itself — it is this 
 that makes his remorse more keen. 
 
 " He became a preacher, and in the whole 
 list of clergymen in the Presbyterian Church, 
 with which he was connected, I know of none 
 who gave more promise of great usefulness 
 and popularity than Henry Morley. It is past. 
 Henceforth he must be dead to the Church — to 
 the world. 
 
 '• From this time I saw little of him, but we 
 kept up a constant intercourse by letters, and 
 in them he was always the same as when we 
 had been together. They were filled with the 
 deep poetry of his imaginative soul, mingled 
 with a stem devotion to the sacred office he 
 had taken upon himself. The faith and hope 
 of the Gospel shone resplendent in all he 
 wrote, and I owe to him, more than to any 
 other man, the clearness of my own views of 
 
 Eternal Truth. I tell you, Dr. L , there is 
 
 no hypocrisy in him. He is now as sincere a 
 Christian, I believe, as lives upon earth. It 
 was wonderful how he fell. 
 
HENRY MORLEY. 
 
 11 
 
 " I must here recur to an early period of his 
 life. While in college, in pursuance of his love 
 of nature, he spent a large portion of his vaca- 
 tions in travelling on foot through various parts 
 of the country. In one of his excursions he 
 had wandered into a neighboring State, and on 
 Saturday evening stopped at the house of a 
 clergyman, who had been an old friend of 
 his father's, and passed a week with him. Here 
 commenced an acquaintance with the minister's 
 
 daughter, Ellen B , that ripened into the 
 
 warmest and most sincere love. That love, all 
 the sin and trials that have followed have not 
 been able to efface, and I know that at this mo- 
 ment, were he free, Ellen though aware of his 
 guilt is ready to become his wife. I saw her 
 not many days ago, and, hearing I was to be 
 in this neighborhood, she besought me to come 
 and learn something of Henry. She would 
 have written to him, but I knew it would not 
 be allowed to reach him, and advised her not to 
 do it. She did not sink and fade under the dis- 
 grace of being the betrothed bride of a convict, 
 but has maintained a calm determination to 
 await his release and then become his forever. 
 But I mucl return to his history. • 
 
 " As Foon as he was licensed to preach, he re- 
 C(!ived numerous calls to become the pastor of 
 churches, and he fixed upon one in a beautiful 
 village in the interior, whither he immediately 
 repaired, and entered upon his duties, expecting 
 soon to be married and take his wife to his 
 pleasant new home. He had not been there 
 however many weeks before, in an hour of sud- 
 den temptation, he committed the crime that 
 brought him here. I cannot understand it, 
 sir ; he attempts to give no explanation of it. 
 He had never seen the moment before when he 
 would not have trampled on temptation, and es- 
 pecially to such a crime, which could not for 
 one moment escape detection and disgrace ; as 
 easily as he could have crushed a worm. But 
 to him it was the " hour and the power of dark- 
 ness." He fell like a star frogi heaven. An 
 hour had not passed before he was in the hands 
 of the officers of the law. He did not resist — 
 he did not deny the charge. He admitted it in 
 all its aggravation, and from that moment his 
 noble heart was bowed down in agony and re- 
 morse. 
 
 " Doctor, is it not true, that there are moments 
 — perhaps mere instants — in the life of every 
 man, when, if the tempter throws crime in his 
 way, he cannot resist, but yields as if to the 
 voice of doom ? Is he deranged — crazy — luna- 
 
 tic ? How fearfnl to be thus even for a single 
 instant deserted of God. 
 
 " He sent for me. I found him in prison, 
 waiting the form of trial, for he would not, and 
 did not deny his crime. He wept like a child. 
 He did not rave. There was no wildness, but 
 a deep self-loathing — an overwhelming convic- 
 tion of the disgrace he had brought upon his 
 friends, upon Ellen, but oh ! vastly more upon 
 his Saviour, and the religion of which he was 
 the minister. I spent the whole time with him 
 till the trial. He was urged to plead for his 
 acquittal. His friends — and he had not a few in 
 that dark hour — wished to plead sudden de- 
 rangement. He refused. He would not shrink 
 from the punishment due to his crime as much 
 as to any others, though he could not compre- 
 hend how he had been led, to do it. He offer- 
 ed no extenuation and was sentenced. 
 
 " He was then more calm. He had entered 
 upon the expiation of his guilt, as far as men 
 were concerned. He now wished me to go and 
 see Ellen and offer her what consolation I could, 
 and gave me a letter to her, in which he con- 
 fessed all his guilt — related minutely every cir- 
 cumstance of it, but did not palliate it in the 
 least. He knew that he had now become se- 
 parated at an immeasurable distance from her 
 innocent love, and yet all this did not give him 
 the agony that he felt when he reflected on the 
 disgrace he had entailed on her. The rest of 
 the letter was filled with the deepest self-loath- 
 ing and remorse. 
 
 " I came with him to this place, and saw him 
 within the doors, and then went on the sad er- 
 rand with which he had entrusted me. Ellen 
 had heard all before — but with uttter incredu- 
 lity ; and now, when she read the confession 
 from his own hand, she did not blush at his 
 memory, but said tome, as she looked up through 
 her tears : 'He is not guilty to this heart, sir. 
 He does not know me, if he thinks I can be 
 thus estranged.' 
 
 " She was as noble in soul as she was beauti- 
 ful. She was in need of no consolation from 
 me. That letter, sir, I believe she answered. 
 She heard of a criminal being sentenced to this 
 prison soon after, and went to him and told her 
 tale in such a way as melted the man's heart. 
 Whether he ever delivered it I do not know. 
 I presume not. 
 
 " You have now the history of the man — my 
 friend — my more than friend — my brother. 
 You can little conceive my joy this morning 
 when the first shock of meeting him had passed 
 
12 
 
 CH HENRY MORLEY. lA. 
 
 at being able to converse with him. I told him 
 in few words of Ellen's faithfulness, and where 
 she was living, not many miles from this place, 
 and that strong efforts were being made to pro- 
 cure his release. I know not whether his were 
 tears of joy or sorrow. I think, however, they 
 will produce a change in his thoughts, and per- 
 haps for the better. They may open his heart 
 to more of hope." 
 
 I have abridged, considerably, the account 
 given by my friend E ; but it is substan- 
 tially his, and has of course not diminished my 
 interest in Morley. I may be able to render 
 him some aid in the efforts his friends are now 
 making in his behalf. 
 
 Wednesday morning. — ^I waited for E 
 
 this morning before going my rounds, as I 
 wished to give him another opportunity of see- 
 ing Morley. We found him much better — quite 
 cheerful, and a good deal more resigned to life, 
 though he does not say so very vehemently. 
 
 From this time I find little worth noticing, 
 in my journal, of this individual, as new cases 
 of great violence of attack rapidly increased, 
 and he was gradually convalescing. On the 
 morning succeeding the night of the terrific 
 thunder-storm which I have before mentioned, 
 however, I find the following entry : 
 
 " Morley is gone. Last night, in the midst of 
 a most terrific thunder-storm he made his escape, 
 from the hospital, through a window where the 
 bars had been a little bent, by letting himself 
 down by his bedclothes. The whole country 
 has been scoured since an early hour, but no- 
 thing can be heard or seen of him. In such a 
 night and in so feeble a state he must have per- 
 ished. So ends the history of this singular 
 man. His escape is the more unfortunate, in- 
 asmuch as his pardon arrived this morning." 
 
 I immediately communicated these facts to 
 
 E , whose distress was intense. But as 
 
 he was on the eve of departing for New York, 
 where the cholera had ceased, I saw no more 
 of him for years. In a few days, the hospital, 
 was clear, and not being any longer needed I 
 took my leave, and thus closed my acquaintance 
 with prisons and Cholera Asphyxia. 
 
 Aflcr spending about three years in the prac- 
 tice of my profession in one of the pleasantest 
 villages in the interior of Connecticut, the ma- 
 nia, so prevalent about that period, for speculat- 
 ing in wild lands, seized me also, and resign- 
 ing my business, I migrated to one of the 
 
 western States. But soon becoming disgusted 
 with the gambling operations of speculators, 
 and being yet a single man and not tied down 
 with a family, I went farther south. There I 
 fixed upon a residence, where I afterwards 
 spent many happy years. It was soon known 
 that I was a physician, and although I had not 
 intended to follow my profession, I received 
 occasionally a call to see some one who was 
 sick. 
 
 It was only a few days after my settlement 
 there, when a messenger came for me to go a 
 few miles into the country, to see a child of 
 
 the Rev. Mr. A r, who had been severely 
 
 injured by a fall. More for the sake of making 
 what might be a valuable acquaintance, than 
 for any other reason, I immediately set out. 
 
 The roads in that region are always bad, 
 and at that season of the year worse than at 
 any other time, so that my progress was slow 
 and toilsome. I at length reached the place, 
 though it was considerably after dark. Giving 
 my horse to the servant, I approached the 
 house, whence I distinctly heard the moans of 
 the little sufferer. I paused a moment before 
 an open window, to observe the group within 
 The beautiful mother held in her lap a child, 
 as beautiful as herself, apparently about two 
 years old, and evidently in great pain. A man, 
 who seemed the lather, stood with his back to- 
 wards me, and looking with earnestness on the 
 sick child. Suddenly he turned. Could it be 
 possible ? Henry Morley stood before me ! 
 I could not be mistaken. I hastily entered the 
 room, and in a moment our hands were locked 
 in warm recognition. The child was soon re- 
 lieved, and then I ventured to make my inqui- 
 ries. They were soon answered. 
 
 The night of his escape, he had found his 
 way through the storm to the place where 
 
 E had told him Ellen was to be found. 
 
 There, it need not be told, he found a heart 
 ready to receive him. Under the ministering 
 care of his happy Ellen he soon recovered. 
 They heard the report of his escape and proba- 
 ble death, and did not contradict it. On his 
 perfect recovery they were married, and imme- 
 diately came to this retired place, where I was 
 the first of their old acquaintances who had 
 
 found them, except their devoted friend E , 
 
 to whom they communicated all their move- 
 ments, and who had once visited them. 
 
 Under the name of A r, he had resumed 
 
 his clerical odico, and devoted himself warmly 
 to the good of the people. 
 
RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 
 
 13 
 
 BY J. T. HEADLEY. 
 THE TOWER OF LONDON. 
 
 It is said that Webster had scarcely arrived 
 in London, before he ordered a carriage and 
 drove to the Tower. There is probably no 
 building in the world so fraught with history, 
 and around which cluster so many and varied 
 associations as this. Kings have held their 
 courts there, and there, too, lain in chains. 
 Queens, princes, nobles, and menials, have by 
 turns occupied its gloomy dungeons. The 
 shout of revelry, triumphant strains of music, 
 and groans of the dying, and shrieks of mur- i 
 dered victims, have successively and together 
 made its massive walls ring. Every stone in 
 that gray old structure has a history to tell — 
 it stands the grand and gloomy treasure-house 
 of England's feudal and military glory. Cen- 
 turies have come and gone, whole dynasties 
 disappeared, and yet that old tower still rises 
 in its strength. It has seen old monarchies 
 crumble to pieces and new ones rise — the fee- 
 ble town become the gorgeous and far extend- 
 ing city — the Roman galley give place to the 
 fleets of commerce — the heavy-armed knight, 
 with his hauberk and helmet and shield, dis- 
 appear before the cabman and omnibus driver 
 of London. The pomp and glory of knightly 
 days have vanished before the spirit of trade 
 and the thirst for gain. The living tide rolls 
 like the sea around it ; yet there it stands, si- 
 lent yet eloquent — unwasted by time, unchanged 
 by the changes that destroy or modify all things 
 human. It has a double effect, standing as it 
 does amid modern improvements. 
 
 The moment one crosses the ditch and 
 passes under the gloomy arch, he seems in an- 
 other world — breathing a different atmosphere, 
 surrounded by new associations, and hurried 
 back, as by the spell of an enchanter, to re- 
 mote antiquity. We seem to be convers- 
 ing with a new race, hving in another world, ] 
 
 and watching the progress of a different life. 
 All the armor ever v/orn in ancient days — every 
 instrument of torture or of death, used in the 
 dark ages — crowns and sceptres and jewels 
 are gathered here with a prodigality that as- 
 tonishes the beholder. 
 
 We enter by the " Lyons' Gate," and cross- 
 ing what was once occupied as the royal me- 
 nagerie, pass to the Middle Tov/er, near which 
 is the Bell Tower, where hangs the alarm-bell, 
 whose toll is seiaom heard. 
 
 Here John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, was 
 imprisoned for refusing to acknowledge the 
 supremacy of Henry VIII., and afterwards ex- 
 ecuted. A little farther on is the " Traitor's 
 Gate," and near by, the Bloody Tower, where 
 it is said the two princes — nephews of Richard 
 III. — were suffocated by their uncle. The 
 armory is mostly gone, having been destroyed 
 in the conflagration which took place a few 
 years ago. But here is the Horse Armory, a 
 hundred and fifty feet long, and thirty-three 
 wide, with a line of equestrian figures, as if ia 
 battle array, stretching through the centre. A 
 banner is over the head of each — the ceiling is 
 covered with arms and accoutrements — the- 
 walls with armor and figures of ancient war- 
 riors ; and over all rest the dust and rust of 
 time. That row of twenty-two horsemen, large 
 as life, armed to the teeth, with helmet and 
 cuirass and breastplate and coats of mail, and' 
 lances and swords and battle-axes and shields, 
 sitting grim and silent there, is a sight one 
 will not easily forget. They seem ready to 
 charge on the foe, and their attitude and aspect 
 are so fierce, that one almost trembles to walk 
 in front of the steeds. 
 
 But pass along these dusty kings and 
 knights of old. Here sits Edward I., of 1272,. 
 clad in mail worn, in the time of the cm- 
 
14 
 
 RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 
 
 Slides, and bearing a shield in his left hand. 
 So, haughty king, thou didst look when the 
 brave and gallant Wallace lay a prisoner in 
 lliose dungeons, from whence he was dragged 
 by thy order, tied to the tails of horses, and 
 quartered and torn asunder with fiendish cru- 
 elty. 
 
 Next to the tyrant and brute sits Henry VI., 
 who, too feeble to rule the turbulent times, 
 became the inmate of a dungeon here, and was 
 one night darkly murdered in his cell. Gay 
 Edward IV., in his dashing armor we pass by, 
 for here sits an ancient knight in a suit of 
 ribbed mail, with ear-guards to his helmet and 
 rondelles for the arm-pits, and altogether one 
 of the finest suits of armor in the world. Be- 
 side him is another knight, his horse clad in 
 complete armcJr, and a battle-axe hanging at 
 the saddle-bow. Beware, you are crowding 
 against the horse of old Henry VIII. That 
 is the very armor the bloody monarch wore. 
 His relentless hand has grasped that short 
 sword, and around his brutal form that very 
 belt once passed, and beneath that solid breast- 
 plate his wild and ferocious heart did beat. 
 Horse and horseman are clad in steel from head 
 to heel ; and as I gazed on him there, I wanted 
 to whisper in his ears the names of his mur- 
 dered wives. Here all the pomp of royal mag- 
 nificence honored the nuptials of Anne Boleyn, 
 and here, three years after, she lay a prisoner — 
 the beautiful, the honored and rejected — and 
 wrote from her dungeon to her relentless lord, 
 saying : 
 
 "Let not your Grace ever imagine that your poor 
 wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault, 
 when not so much as a thought thereof, ever pro- 
 ceeded ♦ ♦ • Try me, good king, but let me have 
 a lawfull tryall; and let not my sworn enemies sit 
 as my accusers and judges, yea, let me receive an 
 open tryall, for my truth shall fear no open shames 
 • ♦ * But if you have already determined of me, 
 and that not only my death, but an infamous slan- 
 der must bring you the enjoying of your desired 
 happiness, then I desire of God that he will pardon 
 your great sin therein, and likewise mine enemies, 
 the inslrumenis thereof, and that he will not call 
 you to a strict account for your unprincely and 
 cruel usage of me at his general judgment-seat, 
 where both you and me myself, must shortly appear, 
 and in whose judgment, I doubt not, (whatsoever 
 the world may think of me,) mine innocence shall 
 be openly recorded and sufiiciently cleared. 
 
 From my doleful! prisoD ia the Tower, this 6ih 
 of May. 
 
 Your most loyall and ever faithful wife, 
 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 It availed not proud, king, and that beautiful 
 
 neck was severed at thy command ; but at that 
 dread judgment to which she summons thee, her 
 tremulous voice— lost here on earth in the whirl- 
 wind of passion — shall be to thy ear louder than 
 a peal of thunder. Katharine Howard is another 
 swift witness ; last, though not least, the Count- 
 ess of Salisbury. This high-spirited woman, 
 though seventy j'ears of age, was condemned to 
 death for treason. When brought out. for execu- 
 tion, she refused to place her head on the block, 
 declaring she was no traitress, and the execu- 
 tioner followed her around on the scaffold, 
 striking at her hoary head with his axe until 
 she fell. But I will not dwell on these sepa- 
 rate figures. As I looked on this long line of 
 kings sitting motionless on their motionless 
 steeds, the sinewy hand strained over the battle- 
 axe, the identical sword they wielded centuries 
 ago flashing on my sight, and the very spurs on 
 their heels that were once driven into their war 
 steeds as they thundered over the battle plain, 
 the plumes seemed to wave before my eyes, and 
 the shout of kings to roll through the arches. 
 The hand grasping the reins on the horses'necks 
 seemed a live hand, and the clash of the sword, 
 the shield, and the battle-axe, and the mailed 
 armor, rung in my ear. I looked again, and 
 the dream was dispelled. Motionless as the 
 walls around them they sat, mere effigies of 
 the past. Yet how significant ! Each figure 
 there was a history, and all monuments of Eng- 
 land's glory as she was. At the farther end of 
 the adjoining room sat a solitary " crusader on 
 his barbed horse, said to be 700 years old." 
 Stern old grim figure ! on the very trappings 
 of thy steed, and on that thick plaited mail, has 
 flashed the sun of Palestine. Thou didst stand 
 perchance with that gallant host led on by the 
 wondrous hermit, on the last hill that over- 
 looked Jerusalem, and when the Holy City was 
 seen lying like a beautiful vision below, glittering 
 in the soft light of an eastern sunset, that flooded 
 Mount Moriah, Mount Zion, and Mount Olivet, 
 with its garden of suffering, and more than all, 
 Mount Calvary, the voice from out that visor 
 did go up with the mighty murmur of the ban- 
 nered host, " Jerusalem, Jerusalem .' On that 
 very helmet perchance has the scimctar broke, 
 and from that mailed breast the spear of the In- 
 fidel rebounded. Methinks I hear thy battle 
 shout, " To the rescue !" as thy gallant steed is 
 borne into the thickest of the fight, where thy 
 brave bretliren are struggling for the Cross and 
 the Sepulchre. 
 But crusades and crusaders are well nigh 
 
THE OLD BRICK-CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 15 
 
 forgotten. For centuries the dust of the desert 
 has drifted over the bones of the chivalry of 
 Europe. The Arab still spurs his steed 
 through the forsaken streets of ancient Jerusa- 
 lem, and the Muezzin's voice rings over the 
 sepulchre of the Saviour.* 
 
 But let these grim figures pass. Here is the 
 room in which Sir Walter Raleigh lay a pris- 
 oner. By his gross flatteries he had won the 
 favor of Elizabeth, who lavished honors upon 
 hira until she at length discovered his amour 
 %vith the beautiful EHzabeth Throckmorton. 
 Her rage then knew no bounds and was worthy 
 of her character, and she cast the luckless, ac- 
 complished courtier into the Tower. Up and 
 down this very stone floor he has paced day 
 after day, pondering on the sad change that has 
 befallen him, and sighing heavily for the splen- 
 dor and luxury he has lost. He did not, how- 
 ever, despair ; he knew too well the weakness 
 of his termagant mistress, and so one day as he 
 saw from that window the queen's barge pass- 
 ing by, he threw himself into a paroxysm of 
 passion, and in his ravings besought the jailer 
 to let him go forth in disguise and get but one 
 look of his dear mistress. His request being re- 
 fused, he fell upon the keeper, and finally drew 
 his dagger. Good care was taken that this ex- 
 traordinary mad fit should be reported to Eliza- 
 beth. Raleigh followed up the news with a 
 well-timed letter, which so won upon the vixen 
 that she liberated him. Said he, in this rare 
 
 * I would say, by way of precaution, that though 
 the above two paragraphs may have been seen by 
 some in a work not written by me, they are still 
 mine, and not another's. 
 
 epistle : " My heart was never broken till this 
 day, that I hear the queen goes away so far off, 
 whom I have followed so many years with so 
 great love and desire rn so many journeys, and 
 am now left behind in a dark prison, all alone. 
 While she was yet near at hand that I might 
 hear of her once in two or three days, my sor- 
 rows were the less, but even now my heart is 
 cast into the depth of misery. I that was 
 wont to behold her riding like Alexander, hunt- 
 ing like Diana, walking like Venus, the gentle 
 wind blowing her fair hair about her pure face 
 like a nymph — sometimes sitting in the shade 
 like a goddes!!, sometimes singing like an angel, 
 sometimes playing like Orpheus. Behold the 
 sorrows of this world once amiss, hath bereaved 
 me of all, &c. 
 
 Elizabeth was at this time sixty years old, 
 ugly as death's head, and yet the foolish old 
 thing swallowed it all. Her tiger heart re- 
 lented and she released her cunning lover. 
 
 It seems strange that a woman of her 
 strength of intellect could have a weakness 
 so perfectly ridiculous and childlike. But flat- 
 tery was never too gross for her, and Raleigh 
 knew it. He had often filled her royal ear 
 with such nonsense before, and seen her wrin- 
 kled face relax into a smile of tenderness — 
 comical from its very ugliness. So goes the 
 world ; every man has his weak side, and the 
 strongest character is assailable in some one 
 direction. Pride, or vanity, or envy, or cove- 
 tousness, or passion, furnish an inlet to the 
 citadel, and it falls. 
 
 I may yet refer to the Tower again, for its 
 walls are eloquent of the past. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " REMINISOENOES OF A OOOTTTRr CONGKEG-ATION." 
 
 My garret window looks out upon the old 
 Brick-Church-yard. Seven years ago, when 
 I first climbed into this fifth story, an old board 
 fence was around it, and the gray stones, thick- 
 set within, marked the crowded graves of the 
 fathers who built this venerable church, and 
 dedicated it to the worship of God. Four or 
 five years ago, a neat iron railing was set to 
 guard the sacred enclosure; the falling tomb- 
 
 stones were taken up and laid in rows, flat 
 upon the ground, with their inscriptions up- 
 ward, telling that somewhere in those parts the 
 men whose names they wear are buried. 
 
 This was a decided impiovement, and it al- 
 ters the face of things materially — so much 
 so that a passer by might stop and inquire if 
 this were indeed the veritable spot that in early 
 years was the up-town and almost out-of-town 
 
16 
 
 THE OLD BRICK-CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 burial-place. But there is the old stone tablet 
 over the door, bearing the venerable record, 
 
 SI Dtesbnterian <E!)UccI)> 
 
 ERECTED 
 
 IN THE YEAR OF OUK LORD 
 
 1767. 
 
 And there stand the walls, time-honored and 
 sacred : the hammer of the Goth hath not yet 
 smote the sanctuary. How soon it may be the 
 prey of modem avarice, none may know. 
 
 Just now I heard the sound of a shovel on 
 the stones, and looking out of my window I 
 saw a man among the tombs, clearing off the 
 rubbish that the winter had gathered on the 
 prostrate stones, and he was now making the 
 inscriptions legible by a process more summary 
 than Old Mortality pursued when he dug out 
 the letters with his chisel. It struck me as a 
 very foolish work the man was about, if he 
 means to restore those records so that the 
 names will be read and remembered. It is too 
 late for those people. They had their day ; 
 good men and true they were, and their names 
 ought to be held in lasting memory ; they built 
 this Brick Church, and founded this noble con- 
 gregation, that stands its ground manfully, 
 while one after another of its neighbors is 
 travelling upward — that is to say, toward the 
 upper part of the city. But the men who slum- 
 ber in the old yard are forgotten, or will be 
 soon, and these stones that are still fresh and 
 sound will crumble, and perhaps the very 
 ground in which the bones are crumbling, will 
 be desecrated by the march of modern improve- 
 ment, and be compelled to give up its dead 
 before the trumpet's call. 
 
 It has been so with others ; and it is not a 
 little strange that the old Brick stands yet. 
 Mammon has his greedy eye on it, and would 
 be glad to set up an altar in the midst of these 
 hallowed courts. I believe the god did make 
 proposals to the Trustees a few years ago, and 
 holding out a bag of dollars, said, " All these 
 will I give you, if you will fall down and wor- 
 ship me ;" but the Board of Trust was true, 
 and Mammon went away, and made a bargain 
 elsewhere. 
 
 But he will come back again and buy them 
 out — not now ; the present generation will not 
 trade away the bones of their fathers, but the 
 next will, and this sacred spot, right here in 
 the heart of the city, a silent, solemn lesson 
 for men to read and think of as they rush along 
 to or from Wall street, will be covered with 
 
 stores, and nobody will dream that the dead are 
 here. 
 
 In that comer, the nearest to Nassau, is a 
 large square stone that has been a rostrum 
 for preaching. A crazy carman was in the 
 habit of holding forth daily to crowds in the 
 street, and the police interfered, so that he 
 was prevented from preaching in the streets, as 
 it was contrary to the statute. The man 
 climbed the iron railing, and on the monument 
 in the corner, with the neat rail in front of him, 
 declaimed to the gaping multitude, who heard 
 him with more attention and in greater num- 
 bers, now that he had found a holy spot to 
 stand on. There was something rather start- 
 ling in the sight of a man holding forth from 
 the top of a grave-stone ; it was literally a 
 voice from the tombs, and it told somewhat on 
 the hurrying multitude ; there being no law 
 against hearing in the streets, but only against 
 preaching, the congregation could not be dis- 
 turbed, nor the noisy speaker. I used to throw 
 up my window and listen to the strong tones of 
 his stentorian voice rising above the murmur 
 of the crowd, and the scene was at times a 
 study for a thinking man. There were the 
 dead in the yard, and the living in the street, 
 only a fence between them— only a step between 
 them — and those outside, all, all would soon be 
 as the others, and like them forgotten. The 
 carman-exhorter has not been this way lately, 
 and I do not know what has become of him. 
 Perhaps, most likely, he has joined the silent 
 assembly ! 
 
 But I hear the shovel again on the stones. 
 The man is hard at work, and now a long row 
 of stones are cleared, and they tell to heaven, 
 for they cannot be read but by looking down, 
 tiiat tliere were men and women here fifty or 
 a hundred years ago, and tliat is the deepest 
 interest they impart to the great majority who 
 will ever cast an eye upon them. Yet it is a 
 sacred duty, and the men are to be honored, 
 who guard this spot with such holy diligence 
 and care. Keep off the Vandals cf modern 
 speculation as long as possible. If needs be, 
 tie up posterity to the trust, in such legal per- 
 plexities that they can never safely alienate 
 this consecrated ground. I love the old word 
 for grave-yard, " God's Acre." It speaks to 
 the soul. The dead are his. Blessed are they 
 who die in him. Precious in the sight of the 
 Lord is the death of his saints. Their dust is 
 precious in his sight. He watches it, and will 
 call it up. 
 
Si IP n^ !! R^ © ,. 
 
SPRING. 
 
 17 
 
 "When t' e great Archangel sha'vcs the creation. 
 Tears the strong pillars of the vault of heaven, 
 Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes," 
 
 these stones will heave, and these buried will 
 come fortli. What an uprising then ! Let 
 them sleep till then, I pray, in His name, who 
 alone is the resurrection and the life. 
 
 Seeing this man at work reminds me of the 
 grave-yard where my forefathers lie. It is on 
 a hill, in the midst of a rural village, from al- 
 most any part of which you can see the rest- 
 ing-place of those who once walked the streets 
 and lived in the houses that are now tenanted 
 by others. In the time of the Revolutionary 
 war, a detachment of the British forces took 
 up their quarters in this burial-ground : they 
 tore up the grave-stones and used them for 
 oven-bottoms ; sweeping them out after they 
 were heated, and then placing their bread to 
 be baked on the smooth stones, and when the 
 
 loaves came out, they bore the reversed inscrip- 
 tions of the stones, somewhat in this style, 
 YROMEM EHT OT DERCAS, &c. The 
 colonel pitched his tent directly at the head of 
 my grandfather's grave, and gave as his reason 
 for selecting that spot, that he wanted to tread 
 on the old rebel every time he stepped out. 
 The old gentleman was an ardent patriot, and 
 by his voice and pen had roused a spirit of stem 
 resistance to tyranny in the people among 
 whom he lived ; and hence the spite which the 
 British officer cherished, when he found that 
 a sudden death had placed the bones of a brave 
 man within reach of his insults. It is easy to 
 throw stones at a dead lion, or even to talk 
 boldly when your enemy is six feet under 
 ground. 
 
 But that man is still at work with his shovel, 
 and I will step over while the gate is open, and 
 scrape from those stones some reminiscences 
 for the Magazine. 
 
 BY EDWARD F OOLERIOK. 
 
 SpRiKa, bright Spring hath returned again ; 
 
 Old Winter hath gone afar, 
 To his home away in the northern sphere, 
 
 'Neath the- ray of the polar star. 
 
 The balmy breath of the sunny South 
 Comes whispering o'er the lea — 
 
 The birds are warbling their merry notes, 
 x\way in the greenwood free. 
 
 Again she hath unsealed the foimtain, 
 Again set the rivulets free ; 
 
 And gently they murmur o'er the earth, 
 Sweetly singing of Liberty. 
 
 Once more is the violet creeping 
 
 On the bank of the silvery stream, 
 
 Where the finny tribes are darting about, 
 As they wake from their wintry dream. 
 
 Her genial ray hath again recalled 
 Fair Flora's beautiful train. 
 
 To scent the breath of the dewy mom. 
 And smile on the earth again. 
 
 The children are sporting on the green, 
 The robin is building her nest. 
 
 The butterfly floats in the sylvan wild — 
 All nature is happy and blest. 
 
 Her bright smile hath again called forth 
 
 The squirrel and the bee. 
 From the recess of their wintry homes, 
 
 To join in the jubilee. 
 
 But alas ! how soon will Spring depart, 
 With all the joys she's given — 
 
 Etemal Spring and endless joys, 
 Are only found in Heaven. 
 
18 
 
 NOVEL WRITERS ABROAD 
 
 H(D¥Ig3L WmilflSmS Aim(DAI2) 
 
 NOVEL READERS AT HOME. 
 
 Among the wise and the good, there are now 
 two large classes, each holding widely differ- 
 ent opinions respecting the novels which are 
 most current at the present day. One class 
 receive, without hesitation, all the issues of the 
 press, in tlie shape of light literature, provided 
 only that they are genteel and fashionable. 
 They decide upon the merits of their literature, 
 very much as they do upon the fitness of an arti- 
 cle of their wardrobe. The question with them 
 is not whether this thing or that thing is tasteful, 
 becoming, desirable in itself, but whether it has 
 received the approbation of the leaders in the 
 world of fashion. For such it is sufficient to 
 know that a novel has been published by some re- 
 spectable house, and that it has, orderly and le- 
 gitimately, found its way into good society. 
 The least we can say of such men is, that they 
 have a most defective and dangerous standard 
 of judgment; and in multitudes of cases, prob- 
 ably that is the most we ought to say. 
 
 Another class, with as little discrimination, 
 have taken the other extreme, and proscribe, 
 without ceremony, every thing in the depart- 
 ment of fiction. This, it is true, is very natural. 
 It is scarcely to be wondered at, that virtuous, 
 inteUigent, thinking people, with their eye upon 
 the evil accomplished by modem romances, 
 should decide — adopting the principle which has 
 wrought such miracles in another branch of 
 reform — upon total abstinence from all literary 
 productions, which wear not the garb of sober 
 fact, considering every thing fictitious as neces- 
 sarily intoxicating and poisonous. Their no- 
 tions, however, in our view, are plainly too 
 radical, and are the result rather of prejudice 
 than of discriminating and unbiassed judgment. 
 
 The true position, we conceive, lies between 
 these two extremes. Fictitious literature is a 
 blessing or a curae according to the moral and 
 social impress which it bears. It is one of the 
 most efficient modes of conveying both good 
 and evil to the mind and the heart. It is, in- 
 deed, a most dangerous engine in the hands of 
 wicked men. But it can be wielded with the 
 happiest results by writers who have caught 
 
 the inspiration of morality and piety, as well 
 as profound learning and brilliant genius. Our 
 Saviour used, not unfrequently, to take advan- 
 tage of this mode of instruction ; and no one 
 needs to be told, that some of the most beauti- 
 ful and impressive sentiments that fell from his 
 lips and are left on record for us, are in the form 
 of parables, or allegories. 
 
 But it is no part of our purpose, at present, 
 to discuss this point. Nor shall we attempt 
 to draw the precise line between those works 
 of fiction which are either positively happy in 
 their influence, or are simply negatively inno- 
 cent, (if such a thing is possible,) on the one 
 hand, and those which have a tendency to dis- 
 sipate the mind and poison the affections, on the 
 other hand. We wish rather to draw attention 
 to the fact, which is gradually becoming more 
 palpable and alarming to us, that romances of 
 the baser class find their way more readily to 
 the firesides of the virtuous, Christian family, 
 than formerly — that there is a growing insensi- 
 bility in the community, to the evil influence of 
 this species of literature — that works of fiction 
 of a tone of morals formerly proscribed in intel- 
 ligent, virtuous families, have now free ingress 
 there, or, at least, are admitted and tolerated, 
 with little of the appearance and less of the 
 strictness of quarantine. From the era of 
 Walter Scott, we think there is discoverable a 
 downward tendency in the morality of fashion- 
 able novels ; and it grieves us to concede, as 
 we are compelled to do, that the wave of for- 
 eign literature, which bears on its bosom blight 
 and death wherever it rolls, is making some 
 advances in the domestic sanctuaries of those 
 who, in other respects, sustain a high character 
 for moral principle and active piety, and who 
 would lose a right arm rather than knowingly 
 yield an inch to the genius of vice. We can 
 scarcely be mistaken in our fears. It must be 
 so. How otherwise are we to interpret the 
 kind apologies for the most dangerous, though 
 most fashionable novels of the French school, 
 which wo now so often hear from the lips of 
 men and women, who, we have been fain to 
 
AND NOVEL READERS AT HOME. 
 
 19 
 
 believe, are governed by religious principle? 
 Why, it seems to be necessary, not unfrequently 
 — strange enough, after all that has been said- 
 it seems to be necessary to go back to first prin- 
 ciples, and gravely to debate the question with 
 thinking, reasoning, virtuous. Christian readers, 
 whether Eugene Sue's romances may not, on 
 the whole, do more good than mischief! The 
 political, perhaps the philosophical notions they 
 inculcate, are many of them represented to be 
 sound and worthy of respect ; and so we are 
 called upon to consider whether these acknow- 
 ledged excellences, in some portions of a novel, 
 may not counterbalance the conceded vicious 
 influences of the rest ! Just as if a work, when 
 weighed in the balances, might be admitted to 
 be a companion for our sons and daughters, 
 according to its aggregate of sound politics and 
 philosophy, when it is acknowledged that its 
 influence is most harmful upon the heart. 
 
 A rapid glance at the history, for the last 
 half century, of the light literature current in 
 the families of Anglo-American Christians, par- 
 ticularly that department which may be classed 
 under the head of romance, must satisfy every 
 one that in its moral tone, there has been a 
 lamentable deterioration, and that, among the 
 d iss, who, of all others, might be expected to 
 be most solicitous for the morals of their fami- 
 lies, there has been a yielding of ground. 
 
 How was it, for instance, in the latter por- 
 tion of the last century ? What was the char- 
 acter, then, of the works of fiction which were 
 prepared for virtuous readers in England and 
 America? The sewers of iniquity in France 
 did indeed, at one period, force their turbid, 
 deadly waters across the British channel, and 
 thence some drops found their way to this 
 country. But aside from these issues, which 
 had a brief popularity among Ciiristians (nom- 
 inally such) in this country, we look in vain 
 for the poisonous works which have obtained 
 such a currency in these days. In the age of 
 Johnson, we venture to say, it would have been 
 a very difficult matter to find a book, inculcating 
 the morals (if that term is not a misnomer) of 
 " Eugene Aram," to say nothing of the " Mys- 
 teries of Paris," in the hands of strictly moral 
 young men and women. We assert, without 
 fear of contradiction, that a serpent would have 
 been received with as much cordiality in the 
 domestic circle of such men as Wilberforce, 
 and Newton, and Cowper, as either of these lit- 
 erary excrescences, The works of fiction which 
 were then found upon the tables of pious fami- 
 
 lies were wh&t they professed to be — teachers 
 of a pure morality, if not preceptors of genu- 
 ine, spiritual religion ; and thousands and tens 
 of thousands of youth were made better by 
 wholesome truths conveyed in this manner. 
 Before a virtuous parent admittted a novel into 
 the bosom of his family, we are warranted in be- 
 lieving that he ascertained what was the char- 
 acter of its author, and assured himself of its 
 innocence at least, if not of its positive healthful 
 influence. What a contrast do our modem 
 novels present, to the tales which were then, 
 after a rigid censorship, admitted to the social 
 circle of those wlio professed to be governed 
 by the principles of the religion of Christ ! 
 
 Compare Hannah More's " Coelebs" with one 
 of the most unexceptionable novels of the pre- 
 sent day, and what a striking contrast is present- 
 ed. The distinguished writer of that fiction, 
 which obtained such universal celebrity among 
 all classes in England and America, aimed in 
 this, as in all her efforts, particularly those of 
 her latter years, to elevate, refine and bless, as 
 well as to amuse and entertain. She infused 
 into the creations of her imagination the leaven 
 of virtue and religion. Nor was it that false 
 virtue which strains at a gnat and swallows a 
 camel ; or that counterfeit, sentimental, mawk- 
 ish religion, which expends its energies ih buds 
 and blossoms, and yields no fruit, ripe and 
 heavenly. When we rise from the reading of 
 such a book as this of hers, we feel that our pre- 
 cious time has not been wasted — that our pas- 
 sions have not been inflamed — but while we 
 have been interested and instructed, a hal- 
 lowed spirit has been breathed into the soul. 
 We are conscious that the tendency of the 
 whole is to make us better, and we pray that 
 its legitimate influence may never be lost. 
 The most popular novels now before the 
 American public, and which are smiled into 
 favor to some extent by American Christians, 
 possess a character widely different. The least 
 we can say of them is, that they enervate the 
 intellect, deprave the imagination, inflame the 
 appetites and grosser animal propensities, poi- 
 son the affections, harden the heart. 
 
 Take another example from Oliver Goldsmith. 
 What is the moral character and influence of 
 the " Vicar of Wakefield," for instance ? The 
 sole end and aim of the author of this book 
 would seem to be, to induce a love for all the 
 Christian virtues in the family where it is a 
 visitor. Call that pleasant fiction a novel, 
 call it a romance, a love-story, a moral tale — it 
 
20 
 
 NOVEL WRITERS ABROAD AND NOVEL READERS AT HOME. 
 
 matters not by what name you designate it — 
 the moral lessons it teaches accord with the 
 spirit and tenor of the teaching of Christ. True, 
 it is destitute of all modem extravagance. It 
 has some piety — cant, it would be be called by 
 some, whose religion is cold as a polar iceberg 
 — in its pages. Love is not caricatured there. 
 The domestic and social affections, unstained 
 and pure, are naturally and symmetrically, as 
 well as ingeniously portrayed. No false, exag- 
 gerated views of human nature are delineated, 
 unless, indeed, they are held up to ridicule or 
 indignation. No insinuation is introduced, un- 
 favorable to virtue and spirituality — no half 
 careless, half unmeaning remark, calculated 
 to bring a blush on the brow of purity. 
 
 To a great extent, the same is true of the 
 fictitious works of Dr. Johnson. We are far 
 from approving, unqualifiedly, all he ever 
 wrote. We never heard of but one man who 
 could do this ; and he, we believe, has gained 
 no enviable fame by doing it. Johnson was a 
 great man, with many littlenesses — a shrewd 
 man, with many palpable errors of judgment — 
 a strong man, with much imbecility. We 
 think he was unduly severe, often greatly and 
 culpably unjust, as a critic. Moreover, we 
 have never had a very exalted notion of the 
 doctor's peculiar stamp of piety. He seems to 
 have been a religious man ; but his religion 
 often evaporated in rhapsodies about the mere 
 washing of the outside of the cup and platter — 
 too often, to suit our own individual taste. Still 
 he was a rigid moralist ; and the creations of his 
 giant intellect, in the shape of fiction, admit of 
 no censure on the score of morality and virtue. 
 If they do not tend to raise the soul toward hea- 
 ven, they do not draw it down toward the pit. 
 
 These, and such as these, were the novels, 
 or (if that word is here inadmissible) the ficti- 
 tious writings, which obtained currency among 
 moral and professedly rehgious people, in the 
 latter part of the last century, to the exclusion, 
 almost entirely, of a class of lax morality, tend- 
 ing to make the heart worse instead of better. 
 
 Then came the reign of Sir Walter Scott — 
 .ong the Great Unk7iov>n — since, in the opinion 
 of many, too well known. It is not our pur- 
 pose to attempt a critique of the productions of 
 this great genius — the greatest and most bril- 
 liant in his department of literary effort the 
 world has ever seen. We think he has been 
 too enthusiastically extolled, and too radically 
 and unceremoniously condemned. This much 
 we may say in passing, however, that, though 
 
 the reader will find, throughout these novels, 
 many excellent moral sentiments — though he 
 will seldom, if ever, come in contact with any 
 thing of a positively vicious and corrupting 
 tendency — he will need the lamp of Diogenes 
 to find in these pages any approbation of the 
 religion of the heart, unless that religion be cast 
 in the authofs favorite mould. 
 
 We intended, however, only to mention Scott, 
 as the master, or rather the founder, of a new 
 school of novelists — as a sort of connecting 
 link between such writers as Goldsmith and 
 Hannah More, in the last century, and Bulwer 
 and his more shameless and unblushing fellow- 
 laborers, in this. The star of Sir Walter Scott 
 had no sooner set beneath the horizon, than innu- 
 merable luminaries of less magnitude appeared 
 — too many of them false lights, tending to lead 
 the soul away from virtue, purity, and heaven. 
 
 We trust we shall not be misunderstood. 
 We do not charge this great genius with being 
 the willing cause — he was rather the innocent 
 occasion — of this constellation of novels, which 
 could so well have been spared. We believe 
 that there has been an adulteration in the coin- 
 ing of our light literature — that part of it, at 
 least, which has cun*ency in virtuous and pi- 
 ous families — and we wish to show that it has 
 been adulterated, and to trace the causes by 
 which this debasing process has been effected. 
 What a fall has there been, in a few brief 
 years, from Scott to Sue ! Facilis descensus, 
 indeed ! If, however, our modern fashionable 
 romances, whether of the Anglo-Saxon or 
 French school, were confined to the circle of 
 libertines and infidels, whose attachment for 
 the theatre is stronger than for the house of 
 God, we might, with some show of reason, be 
 silent. But knowing as we do, that they are 
 endorsed practically with the signature of those 
 who occupy the ranks of virtue and religion, 
 and that, in many instances, they — the genii 
 of such men as Bulwer and Sue — are allowed 
 to be the guardian angels in the chamber of 
 the young, long after the evening orisons of 
 the family have gone up to Heaven, it were 
 a crime to be dumb. Christian parent ! as 
 you watch, with a parent's pride, the develop- 
 ment of some fair flower in the cherished gar- 
 den of the domestic circle, take care that there 
 is not a worm at the root — an insidious, stealthy 
 foe to the peace and purity, the beauty and 
 glory, of that flower — which will check its 
 healthful growth, consume its vitality, and 
 prostrate its fair form in the dust ! 
 
THE BROTHER'S FAREWELL. gi 
 
 IPISIg JBKD^HlSIE'g IF^^miSWIglLIt,. 
 
 BY REV. FHANCIS O. WOODWORTH. 
 " Thy rest is won, sweet sister ! — praise for this !" — Hkmass. 
 
 Dead ! art thou dead ? 
 Loved one ! dost thou not listen to my blessing ? 
 Canst tliou not feel a brother's fond caressing ? 
 
 Has thy soul fled ? 
 
 Oh, have I now 
 
 No sister ? — Yet thy spirit seems to linger, 
 
 For death has left few traces of his finger 
 
 On thy fair brow. 
 
 Alas, how soon 
 The things of earth we love most fondly perish ! 
 Why died the flower our hearts had learned to cherish. 
 
 Why, ere 'twas noon ? 
 
 I cannot tell — • 
 But though the gloomy grave be now her dwelling, 
 And though my chastened heart with grief is swelling, 
 
 I know 'tis well. 
 
 'Tis well with thee— 
 'Tis well with thee, thou pale and silent sleeper I 
 Though I am left, a sad and lonely weeper, 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 
 How sweet the smile 
 I saw, when we love's last office paid thee — 
 Methought thy spirit blessed us, as we laid thee 
 
 To rest awhile. 
 
 'Tis well for me — 
 'Tis well — my home, since thou art there, is dearer^ 
 The grave is welcome, if it bring me nearer 
 
 To heaven and thee. 
 
 I'll not repine — 
 No, blest one ! thou art happier than thy brother ; 
 111 think of thee, as with my angel mother, 
 
 Sweet sister mine. 
 
 I'll check this tear — 
 Tis sweet to my sad heart, with sorrow riven, 
 To think that thou wilt come to me from heaven, 
 
 And bless me here. 
 
23 
 
 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Still would I share 
 Thy love, and meet thee where the flowers are springing, 
 Where the wild bird his joyous notes is singing- 
 Come to me there. 
 
 come again, 
 
 At tlie still hour, the holy hour of even, 
 Ere one pale star has gemmed the vault of heaven- 
 Come to me then. 
 
 1 shall not dwell 
 
 Long in this stormy world, so full of weeping — 
 Soon shall I sleep where thou art calmly sleeping. 
 Sister, farewell ! 
 
 3BAf=3PILll (Df IKDMIKDiGTflEI, 
 
 BY J. T. HEADLEY. 
 
 The battle of Monmouth was not only one 
 of the most important battles of the Revolution, 
 from the new views it gave the officers and na- 
 tion of the value of discipline, but it also clearly 
 illustrates the character of Washington. 
 
 The English army, ten thousand strong, 
 had evacuated Philadelphia, and was passing 
 through New Jersey, on its way to New York. 
 The whole country was filled with the march- 
 ing columns — the baggage-train alone stretch- 
 ing twelve miles along the road. On the rear 
 of this army, in order to cut it and the baggage- 
 train froui the main body, Washington deter- 
 mined to fall, and sent forward five thousand 
 men to commence the attack. The command 
 of this belonged to Lee, but he refusing to ac- 
 cept it, it was given to Lafayette. The for- 
 mer, however, thinking it would have an ugly 
 look, to decline serving in such an important 
 battle as this promised to be, changed his mind 
 and asked for the post assigned him, which 
 was generously granted by Lafayette. The 
 morning of the 28th of June, was one of the 
 sultriest of the year ; yet at an early hour, Lee, 
 who was but five miles from Monmouth, where 
 the British army had encamped that night, put 
 his troops in motion. Pushing rapidly on, 
 through the broken and wooded country, he at 
 lengtli emerged on the plain of Monmouth, 
 wliich, like that of Marengo, seemed made on 
 
 purpose for a battle-field. Forming his men 
 in the woods, to conceal them from the enemy, 
 he and Wayne rode forward to reconnoitre, 
 and lo ! all the ample plain below them was 
 dark with the moving masses. To the stirring 
 sound of music, the steady columns of the 
 grenadiers moved sternly forward, their bayo- 
 nets glittering in the morning sunlight, while 
 far as the eye could reach, followed after the 
 immense train — horses and wagons toiling 
 through the sand and filling the air with dust. 
 Wayne descended like a torrent upon this line 
 of march, and soon the sharp rattle of musket- 
 ry, and roar of cannon, and heavy smoke, told 
 where he was pouring his troops to the charge. 
 Lee, in the mean time, with the rest of his di- 
 vision, took a circuitous march to fall on the 
 head of the corps with which Wayne was en- 
 gaged, when he learned that the whole British 
 army had wheeled about and was hurrying 
 back to protect the rear. That plain then pre- 
 sented a magnificent appearance. Far away 
 the cloud of horses and wagons was seen hur- 
 rying from the field, while nearer by, the glit- 
 tering columns fell, one after another, in the 
 order of battle — the artillery opened like a sud- 
 den conflagration on the plain — the cavalry 
 went dashing forward to the charge, and amid 
 the pealing of trumpets, unrolling of standards, 
 and shouts of men, the battle commenced. 
 
BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 23 
 
 But at this moment, Lee, who had not ex- 
 pected to meet a strong force, and not liking to 
 have a heavy battle thrown on him, with a 
 morass in his rear, ordered a retreat ; and the 
 brave Wayne, grinding his teeth in rage, was 
 compelled to fall back, and came very near be- 
 ing cut off in the attempt. Across the morass, 
 and over the broken country, the division kept 
 retreating, with the victorious columns of the 
 British in full pursuit. 
 
 In the mean time Washington, ignorant of 
 this shameful retreat, was marching up with 
 the other division of the army. As the sound of 
 the first cannonade broke dull and heavy over 
 the woods, the troops were hurried forward, 
 and the soldiers, eager for the encounter, threw 
 aside their knapsacks, and many of them their 
 coats, and with shouts pressed rapidly on. It 
 was a terrible day — the thermometer stood at 
 ninety-six — and as tjiat sweltering army toiled 
 through the sand &ad dust, many sunk in their 
 footsteps overpowered by the heat. Washing- 
 ton had dismounted where two roads met, and 
 stood with his arm thrown over the neck of his 
 white steed that was reeking with sweat, listen- 
 ing to the cannonading in the distance, and 
 watching his eager columns as they swept 
 along the road. Far in advance, he heard the 
 thunder of artillery that was mowing down his 
 ranks, while before him fluttered the flag of his 
 country, soon also to be enveloped in the smoke 
 of battle. A shade of anxiety was seen on that 
 calm, noble countenance ; but the next moment 
 it grew dark as wrath. A horseman, bursting 
 into his presence, cried out that Lee was in 
 full retreat, bearing down with his divided 
 ranks, full on his own advancing columns. 
 The expression of his face at that moment was 
 dreadful, and with a burst of indignation that 
 startled those around him, he sprang to the 
 saddle and, plunging the rowels in his steed, 
 launched like a thunderbolt away. A cloud of 
 dust alone told where he and his suite sped 
 onward, and those who looked on him then, 
 with his usually pale face flushed, and his blue 
 eye emitting fire, knew that a storm was soon 
 to burst somewhere. He swept in a headlong 
 gallop up to the van of the retreating army, 
 and the moment his white horse was seen, the 
 brave fellows, who had not been half beaten, 
 sent up a shout that was heard the whole length 
 of the lines, and " Long live Washington" 
 rent the air. Flinging a hasty inquiry to Os- 
 good, as to the reason of this retreat, who re- 
 plied, with a terrible oath, " Sir, we are fleeing 
 
 from a shadow;" he gallopped to the rear, 
 and reining up his horse beside Lee, bent on 
 him a face of fearful expression, and thundered 
 in his ear, as he leaned over his saddle-bow, 
 " Sir, I desire to know wliat is the reason ana 
 whence arises this disorder and confusion." It 
 was not the words, but the smothered tone of 
 passion in which they were uttered, and the 
 manner which was severe as a blow, that made 
 this rebuke so terrible. Wheeling his steed 
 he spurred up to Oswald's and Stewart's regi- 
 ment, saying, " On you I depend, to check this 
 pursuit ;" and riding along the ranks he roused 
 their courage to the highest pitch by his stir- 
 ring appeals, while that glorious shout of 
 " Long live Washington" again shook the 
 field. The sudden gust of passion had swept 
 by ; but the storm that ever slumbered in his bo- 
 som was now fairly up, and gallopping about on 
 his splendid charger, his tall and commanding 
 form lowering above all about him, and his no- 
 ble countenance lit up with enthusiasm, he 
 was the impersonation of all that is great and 
 heroic in man. In a moment the aspect of the 
 field was changed — the retreating mass halted 
 — officers were seen hurrying about in every 
 direction, their shouts and orders ringing above 
 the roar of the enemy's guns. The ranks 
 opened, and under the galling fire of tlie enemy, 
 the steady battalions wheeled, and formed in 
 splendid order. Washington then rode back 
 to Lee, and pointing to the firm front he had 
 arrayed against the enemy, exclaimed, " Will 
 you, sir, command in that place ?" He replied 
 yes. " Well," then said he, " I expect you to check 
 the enemy immediately." " Your orders shall be 
 obeyed," replied the stung commander ; " and 
 1 will not be the first to leave the field." The 
 battle then opened with renewed fury, and 
 Washington hurried back to bring his own di- 
 vision into action. 
 
 It was a glorious triumph of discipline, and 
 the power of one master mind, to see how those 
 retreating troops recovered their confidence, and 
 formed under the very fire of their pursuers, 
 before the panic had been communicated to 
 the other portion of the army. 
 
 But the danger had only just commenced ; 
 the few regiments which had been thrown for- 
 ward, could not long withstand the heavy 
 shock to which they were exposed. Swept by 
 the artillery and enveloped in fire, they were 
 gradually forced back over the field. They 
 fought bravely, as if they knew the fate of the 
 battle rested on their firmness, yet the advanced 
 
24 
 
 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 corps finally fell back on the reserve. On this, 
 too, the victorious legions of the enemy thun- 
 dered with deafening shouts — the grenadiers 
 pressed furiously forward — the cavalry hung 
 like a cloud on our flanks, while the steadily 
 advancing cannon galled the ranks with a most 
 destructive fire. Our whole line of battle be- 
 gan to shake. Washington, with the rear di- 
 vision, was not yet up, and every moment 
 threatened to throw Lee's whole shattered 
 corps back in disorder upon it. Every thing 
 quivered in the balance, but at this terrible 
 crisis, the noble, the chivalric Hamilton, with 
 his hat off and his hair streaming in the wind, 
 was seen crossing the field in a sweeping gal- 
 lop, making straight for Lee. Knowing that 
 the fate of the battle rested on his firmness, and 
 fearing he might shrink again under the heavy 
 onsets of the enemy, he flew to his relief. 
 Reining up his foam-covered steed beside him, 
 he exclaimed in that lofty enthusiasm, which 
 that day saved the army : " I will stay with 
 you, my dear general, and die with you. Let 
 usall die here rather than retreat." Nobly said, 
 brave Hamilton ! — the firmest prop of American 
 liberty stands fast in this dreadful hour. 
 
 In this critical moment, Washington ap- 
 peared on the field, and rapidly formed his di- 
 vision in front of the enemy. Casting his eye 
 over the battle, he saw at a glance the whole 
 extent of the danger and strained every nerve 
 to avert it. His orders flew like lightning in 
 every direction, while full on his centre came 
 the shouting headlong battalions of the enemy. 
 Both his right and left flank were threatened 
 almost simultaneously ; yet calm and collected 
 he sternly surveyed the steadily advancing col- 
 umns, without one thought of retreating. 
 Never did his genius shine forth with greater 
 splendor than at this moment. Orderingup Ster- 
 ling with the artillery on the left, and the other 
 portion of the army to advance, he watched for 
 an instant the effect of the movements. Ster- 
 ling came up on a furious gallop with his guns, 
 and unlimbering them, poured such a sudden 
 fire on the chasing columns, that they recoiled 
 before it. At the same time the veteran Knox 
 hurried up his heavy guns on the right, and 
 began to thunder on the dense masses of the 
 enemy, while the gallant Wayne, at the head 
 of his chosen infantry, charged like fire full on 
 the centre. The battle now raged along tho 
 whole lines, and the plain shook under tho up- 
 roar. But nothing could withstand the impet- 
 nosity of the Americans, and the fierce fire of 
 
 our artillery. The hotly worked batteries of 
 Knox and Sterling were like two spots of flame 
 on either side ; while the head of Wayne's 
 column, enveloped in smoke and flame, pressed 
 steadily forward, bearing down every thing in 
 its passage, and sweeping the field with shouts 
 that were heard above the roar of the artillery. 
 Every step had been contested with the energy 
 of despair, and'under the oppressive heat, scores 
 of brave fellows had fallen in death, unsmitten 
 by the foe. 
 
 The whole English army retreated, and took 
 up a strong position on the ground Lee had 
 occupied in the morning. Almost impenetra- 
 ble woods and swamps were on either side, 
 while there was nothing but a narrow cause- 
 way in front, over which an army could ad- 
 vance to the attack. The battle now seemed 
 over ; for under that burning sun and tempera- 
 ture of ninety-six degrees, the exhausted army 
 could hardly stir. Even Washington's power- 
 ful frame was overcome by the heat and toil he 
 had passed through, and as he stood begrimed 
 with dust and the smoke of battle, and wiped 
 his brow, the perspiration fell in streams from 
 his horse, which looked as if it had been 
 dragged through a muddy stream, rather than 
 rode by a living man. The tired hero gazed 
 long and anxiously on the enemy's position, 
 and, notwithstanding its strength, and the heat 
 of the day and the state of his army, determined 
 to force it. His strong nature had been thor- 
 oughly roused, and the battle he sought thrown 
 unexpectedly upon him, and well nigh lost, and 
 he now resolved to press it home on the foe. 
 All around him lay the dead, and the cry for 
 water was most piteous to hear ; while those 
 who bore back the wounded, were ready them- 
 selves to sink under the heat. The eye of 
 Washington, however, rested only on the Eng- 
 lish army, and ordering up two brigades to 
 assail it, one on the right flank and the other 
 on the lefl;, he brought the heavy guns of 
 Knox forward to the front. In a few minutes 
 these tremendous batteries opened, and the 
 English cannon replied, till it was one constant 
 peal of tliunder there over the hot plain. In 
 the mean time the burning sun was stooping 
 to the western hills, and striving in vain with 
 its level beams to pierce the smoke and dust- 
 fUled atmosphere, that spread like a cloud over 
 tho field. Still that heavy cannonade made the 
 earth groan, and still those gallant brigades were 
 forcing their way onward tlirough the deep 
 woods and over the marshes to the attack. But 
 
BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 26 
 
 the almost insurmountable obstacles that cross- 
 ed their path, so delayed their march that night 
 came on before they could reach their respec- 
 tive positions. The firing then ceased and 
 darkness shut in the scene, For awhile the 
 tread of the battalions taking up their positions 
 for the night, the heavy rumbling of artillery 
 wagons, and the moans of the wounded, and 
 piteous prayer for water, disturbed the calm- 
 ness of the sabbath evening, and then all was 
 still. The poor soldiers, overcome with heat 
 and toil, lay down upon the ground with their 
 arms in their hands, and the two tired armies 
 slept. Within sight of each other they sunk 
 on the field, while the silent cannon, loaded 
 with death, still frowned darkly from the 
 heights upon the foe. The young moon 
 just glanced a moment on the slumbering 
 hosts, then fled behind the hills. The stars, 
 one after another, came out upon the sky like 
 silent watchers, while the smoke of the conflict 
 hung in vapory masses over the woods and 
 plain Washington, determined with the dawn 
 of day to renew the battle, wrapped his milita- 
 ry cloak around him, and throwing himself on 
 the ground beneath a tree, slept amid his fol- 
 lowers. So did Bonaparte, on the first night 
 of the battle of Wagram, sleep by the Danube, 
 lulled by its turbulent waters. 
 
 But at midnight the English commander 
 roused his sleeping" army, and quietly with- 
 drew, and before morning was beyond the 
 reach of Washington's arm. So profound 
 were the slumbers of our exhausted troops, 
 that no intimation of the departure of the ene- 
 my was received until the morning light re- 
 vealed their deserted camp. The prey had 
 escaped him, and so Washington slowly fol- 
 lowed on, moving his army by easy marches to 
 the Hudson. 
 
 This battle, though not so bloody as many 
 others, was one of the most remarkable of the 
 Revolution. The presence of mind and firm- 
 ness of Washington, which restored it after it 
 seemed lost, the steadiness and bravery of the 
 troops that rallied and formed right in the face 
 of their pursuers, and the energy and strength 
 which not only overcame pursuit and restored 
 the day, but finally broke into a furious offen- 
 sive, scarcely have a parallel. Especially do 
 we feel this to be true when we remember the 
 extraordinary heat of the day, and that the 
 troops from a little after sunrise till sunset, 
 marched and fought on a field where no water 
 was to be had. I never heard of a battle be- 
 
 fore, lasting twelve hours and with the ther- 
 mometer at ninety-six Fahrenheit, it seema 
 impossible that troops could be aroused to put 
 forth such exertions under such a scorching 
 sun. The fact that many fell dead with a sun- 
 stroke, shows that on this sandy plain tlie suf- 
 fering from heat and want of water must have 
 been intense. Over twenty thousand men 
 packed into that valley, and struggling a whole 
 day in such a temperature, made doubly worse 
 by their own smoke and fire, is one of the most 
 remarkable spectacles the history of war pre- 
 sents. 
 
 Immediately after the battle, Washington 
 reinstated Lee in his old command, thus show- 
 ing that he meant to overlook the whole matter. 
 But the latter had been severely galled by the 
 rebuke* he had received, and, still farther irri- 
 tated by the severe remarks made by the offi- 
 cers on his retreat, wrote a saucy letter to 
 Washington, which called forth a short and se- 
 vere reply. Stung by this additional attack, he 
 wrote a still more impertinent and ridiculous let- 
 ter, demanding a court-martial to decide on his 
 conduct. Washington wound up his letter to 
 Lee with a curtness and tartness uncommon 
 for him, declaring that he " was guilty of a 
 breach of orders and of misbehavior before the 
 enemy ; in not attacking them as he had been 
 directed, and in making an unnecessary, dis- 
 orderly and shameful retreat. Lee's rej)ly was : 
 " You cannot aflford me greater pleasure, sir, 
 tlian in giving me an opportunity of showing to 
 America the efficieHcy of her respective ser- 
 vants. I trust that the temporary power of 
 office and the tinsel dignity attending it, will 
 not be able, by all the mists they can raise, 
 
 * There is some doubt about the exact language 
 used by Washington on this occasion. Weems 
 says that he exclaimed, as he rode up, " For God's 
 sake. General Lee, what's the cause of this ill- 
 timed prudence ;" to which the latter replied, " No 
 man, sir, can boast a larger portion of that ras- 
 cally virtue than your excellency." This eccen- 
 tric historian, I know, is not considered very reliable 
 authority; but the language here given corresponds 
 precisely to the characters of the two men, in the 
 state of mind in which they then were, and to me 
 bears internal evidence of truth. Mr. Sparks in- 
 forms me that he once asked Lafayette at La Grange, 
 what the expression of Washington was on that oc- 
 casion. He replied, that he did not know and, 
 though near them both at the time, could not have 
 told an hour afterwards. He said it was not the 
 language but the manmr — no one had ever before 
 seen Washington so terribly excited ; his whole 
 appearance was fearful. 
 
20 
 
 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 to offiiscate the bright rays of truth In the 
 mean time your excellency can have no objec- 
 tion to my retiring from the army." A more 
 insulting letter could scarcly have been writ- 
 ten, and he was put under arrest immediately. 
 In August the court-martial sat, and he was ^ 
 tried under three charges: First, for disobeying \ 
 orders in not attacking the enemy; second, for '^ 
 "making an unnecessary and disorderly re- 
 treat ;" and third, for " disrespect to the Com- 
 mander-in-r.hief in two letters." He had a fair 
 trial and was found guilty in all three charges, 
 except that in the second, the word " shameful" 
 was expunged, and " in some instances" insert- 
 ed before " disorderly." He was suspended from 
 the army twelve months. This decision fell like 
 a thunderbolt on him, and his indignation against 
 Washington burst forth like a torrent, and never 
 lost its intensity till the day of his death. Many 
 exceptions have been taken to this decision, and 
 even Mr. Sparks thinks the charges not fully 
 sustained by the evidence. Lee's defence is, that 
 he did attack the enemy in the first place, and 
 that he did not order a retreat in the second 
 place — that when he found the whole English 
 army on him, he fell back, and Scott's brigade, 
 forming a large portion of his division, mistak- 
 ing an oblique movement of a column for a re- 
 treat, crossed over the marsh without his orders. 
 That he could not reverse this movement in 
 face of the enemy safely, and so he fell back 
 also, intending to form his men in the first fa- 
 vorable position, which did not occur till he 
 reached Washington. This statement at first 
 sight is very plausible, but when sifted amounts 
 to very little. In the first place, it is a mere 
 farce, to say he attacked the enemy in the 
 spirit of his instructions. On the same ground 
 the firing of a single platoon might be called 
 an attack. He knew, and every body else 
 knows, that Washington meant more than he 
 performed by an " attack." It is ridiculous to 
 quibble on the letter of his instructions in this 
 way. Washington did not send him forward 
 with five thousand men to execute a ma- 
 iMEHvre. In the second place, it is asserted 
 that Lee's orders were discretionary, and there- 
 fore he cannot be charged with disobedience 
 of them by retreating if he thought best. His 
 orders were to attack the enemy, unless there 
 were " powerful reasons to the contrary." I 
 see precious little that is discretionary in such 
 Rn order. No general-officer receives one 
 less so, unless he is acting under the direct 
 eye of the Commander-in-chief; or if he docF, it 
 
 is always construed in this way. No man, if or- 
 dered with five thousand men to " attack the en 
 emy at all hazards,'' would feel himself bound to 
 do so, if on coming up there were fifty thousand 
 men strongly posted, instead of five thousand 
 as supposed. A man would be court-martialed 
 for carrying out the letter of his instructions 
 under such circumstances. The whole thing 
 lies in a nut-shell. When a man like Lee is sent 
 forward with half the army, on purpose to com- 
 mence the attack and bring on a battle, he is 
 expected to do it ; and, under such orders, he is 
 under obligation to do it, unless he finds circum- 
 stances so utterly different from what was ex- 
 pected, that thcj-e can be no doubt the Com- 
 mander-in-chief would change his orders if he 
 were present. No such difference existed in 
 Lee's case, and he was bound to put himself in 
 a position where he could commence the attack. 
 The whole defence made on the word discre- 
 tionary is a mere quibble, and only serves to 
 reveal the weakness of the argument it is de- 
 signed to support. The mere fact that he 
 declares he intended to make an attack, when 
 Scott, retreating without his permission, forced 
 him also to retire, shows how he construed his 
 discretionary orders, and makes all he says 
 about having " saved the army by a timely and 
 judicious retreat," supremely ridiculous. He 
 either did, or did not, design to attack the ene- 
 my, before Scott retreated. If he did, the retreat 
 about which he boasts so much was an accident, 
 and not in any way owing to his excellent judg- 
 ment ; if he did not, he violated his orders, and 
 the whole story about being/or«d to retire by 
 Scott's movement is a falsehood. 
 
 He has been accused of designing to ruin 
 Washington, but this is not so clear. At first 
 sight the plain facts seem to be — he went into 
 the battle reluctantly, and only to save his re- 
 putation, and hence would not fight if he could 
 help it. Having no confidence in his troops, 
 or in his ability to make a successful attack, 
 he would if possible refrain from doing it. 
 Hence he wavered and hesitated, when the ut- 
 most promptness and decision were necessary. 
 This uncertain action deceived his troops, who 
 knew not what was expected of them, and so 
 Scott retreated at the first appearance of a re- 
 trograde movement. Lee, glad of an excuse 
 to follow his wishes, did not order him back, 
 and retreated also. In the mean time he de- 
 signed to occupy the first strong position he 
 came to, but finding none, continued to fall 
 back until met by Washington. 
 
MORAL EDUCATION OF FEMALES. 
 
 27 
 
 There are only two objections to this chari- ; 
 table construction. In the first place, he had 
 marched over the ground just before, and he 
 knew that behind that morass was the best place 
 to make a stand between him and Washington, 
 yet when the latter came np there was no de- 
 monstration towards a rally. The second is, he 
 retreated nearly five miles without once send- 
 ing word to Washington, who he knew was 
 rapidly advancing unapprised of his flight. 
 The excuse, that he expected to rally and make 
 a stand every moment, and thought he would 
 not shake the courage of the advancing troops 
 by announcing a pursuit he expected to check, 
 is utterly worthless. It might bear him out 
 during the first mile of his retreat, but not 
 when he found himself to be almost upon Wash- 
 ington's division. He was too old a soldier 
 not to be perfectly aware, that there was no 
 danger so great as to come in full flight unan- 
 nounced upon a body of advancing troops. 
 He knew there was scarcely one army out of 
 a hundred that could be rallied under such a 
 s.idden shock, and that the steadiest would be 
 dreadfully shaken. It was the height of mad- 
 ness to pour his five thousand disordered troops 
 upon an equal number unprepared to receive 
 them : and this refusal to apprise Washing- 
 ton of his movements is the darkest thing about 
 
 the whole affair. Nothing prevented the ca- 
 tastrophe he was precipitating but the provi- 
 dential arrival of a farmer, who reported his 
 disorderly retreat. Still it is unjust to ac- 
 cuse Lee of the base motive to destroy Wash- 
 ington. There was never any low trickery in 
 his actions, none of this underground treache- 
 rous dealing about his character. What he did, 
 he did boldly, nay defiantly ; and hence it is more 
 reasonable to look for an explanation of his con- 
 duct in these traits than in one he never seem- 
 ed to possess. The truth of the whole matter 
 doubtless is — his anger being aroused at the 
 summary manner in which the Commander-in- 
 chief had set aside the decision of the council 
 of war, he would just as soon have the attack 
 unsuccessful as not. Going into the battle with 
 those sullen feelings, he put forth no effort and 
 showed no zeal, and retreated at the first ap- 
 pearance of strong opposition. Attributing 
 his repulse to Washington's self-will, rather 
 than to his own bad management, he, in his 
 savage anger, wished to see him punished, and 
 determined to let events take their own course 
 — charging the whole responsibility over to his 
 obstinacy in not regarding the opinions of his 
 officers. His insulting letter to the latter, 
 which he knew would recoil upon liim, sprung 
 out of this same reckless, independent feeling. 
 
 m^lLM, SIDOTA^KIDIJ (DJ MMMiIgS, 
 
 BY J. B. WATEBBURT. 
 
 What kind of training is required that wo- 
 man may fulfill the duties which the Creator 
 has assigned to her ? 
 
 The answer to this includes the whole range 
 of female education ; but we shall confine our 
 remarks to one point, namely, the culture of 
 the moral affections. Piety and virtue bear to 
 intellectual endowments a relation somewhat 
 similar to that which light bears to vision; 
 they are the graceful and appropriate media of 
 their development. Any system of education, 
 therefore, which does not include, as of pre- 
 eminent importance, the culture of the moral 
 affections, is essential.y defective. But should 
 not this department be left w:th the parent, or 
 be assigned to the divine ? Is the mere instinct 
 
 to be charged with so dehcate a task ? With- 
 out wishing to lessen the responsibility of the 
 two former in this matter, we still must insist 
 on the teacher's duty, to keep this point in view 
 in all the discipline which he may exercise, 
 and the instructions which he may impart. 
 
 We cannot conceive of a well-regulated 
 system of education which does not include it 
 Strenuous efforts have been made to separate 
 the two departments ; but experience will prove, 
 if it has not already, that such is the mutual 
 dependence of the moral and intellectual facul- 
 ties, the latter cannot be properly developed, 
 without a co-ordinate attention to the improve- 
 ment of the former. Hence the instructor of 
 youth should be a religious man ; and the 
 
28 
 
 MORAL EDUCATION OF FEMALES. 
 
 standard of piety and virtue should be the 
 Bible. 
 
 What is woman's loveliest trait ? Is it not 
 a high sense of moral virtue ? Is it not a char- 
 acter, chastened and purified by the influence 
 of religion ? There is more poetry than truth 
 in the idea of innate perfection, even with re- 
 spect to that sex, confessedly superior in natu- 
 ral grace and loveliness. Woman partakes of 
 the sad inheritance of the fall. Once the com- 
 panion of man in holiness, she is now his co- 
 partner in sin and its dreadful consequences. 
 Religion must therefore exert upon her its 
 transforming effect, ere she is fitted to dis- 
 charge fully the duties of her station. Her 
 filial duties, her conjugal duties, her maternal 
 duties, are all, in a very important sense, reli- 
 gious duties. They should be contemplated 
 in the light of religion, and discharged, not 
 simply from the promptings of natural instinct, 
 but tlirough holier motives. Where this is not 
 the case, passion is very apt to supply the place 
 of principle, and selfishness may become the 
 only stimulus in her responsible vocation. 
 
 In Paradise, woman was the helpmeet and 
 fit companion of man. The fitness was com- 
 plete in moral, as well as mental and physical 
 adaptation. The greatest loss which has ac- 
 crued through sin, is the overthrow of that 
 moral perfection which assimilated her to an- 
 gels. Unless that loss be supplied by the 
 grace of God, she must remain disqualified, in 
 a very important sense, for the sphere to which 
 she was originally appointed. 
 
 If, as the companion of unfallen man, her 
 crowning excellence was holiness, is it less 
 needful now, when there is so much in his 
 rough and selfish nature that calls for her soft- 
 ening and chastening influence ? Having ori- 
 ginally proved the medium of moral delinquen- 
 cy to her partner in bliss, there is a moral pro- 
 priety, it would seem, in her becoming now 
 the instrument, under God, of leading him by 
 example and by persuasion back to the " foun- 
 tain of living waters." 
 
 The moral education of females is, in one 
 point of view, more important even than in tho 
 case of the other sex. We refer to the agency 
 which they have in forming the character of 
 future generations. Tho earliest impressions 
 — the very germs of subsequent character — are 
 given through female influence. National 
 characteristics are traceable to the nursery. 
 There, in its sequestered duties, toils and sa- 
 crifices, are we to look for the nation's future 
 
 efficiency and glory ; there are we to look 
 for the material to improve our social and po- 
 litical state ; and thence are we to derive the 
 standard-bearers in the army of God. The 
 world's redemption is intimately connected with 
 female influence. Already a signal mark of 
 this has been given in the exalted honor as- 
 signed to one of the sex, as a medium of intro- 
 ducing to our lost world " the mystery of god- 
 liness ;" and from that period onward, woman 
 seems destined, by her Christian virtues and 
 energies, to indemnify, to some extent, the 
 loss which her priority in sin brought upon the 
 race. 
 
 How contemptible, in this view, is a merely 
 fashionable education, in which the high attri- 
 butes of woman's nature are overlooked, and 
 the child of fortune is trained in merely grace- 
 ful motions, and to flippant and heartless cere- 
 monies ! We have no patience with a system 
 of education, which robs woman of her legiti- 
 mate influence, and makes her the plaything 
 of a day. Without denying tlie importance of 
 exterior polish, we yet place the moral educa- 
 tion of females first and highest. This is the 
 grade which divine wisdom has given it. It 
 bears to every other adornment the relation 
 which the central gem bears to the rest of the 
 diadem. 
 
 Woman never has risen — never will rise to 
 the region of her proper dignity without it. 
 Insulated instances of unsullied virtue, of he- 
 roic patience, of a chaste simplicity, have been 
 transmitted to us through the pages of the 
 classic historian. But the infrequency of such 
 examples, and the laudatory strains in which 
 they are exhibited, only serve to show the ge- 
 neral laxity of female morals, and the insuffi- 
 ciency of any motives, less powerful than 
 Christianity furnishes, to elevate and perfect 
 the character of tlie sex. 
 
 Where shall we look for the finest and most 
 natural exhibitions of female character ? Some 
 would point us to tho Writings of Sir Walter 
 Scott, or to tho pages of his subsequent imita- 
 tors. But we are not satisfied with these. 
 The very perfection with which the novelist 
 seeks to invest his heroine, deprives her of her 
 naturalness — makes her evidently the creature 
 of fancy, rather than the type of real existence. 
 
 But a still more important defect is the want 
 of a moral basis for her virtues. The grace 
 of God has little to do in the production of 
 these heroines. Instinctive loveliness is all 
 the religion which such writers seem to con- 
 
MORAL EDUCATION OF FEMALES. 
 
 23 
 
 gider necessary. Poor human nature, with its 
 deep under-current of evil, is dressed up in 
 hj-pocritical garb, and presented to us as an 
 angel of light. 
 
 How different are the moral portraits which 
 the unerring pen of inspiration has sketched ! 
 If we would see the character of woman truly 
 and faithfully drawn, with its weaknesses and 
 its virtues — weaknesses tlie result of sin, and 
 virtues the production of holiness — if we would 
 see her as she is, as she ought to be, and as by 
 divine grace she may become, we must resort 
 to that book, whose sketches are based on 
 deeper and more accurate views of human na- 
 ture, than are to be found even in a Scott or 
 in a Shakspeare. 
 
 The perfection with which the writers of 
 romance seek to clothe their characters, with- 
 out any reference to religion, is calculated, in 
 several very important respects, to mislead the 
 young and confiding heart. Human nature, 
 by the fictitious impersonation, is more traduced 
 than honored, whilst the necessity of religion 
 to perfect the character is virtually denied. The 
 contrasted reality seems actually worse than 
 it would have seemed, but for the delusive im- 
 pressions which had filled the imagination ; 
 whilst, in the view of many, characters so per- 
 fect in all the social relations are pronounced 
 as fit for heaven as for earth. 
 
 Human nature sufiers, and religion suffers, 
 by such fictitious representations. Though 
 committed in the regions of fancy, the error is 
 not so venial as many suppose : for the educa- 
 tion of our youth — more especially that of 
 young females — is influenced by the false col- 
 oring and indirect scepticism of this species of 
 writing. The reaUties of life, and the duties of 
 life, are so unlike all that has been portrayed 
 and presented, that domestic and household 
 virtues are contemned, whilst the motives 
 which should inspire and sustain them are 
 neither felt nor appreciated. 
 
 Truth of every kind is lovely, and error of 
 every kind is productive only of evil. But 
 moral truth is more lovely than all ; and what- 
 ever tends to obscure or to pervert, or to anni- 
 hilate it — whether the mahgn influence operate 
 through the reason or the imagination — strikes 
 a blow at the dearest interests of our individual 
 and social being. 
 
 As the companion and helpmeet of man, in 
 a world like this, where there is so much need 
 of sympathy under trials and encouragement 
 under difficulties ; where woman's province is 
 
 to strengthen man's purpose of good, and to 
 repress his tendencies to evil ; where she is a 
 ministering, rather than a governing spirit ; 
 where affection should always be under the 
 control of principle ; in such circumstances, 
 who will not see and admit the necessity of a 
 thorough moral education ? Compared with 
 it, all other adornments are but as the chaff to 
 the wheat- They who seek in female educa- 
 tion nothing more than exterior accomplish- 
 ments ; those things which captivate, but will 
 not endure ; which are more calculated to draw 
 together superficial admirers thaa to awaken 
 and secure the interest of virtuous minds ; in- 
 flict an injury upon the sex and upon society, 
 more serious and lasting than is generally ap- 
 prehended. The ulterior view, it may be sup- 
 posed, with young females and their natural 
 guardians, is an honorable connection in life, 
 and the prospect from such connection of at 
 least an ordinary amount of happiness. But 
 if the lighter accomplishments are the only, or 
 the principal, education bestowed upon them — 
 whilst the moral training is overlooked — ^how, 
 in the very nature of things, can such hopes 
 be realized ? How little companionship can 
 the man of sense find in a wife thus super- 
 ficially educated ; and how strongly tempted 
 he would be, under such cireumstances, to 
 seek society elsewhere than at his own fire- 
 side. In perplexity and trouble also — circum- 
 stances as common, surely, as an unanxious 
 and prosperous state — of what value would be 
 the opinion, even if sought, of such a mind ? 
 How slender a basis for mutual sympathy 
 would exist ! But the woman of mere external 
 accomplishments may be still more unfortu- 
 nate. She may find herself linked to one des- 
 titute of moral principle ; whose admiration 
 soon changes into indifference, and whose 
 respect — ^a feehng not to be despised even in 
 so intimate a relation — she has not the power 
 of securing. 
 
 As to the education of children — especially 
 their moral training — what unsuitable hands 
 are hers to conduct a business of such vast 
 moment ! 
 
 There is reason to believe that no small 
 amount of domestic infelicity may be traced to 
 the defective moral education of females. 
 Self-control and self-sacrifice are principles 
 which enter very sparingly, we fear, into the 
 education of young ladies. And yet, on the 
 exercise of these principles, more than on any 
 thing else, depend the realization and security 
 
30 
 
 MORAL EDUCATION OF FEMALES. 
 
 of domestic bliss. For the want of these, learn- 
 ing, even, is no equivalent ; and brilliant ac- 
 complishments, without them, are like the ver- 
 dure on the sides of a volcano, which a man 
 might be willing to admire, but among which 
 it would be perilous to take up his abode. 
 
 The idea, then, of a thorough moral educa- 
 tion, based on Christian principles, should never 
 he lost sight of, either by parents or instructors. 
 Other things may be useful and important ; but, 
 in relation to domestic life and tiie general in- 
 terests of society, this is indispensable. Never 
 can woman exert her legitimate influence with- 
 out it. Christianity harmonizes with the mo- 
 desty of her sex, by giving her a great deal of 
 real, without giving her a great amount of 
 nominal influence. It throws a veil between 
 her and the vast results which, in her unob- 
 trusive sphere, she is capable of accomplishing. 
 Usefulness, without conspicuity, is her legiti- 
 mate motto. The council-chamber, the camp, 
 and the public mart are uncongenial and inap- 
 propriate spheres. Yet many an important 
 public measure, for which the statesman re- 
 ceives the eulogy of the age, may, peradven- 
 ture, be traced to woman's influence. To the 
 mother of Washington, could it have been a 
 less grateful vision to witness the sublime re- 
 sults which were wrought out by his patriot- 
 ism and his valor, than to have accomplished 
 the same by her own direct instrumentality ? 
 Can woman's heart beat with higher rapture, 
 than when she sees on the records of honora- 
 ble fame the name of a son in whose early 
 training she has borne a conspicuous part ? 
 Her pen, too, can persuade, where her voice, 
 by the verdict of her own modesty, should be 
 silent. The department of letters is as open 
 to her as to the other sex ; and where circum- 
 stances afford leisure, she may contribute 
 something to the temple of science ; giving 
 her aid, if not in erecting the solid column, at 
 lea.st in furnishing the scroll and the acanthus 
 to beautify its summit. In the world of poetry 
 but fev/ of either sex can, by innate genius, be 
 said to be fairly naturalized ; yet here woman 
 has spoken in tones that have done much to exor- 
 cise from the public mind the demoniac spirit 
 which a Byron and a Shelley had breathed 
 into it. We cannot refuse our humble tribute 
 in this place, to the gentle muse of a Hemans, 
 whose plaintive notes fall like the tears of 
 angels over fallen humanity. 
 
 It is not, in general, by awakening visions 
 of greatness, that the female character is to be 
 improved. It is to but a few, and at long inter- 
 vals — as in the case of Hannah More — that 
 talents and opportunities are so remarkably 
 awarded as to render the individual a great 
 public benefactress. It is rather in the retired 
 duties of domestic life that woman's pecuhar 
 and powerful influence lies. She there plants 
 the germs of a world's glory or disgrace. Im- 
 mortal material is there put into her hands ; a 
 trust v/hich — whether she be aware of it or 
 not — has more solemnity and responsibility 
 than the framing of a nation's constitution, or 
 the planning of its most important internal im- 
 provements. Our glory and happiness as a 
 people depend far more on our moral and social 
 characteristics than on the development of any 
 physical advantages which may augment our 
 wealth or add to our territory. Hence the 
 nursery is the field of hope and of promise, and 
 tkere is woman's influence exerted for a nation's 
 weal or woe. Every mother has a little com- 
 monwealth of her own. She is not indeed the 
 nominal head, but her influence in that embryo 
 community is constant and formative. Madam 
 de Stael, with offensive and egotistical vanity, 
 inquired on one occasion of Napoleon, who, in 
 his judgment, was the greatest woman of the 
 age ? With some truth, but with more irony, 
 he replied, " She who has borne the greatest 
 number of children." Had he but added, 
 "and trained them in the best manner," the 
 reply could scarcely have been more appro- 
 priate. 
 
 We have offered these few suggestions to 
 illustrate the importance of educating the moral 
 principles, whilst we are aiming at the implan- 
 tation of knowledge. The attempt to separate 
 the two is injustice to the mind. The moral 
 and intellectual character have a connection 
 as intimate as the light and heat of the solar 
 ray. We hope that all who are concerned in 
 the training of young females will bear in 
 mind that a merely ornamental education is 
 like the stucco which is said originally to have 
 been laid on the pyramids. Time and the ele- 
 ments have long since swept it all away ; 
 whilst a thorough education — including the 
 discipline of the heart — is more enduring even 
 than the pyramids themselves, outlasting the 
 vicissitudes of earth, mingling with the grand- 
 eur and sharing the duration of eternity. 
 
THE NOVICE. 
 
 SI 
 
 I'lEIIg H(D¥I[(S]E 
 
 ei eaU of ti>c iFrentl) aicbolution 
 
 Translated from the French. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 The last notes of the Vesper Hymn had 
 died away beneath the gothic arches of the 
 Abbey of St. Pont of Avignon. The nuns, 
 with a serious air, quitted silently their stalls ; 
 the novices followed them with eyes bent to 
 the ground ; the young pupils, under the care of 
 their teachers, with difficulty restrained their 
 gaiety until they reached the threshold of the 
 church, when they dispersed themselves, like 
 a flock of young birds, over a large terrace, 
 shaded with linden trees: two young girls 
 alone, arm in arm, separated themselves from 
 their companions. ' They reached a small mea- 
 dow, which served as a place of retirement to 
 the nuns, and seating themselves upon a stone 
 seat, remained for a moment with clasped hands 
 and tearful eyes. The eldest of these young 
 girls was scarcely eighteen ; her lovely brown 
 hair was hid beneath a head-band of cambric ; 
 she was fair, with a countenance expressive of 
 modesty and holy calm, but she possessed a 
 tender and affectionate heart; her name was 
 Cecilia Combault, pious, poor, and noble. She 
 was destined to take the veil of St. Bernard, in 
 the Royal Convent of St. Pont. 
 
 Her companion, beautiful and animated, with 
 sparkling black eyes, and flowing ringlets 
 parted on her fair forehead, wore a loose dress 
 of green and white China silk, which set off a 
 pretty figure, and her spotless white handker- 
 chief was fastened under her chin, by one of 
 the medallion pins, so much the fashion at the 
 present day. 
 
 The countenance of Laura Reger, usually 
 so cheerful and gay, was at this moment sad 
 and gloomy : she pressed the hand of her 
 friend, and said : " Must I then leave you ? 
 Must I go, and you remain ?" 
 " Alas ! yes, dear Laura ; you weep." 
 " If you only knew how much my heart is 
 oppressed ! — I shall no longer see this dear 
 Abbey, the nuns who have been so kind to me. 
 
 our friends, our companions ; no longer sec. 
 you, my sister, my Cecilia ; is it possible ? my 
 heart will be with you when I am gone." 
 
 " You will also be much regretted ; but, Lau- 
 ra, you will return to your family ; you will 
 live with your uncle, who loves you so much ; 
 you can attend upon him, and contribute to his 
 happiness." 
 
 " It is true, my uncle's house is very gay ; 
 but while I shall be enjoying myself, you will 
 be alone and melancholy, ray Cecilia." 
 
 " We are never sad when we devote our- 
 selves to God," replied the young girl, with a 
 serious air. - 
 
 " You have no regrets ! you do not desire to 
 return to the world !" 
 
 " This temple is my world ; I know no 
 other," said Cecilia with a smile ; " I have no 
 relations but my good aunt, and I shall pro- 
 nounce, with all my heart, the vows she has 
 pronounced ; like her I shall belong only to 
 the Lord — it is a noble, a glorious destiny !" 
 
 " You make me more contented ; it is your 
 vocation, as the nuns say. I am not so wise 
 as you," added Laura, shaking her head ; " I 
 wish much to see a little of the world. Ah ! if 
 I could only divide myself between the Abbey 
 and my uncle's house !" 
 
 They remained silent for a few moments, re- 
 garding each other with tenderness. 
 
 "You will not forget me," said at length 
 Laura. 
 
 " Can you think it possible ? My memory 
 is too faithful. But stop, I have been thinking 
 of you, accept this trifle as a proof of friend- 
 ship. I shall soon have nothing to give." And 
 the young girl handed to her companion a work- 
 bag, embroidered with taste ; their ciphers were 
 united in the centre of a wreath of flowers. 
 
 " How kind and attentive you arc I" cried 
 Laura, " you think of every thing, and I have 
 nothing to give you. Ah ! if," and detaching 
 the rich pin which confined her handkerchief, 
 she presented it to her friend, adding : " My 
 mother wore it, keep it for my sake." 
 
32 
 
 THE NOVICE. 
 
 " And our vows of poverty ? have you then 
 forgotten them, my dear Laura ?" said Cecilia 
 with a gentle mocjtery ; " go, your pin is too 
 brilliant to fasten the veil of a poor nun." 
 
 "Have I then notliing to give you?" said 
 Laura sadly. 
 
 " Will not the remembrance of you be ever 
 present ?• Can I go to the dormitory, to pray- 
 ers, to the chapel, without thinking of you. 
 Ah ! it is not here we can forget." 
 
 " Nor in the world, for no where shall I find 
 a friend like you." 
 
 A lay sister interrupted them. 
 
 " Your uncle waits for you, mademoiselle, 
 and the reverend Mother Agatha wishes you to 
 hasten." 
 
 " We must then say farewell ! pray for me, 
 Cecilia. I shall not see you to-morrow when 
 I wake." 
 
 " Courage, dear Laura," said Cecilia in a low 
 voice ; " be happy, and think sometimes of us." 
 
 " Always, my Cecilia ; farewell !" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Two years passed away. It was in the year 
 1792, and the report of the events which took 
 place in Paris, in Legislative Assemblies, 
 reached even the quiet of the cloister ; monas- 
 tic vows were abolished, and the gates of the 
 Abbey of St. Pont had been thrown open by 
 the commissioners of the executive power ; but 
 the vows of the cloister, a powerful and invisi- 
 ble barrier, had held the spouses of the Lord 
 within the sacred sanctuary more securely 
 than bars or bolts. Notwithstanding, deep 
 anxiety dwelt within those walls, hitherto so 
 tranquil, and it was with timid steps, and 
 troubled looks, that the nuns took their way to 
 the council-chamber, where the Abbess liad 
 summoned them. 
 
 It was an imposing sight, when, invested at 
 the same time with religious authority and 
 feudal power, the Abbess of St. Pont, surround- 
 ed by her dignitaries, seated herself beneath 
 these gothic arches, clothed in gloomy magni- 
 ficence and sober grandeur. The portraits of 
 their predecessors appeared to look down upon 
 those who had succeeded them in the cloister. 
 
 The statues of the saints were still standing, 
 the ancient arches still rose solid and majestic, 
 defying the ravages of time, but how much all 
 else was changed. 
 
 The temporal officers of the Abbey no long- 
 er hastened to obey the orders of their superior ; 
 the numerous vassals no longer rendered horn* 
 
 \ age to their powerful sovereign. The nuns 
 I alone clustered, like a timid flock, around the 
 I sacred throne. The reverend mother, Gertrude 
 of Combault, Cecilia's aunt, was distinguished 
 among her spiritual daughters by her dignified 
 and amiable manners, as calm and firm in these 
 tempestuous days, as when she presided at the 
 large assemblies of her order, to render justice 
 to her vassals. Her features retained the same 
 expression of calm seriousness, but the fire which 
 animated the eyes of the martyrs, shone in her 
 looks. She made a sign, and silence was es- 
 tablished ; all the nuns accustomed to obedi- 
 ence, checked their fears, to listen to the voice 
 of her, who, during many years, had been their 
 guide and their counsellor. 
 
 " My children," she said, " an impious power 
 has taken upon itself the right to violate the 
 vows received by God himself; it is permitted 
 to destroy them ; it has opened the doors of this 
 house, these doors which you had closed be- 
 hind you, to protect you from the corruptions 
 of the world, and the cares of life. But thanks 
 be to God, none of you have cast a look behind, 
 none of you have broken your vows to your 
 Saviour, to profit by the shtimeful liberty of- 
 fered you by the world ; I look around me, I 
 see you all my sisters, my companions, and my 
 children ! 
 
 " Dear brides of your Divine Master, no- 
 thing — is it not the truth — nothing will ever in- 
 duce you to abjure these sacred vows, these 
 voluntary promises which bind you to the sanc- 
 tuary of the Lord ! Promise me, in life or 
 in death, you will continue faithful to your 
 vows." 
 
 All the nuns, moved by the enthusiasm of 
 the Abbess, cried with a unanimous voice : 
 " Oh, yes ! we promise to God and to you." 
 
 " It is well, my children, I receive this oath ; 
 neither in this world, nor in heaven will the 
 daughters of St. Bernard be separated ; but 
 there are some among you, who do not belong 
 to the Lord. Sister Odile, Sister Hildegarde, 
 Sister Angelica, approach." 
 
 Three young girls who wore the white veil 
 of novices obeyed the order of the Abbess. 
 
 " My children, you are still free, and this 
 house, which can no longer shelter you, has 
 not the right to detain you. Your families de- 
 mand you ; return to them, and remember 
 while in the world, that you have worn the 
 livery of the Lord. Messengers from your 
 friends await you ; go, my children, you must 
 leave us." 
 
THE NOVICE. 
 
 33 
 
 The young girls knelt and received tlie bless- 
 in c of the Abbess, then withdrew weeping. 
 
 " And Sister Cecilia !" said a timid voice. 
 
 •' Cecilia is the last of her family, she has 
 no other relation but myself, no other refuge 
 than tills house," replied the Abbess in a lov/ 
 and melancholy tone ; " she will share my lot 
 whatever it may be. The sparrow hath found 
 her a house, the swallow a nest where she may 
 lay her young." 
 
 " Even tiiy altars, O Lord of hosts, my king, 
 and my God, are the sanctuary that I desire !" 
 said a sweet and gentle voice, repeating the 
 verse of the Psalm. 
 
 The Abbess turned, Cecilia leaned uj)on her 
 chair. 
 
 " Yes, poor dove, yo^ have chosen your re- 
 fuge, but the vuh;u*re is ready to chase you 
 away." 
 
 At this moment the porteress entered, pale, 
 and with terror pictured in her countenance. 
 
 '• My reverend mother," she said, " the com- 
 missary who ordered the doors of the Abbey 
 to be opened, lias entered the outer court, fol- 
 lowed by a body of armed men. What are the 
 orders of your reverence ?" 
 
 " That all the community attend in the 
 chapel : come, my children, our place is in the 
 sanctuary, follow me." 
 
 The nuns let fall their veils, and two and 
 two advanced to the chapel, which communi- 
 cated with the audience-chamber by a low- 
 arched door. The Abbess prostrated herself 
 before the altar, the nuns took their places in 
 the oaken stalls, blackened by age. They heard 
 on the stairs, in the court, in the depths of the 
 cloister, the noise of a multitude. At length 
 the door of the chapel was thrown violently 
 open, and a tall, fiendish-looking man entered, 
 followed by an immense crowd, ragged and 
 fierce. The scene was one of intense and 
 fearful agony. The contrast between the 
 pale, collected, j)eaceful Abbess, and the deli- 
 cate, shi'inking, terrified group around her — 
 helpless, yet mighty through their very inno- 
 cence and helplessness — and the rude and 
 boisterous crew that broke so suddenly upon 
 such uncongenial ground, polluting the sanc- 
 tity and repose of the retreat by unwonted 
 violence, added to the terror of the scene. 
 A brief pause ensued, enforced upon the 
 rude assaulters by the sight that presented 
 itself to them. At length, gathering coui"- 
 age from their desperation, the crowd press- 
 ed on, in a manner at once menacing and 
 
 i disordered. The worthy chief of this turbu- 
 
 ^ lent army advanced to the Abbess, who, im- 
 
 \ moveable on the steps of the altar, with proud 
 
 I and calm looks, appeared to defy tliis ruffianly 
 
 I multitude, with their menacing gestures. Ce- 
 
 I cilia placed herself near her aunt ; the same 
 
 \ resolution, the same courage sustained the 
 
 I virgin of twenty years, and the woman bending 
 
 > beneath the weight of trials and mortifications. 
 
 " What do you waht," said at length the 
 
 Mother Gertrude ; " you who enter so boldly 
 
 into the house of God ?" 
 
 " We want the keys of the Abbey treasury ; 
 deliver them to us with a good grace, and you 
 may depart in peace with your gentle flock ; 
 ifnot"-!- 
 
 " The treasure is a deposit confided to my 
 care ; I shall only give it to my spiritual supe- 
 riors, from whom I received it, and I order you 
 to quit this house immediately, which you pro- 
 fane by your presence and your sacrilegious 
 intentions." 
 
 The commissary looked with astonishment 
 at the Mother Gertrude : " You are proud," he 
 said, " very proud, but we shall know how to 
 make you change your tone, before the world 
 is an hour older — once more, the keys !" 
 
 " Heaven preserve me from delivering the 
 sacred vessels into your impure hands !" 
 
 " There is no need of so many words," said 
 a man in the crowd, approaching the chief; 
 " there is in the altar a pyx, worth ten thou- 
 sand crowns — it is well known in the country — 
 this way." 
 
 The Abbess looked at him who had spoken ; 
 it was a farmer, to whom more than once, in 
 times of scarceness, she had returned his dues. 
 " Man shall have for enemies those of his own 
 house," said she with a sigh. 
 
 The rebuke was not without its eff"ect. 
 The ingratitude as well as the violence and 
 wrong of his unmanly assault, rose to his 
 mind with clear and emphatic admonition, in 
 spite of the rudeness of his nature, and his 
 long familiarity with crime. Seeing that he 
 was recognized, it was with some difficulty 
 that he could summon the courage to proceed 
 in his violent attempt. But he was committed 
 to his army, and the prize was too tempting. 
 Perhaps, if unattended by his more remorse- 
 less crew, and left to the impulses of his na- 
 ture alone, as now excited by the memoiy of 
 obligations incurred, he would have abandon- 
 ed his intent, and left the Abbess with her 
 helpless band in the quiet in which he found 
 
34 
 
 THE NOVICE. 
 
 them. But lie diired not shrink in the pres- 
 ence of his comnides, lest they should taunt 
 and insult him for his weakness; and the fear 
 of appearing a coward was sufficient to over- 
 come the hesitations of kindness, and he re- 
 solved not to be thwarted from his purpose. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The commissary cast a covetous glance upon 
 Vhe altar; the sun shone brightly at that mo- 
 ment, illuminating with its rays the golden or- 
 nanients of the sanctuary. 
 
 The eyes of the brigand sparkled, he turned, 
 siezed an nxe from the hands of one of his 
 companions, and rushing within the sanctuary, 
 cried : " We shall have the treasure without 
 keys." 
 
 The terrified nuns fell on their knees, and 
 replied to the shouts of the multitude by pray- 
 ers and stifled sobs; the intrepid Abbess re- 
 mained in the same attitude ; her cheeks, late- 
 ly so pale, glowed with holy indignation, her 
 looks raised towards heaven, appeared to seek 
 an avenger from tlience. 
 
 " While 1 live, none shall touch tlie holy of 
 holies !" 
 « Well, then, die !" 
 
 The axe glistened in the air, and the Abbess 
 JJft^X. Pont fell, struck by a mortal blow ; the. 
 ^PRood which flowed from her forehead, stained 
 her veil and her scapulary ; she extended her 
 hand to Cecilia, who knelt beside her, and mur- 
 mured, " pray for them," and expired calm and 
 courageous as she had lived. Blessed that 
 her closed eyes could not behold the destruc- 
 tion of those places so dear to her. Blessed, 
 that her ears heard not the sacrilegious blas- 
 phemies. In an instant the work of destruction 
 was accomplished ; the cross which adorned 
 the altar was cast on the pavement ; the sacred 
 ornaments, remarkable for their beauty and 
 richness, became the prey of the spoilers. 
 
 The trembling nuns abandoned the desecrat- 
 ed chapel ; Cecilia, alone, remained prostrate 
 near the body of tlie Abbess ; she awaited 
 without fear that death which she believed to 
 be inevitable, and in tlic midst of the tumult, 
 her inward prayer arose to Jicavcn, like a bright 
 light, which the tempest could not extinguish. 
 The commissary, laden with the treasure, was 
 on Uie point of retiring, when he perceived 
 her. 
 
 Here again his better nature was near a 
 triumph. The sight of such helplessness and 
 innocence touched his feelings, in spite of the 
 excitement and fury which the preceding 
 scenes had necessarily produced. There was 
 a momentaiy question arose in his mind, 
 whether to remove, by similar violence, the 
 object that occasioned this uneasiness at his 
 heart, or to attempt to atone for what had al- 
 ready been done, by showing kindness to one 
 so pure and unprotected. 
 
 " Who is that young girl ?" he inquired of 
 one of the servants of the Abbey. 
 
 "It is the niece of — of her," replied the 
 man, pointing to the inanimate body of the 
 Mother Gertrude. 
 
 " Ah ! I would not spare one of the race ; 
 come, my pretty one," added he, touching Ce- 
 cilia with the point of his sabre, " rise, and fol- 
 low us." 
 
 " Follow you, where ?" 
 
 " Where ? .to prison, and from thence" 
 
 Cecilia rose immediately : she covered her 
 face with her veil, and with a gesture more 
 eloquent than words, she pointed to the remains 
 of the Abbess, and said : " Will you not, at 
 least, bestow the rights of sepulture upon her 
 whom you have assassinated ?" 
 
 " A hole in the ground — a handful of lime 
 over her — come, walk !" 
 
 The novice, by an effort of that modesty 
 which reigns supreme in some minds, sup- 
 pressed even the expression of grief ; notliing 
 betrayed her feelings ; she walked firm and 
 tranquil, in the centre of this revolutionary 
 rabble ; her peculiar dress drew upon her a 
 fatal attention ; her white veil, the rosary 
 which was suspended from her waist ; these 
 proscribed and detested tokens, discovered her 
 to the raging populace. 
 
 In this manner she arrived as far as the 
 street, in which was situated the prison, b»ult 
 in part on the ruins of the Pope's palace. Hor- 
 rible shouts rent the air when she appeared ; 
 she raised her eyes, an innumerable multitude 
 thronged the street ; she shuddered in spite of 
 herself, when she beheld those looks of curio- 
 sity, or implacable hate, fixed upon her. Her 
 story circulated through the crowd ; " It is a 
 nun of St. Pont ! an aristocrat ! — let her die ! 
 let her die ! Why wait for a trial ? Death to 
 the aristocrats !" 
 
 The voices of the people united in one sav- 
 age cry ; the commissary and his followers 
 were repulsed, and Cecilia found herself sur- 
 
THE NOVICE. 
 
 1^5 
 
 rounded by a group of cruel, half-naked men, 
 who directed towards her the points of their 
 swords. 
 
 " Oh, my aunt !" she cried, " pray for me !" 
 
 Death hovered over her — but at the- same 
 moment, the crowd opened, and gave place to 
 a tall young man of commanding figure and 
 firm, decided manner, who was dressed in the 
 uniform of an officer ; he thrust back one of 
 the men nearest to Cecilia, and addressing the 
 troop of assassins, he said : " What has this 
 child done to you ? are you men ? you who 
 turn your arms against an unprotected girl ?" 
 
 " She is an enemy of the people, she must 
 die !" 
 
 " An enemy of the people ! a girl who has 
 never left her convent?" 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you fop, or we will send 
 you ad patres together," said a man with a fe- 
 rocious countenance, clenching his fist at the 
 young officer. 
 
 " Touch me not ! and you," said the young 
 man, addressing himself to Cecilia, " confide in 
 me ; fear nothing, I will die before they shall 
 lay a hand upon you." 
 
 " Do not expose yourself," she replied, " my 
 life is devoted ; your goodness — your courage 
 may save those who have a wish to live." 
 
 Without listening to her, he withdrew her 
 from the crowd, and all struck by his attitude, 
 and the resolution which flashed from his eyes, 
 fell back at his approacii, but the multitude 
 which opened its ranks to let them pass, closed 
 immediately behind them. Flight was impossi- 
 ble ; the young people arrived thus at the prison, 
 still followed by the people, whose fury, scarce- 
 ly subdued, a word or a gesture would have 
 awakened. The young officer appeared to 
 have made up his mind ; he turned, and said 
 in a loud voice : " I deliver this woman to be 
 judged by the people." 
 
 " Bravo ! bravo ! officer ; justice or death !" 
 
 " Young lady," he said in a low voice, " for 
 want of a better, the prison is a refuge ; when 
 the doors are closed, you will be tranquil for 
 some days ; during that time I will act, I will 
 endeavor to save you. Your name ?" 
 
 " Cecilia de Combault. Yours, that I may 
 remember you in my prayers ?" 
 
 " Esteve Gorsaz ; enter quickly and fear 
 nothing." 
 
 The door was open ; Cecilia passed under 
 the black and gothic arches, where the com- 
 missary had preceded her ; the charge was in- 
 scribed ; they made the young captive cross a 
 
 gloomy corridor, and she found herself in the 
 small cell which served her as a prison. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 The visions of a dream could not have passed 
 more rapidly, or presented a more frightful 
 tragedy, than that which, after having deprived 
 Cecilia of her only protector, had driven her 
 from the pure shelter where she had passed her 
 youthful days, and placed her in the horrors of 
 a prison, with the prospect of a cruel death. 
 The young girl sank upon a bench ; she 
 pressed her forehead with her hands, as if to 
 recall and concentrate all the powers of her 
 mind. The death of her aunt, the violation of 
 the sacred temple, her own danger, and the 
 generosity of lier youthful defender, all rose to 
 her mind ; the remembrance of the Abbess 
 caused her tears to flow, but she restrained 
 them immediately. 
 
 " We must not weep for the martyrs," she 
 said to herself. " Oh, my aunt ! blessed ser- 
 vant of the Lord ! look down upon your orphan, 
 left alone in this unhappy world, and obtain for 
 me the gift of a death like your own ! You 
 used to say, ' The crown is for tho.se who have 
 well fought !' You are now in the army of 
 those victorious servants ; but in your happi- 
 ness remember Cecilia !" 
 
 These aspirations elevated her mind ; she felt 
 that, although alone, persecuted, exposed to 
 death, she was not abandoned. 
 
 "God is here!" she thought; "God is in 
 the prison ; he sees, and watches over me." 
 She looked around to familiarize herself with 
 her new abode, which one thought (wonderful 
 power !) had now made dear to her. It was 
 very small, with white walls, lighted by a win- 
 dow placed near the ceiling ; an oaken stool 
 and a straw bed were the only articles of fur- 
 niture ; it was almost a cell. The walls were 
 bare ; some inscriptions badly traced in the 
 stones, revealed the sad leisure and the poign- 
 ant sufferings of the poor prisoners. But the 
 novice had preserved her rosary, and on search- 
 ing the pocket of her dress, she found there a 
 small book ; it was " The Imitation," a pre- 
 cious volume, which contained within, light, 
 consolation, peace and truth. She read a 
 chapter, and, strengthened by that Christian 
 resignation superior to all this v%-orld can be- 
 stow, she slept calmly, without having touched 
 the supper which the jailor's wife had brought 
 her. 
 On the third day, she was invited to descend 
 
36 
 
 THE NOVICE. 
 
 to the court-yard, where all the prisoners were 
 assembled. Cecilia obeyed the summons with 
 reluctance. She found herself in a large and 
 gloomy court, where several persons were 
 walking, or sitting upon stone benches. The 
 men read the papers, purchased from the port- 
 ers ; the women conversed among themselves ; 
 but all looked sad and melancholy. They sa- 
 luted Cecilia with respect, without daring to 
 speak to her ; for her dress inspired interest, 
 and forbade familiarity. She seated herself by 
 an old lady, who took no notice of her approach. 
 Cecilia looked at her, and saw, with compas- 
 sion, that she held in her hand a lock of jet 
 black hair, upon which her eyes were fixed 
 with a'mournful expression ; from time to time 
 she murmured : " My son ! my poor son !" 
 
 The novice, much affected, turned away her 
 head ; but her name repeated close by her side 
 attracted her attention. " Cecilia, is it indeed 
 you that I find here !" said a well-known voice. 
 Laura was near her, embraced her, and loaded 
 her with questions, crying and laughing at the 
 same time, agitated by contending emotions. 
 
 " Laura ! dear Laura !" Cecilia at length 
 replied ; " why do I find you here ? Oh, my 
 God ! in what a miserable place do we meet 
 again ; in the court of a prison ! But your 
 uncle, where is he ?" 
 
 " They have killed him !" replied Laura, 
 Bhuddering at the recollection. " He had ene- 
 mies, or rather the people were jealous of him. 
 His riches attracted attention, and as he did 
 not favor the principles of the revolution, they 
 made that an excuse for putting him to death. 
 Oh, my uncle ! my good uncle ! I saw him ; 
 what sufferings he endured ! I could do no- 
 thing but weep ; one of the men became angry 
 witlj me and brought me here. What melan- 
 choly d.iys and nights I have passed in this 
 prison ! during the day I trembled at every 
 foot.-5tep, at every noise ; at night, I fancied I 
 saw my uncle, with his white hair stained with 
 blood, his eyes open, in the last agony, bending 
 towards me ! Before this I was s-o happy ! 
 and you, my Cecilia, and your good aunt ? 
 Alas ! I scarcely dare inquire for her." 
 
 " She is dead," said the novice, raising her 
 eyes to heaven ; " died like a saint, as she had 
 lived. We have both lost the protectors of our 
 youth ; but our Father who is in heaven will 
 protect and watch over us." 
 
 Cecilia related her sad story to her friend ; 
 but when she pronounced the name of Estive 
 Gorsaz, she thought she perceived a slight 
 
 blush overspread Laura's pale countenance. 
 " Esteve Gorsaz !" she repeated ; " my uncle 
 knew him ; he visited at our house : he is the 
 son of a banker in the city ; but, instead of 
 following his father's profession, he took up 
 arms when war was declared, and my uncle 
 would not see him again." 
 
 Cecilia inquired no farther ; she obtained 
 permission from the jailer for Laura to share 
 her cell with her. 
 
 This reunion alleviated the pains and sor- 
 rows of captivity ; voyagers in a vessel ready 
 to sink, they were more closely bound to each 
 other, and loved the more the more they suf-. 
 fered. They excited each other to courage ; 
 the novice encouraged her friend by the 
 strength and firmness of her mind ; Laura 
 sometimes brought a smile to the lips of her 
 companion by a ray of her former vivacity ; but 
 this happened but seldom, for the trials this 
 young girl had encountered were too great for 
 her strength. The scenes of death through 
 which she had passed had left a deep impres- 
 sion on her memory. Gloomy fears and fright- 
 ful dejection succeeded these short moments of 
 gaiety ; when she would weep in Cecilia's 
 arms, and demand those days of happiness and 
 of pleasure which she might never hope to see 
 again. During these hours of despair, Cecilia 
 discovered in the heart of her friend an affec- 
 tion, of which, perhaps, she was herself igno- 
 rant. The novice suffered with more resigna- 
 tion, and contemplated without terror the 
 terrible future which awaited her. Death 
 could not alarm her, who had so often medi- 
 tated upon the close of life, and who had long 
 before renounced its joys and embraced its 
 severities. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Ten days had passed. One morning while 
 Laura still slept, the jailer's wife quietly called 
 Cecilia. " You are wanted in the parlor," she 
 said. " A young man has a ticket of admis- 
 sion ; you must not detain him." 
 
 •' A young man !" 
 
 " Oh yes ! an officer. Come, come, ho has 
 good news, I am sure." 
 
 The novice hesitated ; but yielding to the 
 persuasions of the woman, she descended. 
 Arrived at the grate, a man waited for her on 
 the outside ; he looked up — she recognized 
 Esteve Gorsaz. They were alone ; she sa- 
 luted liim, and seated herself; he remained 
 
THE NOVICE. 
 
 3T 
 
 standing before her, looking at her with emo- ^ 
 tion. \ 
 
 " Young lady," he said at length, ' time is > 
 precious; suffer me to explain myself with s 
 candor. I promised to save yon, and since I 
 that moment I have not ceased to tliink of you \ 
 — 01* you, so noble, so young, so worthy of in- 
 terest! but I have not been able to prDcure 
 your liberty — they have refused it to me ! A 
 messenger from the Convention has arrived at 
 Avignon ; and to-morrow, perhaps to-night, the 
 horrible tribunal he has organized will hold its 
 first meeting. You will be sent for, I know, 
 and your appearance before these partial 
 judges is like a sentence of death. Death ! 
 and you are scarcely twenty years old ! Death ! 
 when God permits you to live, when you can 
 enjoy happiness ! and what a death ! Young 
 lady ! Cecilia !" he added, " there is but one 
 way by which you can be saved, and on my 
 knees I entreat yoa to accept of it ! Become 
 my wife, and in less than an hour you shall 
 leave this place, free and in safety ; for no one 
 dare touch the wife of a republican soldier. 
 Grant me the power to save you, to devote to 
 you my life ; I only ask the right to snatch 
 you from the hands of the executioner, to con- 
 secrate my days to you, and to surround yours 
 with happiness and peace !" 
 
 Cecilia could not reply ; emotion, surprise, 
 kept her silent ; the words of Esteve sounded 
 in her ears ; she raised her timid eyes, and 
 beheld him beaming with hope and devotion : 
 A new world appeared to open before her ; she 
 discovered happiness of which she had never 
 dreamt, the blessing of a union with a true 
 and noble being ; she beheld herself the mother 
 of a family, waiting the return of a husband, 
 who had the* features and form of Esteve. 
 
 The young man seeing her silent and pen- 
 sive continued : " You are afraid, I can readily 
 conceive, at the thought of trusting yourself to 
 me ; you do not know me, but I swear to you 
 that I am an honorable man, and I love you, 
 Cecilia — ^yes, I have loved you since I saw 
 you, so noble, so courageous, in the midst of 
 your murderers. Is death preferable to me ? 
 Oh ! save yourself, if not for mine, for your 
 own sake ! save yourself, to ha to me as a sis- 
 ter, if you will not be my wife ! All the rights 
 you confer upon me, by becoming mine in the 
 eyes of the world, I renounce, I restore them 
 to you ; I wish only for your life — I only wish i 
 for the power to render you happy, according j 
 to your desire." , 
 
 " It cannot be," she said with effort. 
 
 " And why ? I am unworthy of you, I know 
 it ; but ready to perish in the waves, will you 
 refuse the hand of the vilest man stretched out 
 to save you ? Here is a danger as great, a 
 death more dreadful. Cecilia, do not reject 
 me ! Dare you destroy the instrument of your 
 deliverance ? I am ready to suffer every thing, 
 if I can only save you !" 
 
 " But are you ignorant," said the young girl 
 hesitatingly, '• that I belong not to myself, I am 
 devoted to God ?" 
 
 " You have n<* pronounced your vows, you 
 are still free." 
 
 Cecilia remained silent for a moment; the 
 conflict of her mind rendered her more touch- 
 ingly beautiful ; on one side the world offered 
 itself to her, with all its attractions, a Ufe of 
 happiness watli the only man she could ever 
 love ; on the other, a frightful death — but be- 
 yond that the bright visions of eternity. 
 
 The conflict did not last long. ' "These 
 vows," she said with animation, " these sacred 
 vows, I have a thousand times pronounced in 
 my heart ! I belong to God — by my own free 
 choice I gave myself to him when yet a child, 
 and I entreat of him to accept of the rest of 
 my days. " Yes, Lord !" added she with en- 
 thusiasm, " I promised you a life of obedience, 
 poverty and purity ; receive my vows, O my 
 Divine Master ! receive them yourself, since I 
 cannot pronounce them in the presence of your 
 ministers, and at the foot of your holy altar !" 
 
 Esteve uttered a cry of despair, and sup- 
 ported himself trembling against the grate. 
 Cecilia was on her knees, her eyes shone with 
 celestial light, a brighter color was on her 
 cheeks ; never had she appeared more beauti- 
 ful than at the moment when she devoted her- 
 self to death. 
 
 " What have you done ?" said at length 
 Esteve quite overcome ; " what induces you to 
 despise thus your life ? Cecilia ! unhappy 
 child !" 
 
 " Would you abandon yoor colors in the 
 moment of danger ?" she said with warmth. 
 
 " No, certainly." 
 
 " Well, then," and she drew from her bosom 
 an ebony cruci6x, " behold the standard of the 
 sovereign under whom I have sworn to live 
 and to die ; ought I to abandon it in the hour 
 of peril?" 
 
 " These are vain scruples," he said ; " but 
 there is yet another way ; listen to me, Cecilia, 
 for the last time ; consent to follow me ; I have 
 
38 
 
 THE NOVICE. 
 
 here an order to pass, which the mayor of the 
 city, a friend of mine, granted to my solicita- 
 tions ; he waits to perform the marriage cere- 
 mony, and secure thus your liberty. Submit to 
 a mere ceremony, which, I swear to you, shall 
 not bind you for the future ; become my wife 
 according to law, and in a few days you shall 
 pass the frontier ; once in Italy, you will de- 
 mand, and will easily obtain, a divorce ; you 
 will live in the world or in a convent, it is im- 
 material, so that you are saved. I shall see 
 you no more ! you will without doubt forget 
 me ; still it is immaterial so that you live ! 
 My mother will receive you as her daughter, 
 during- the few days you pass under my roof. 
 Come, Cecilia, O come, accept the life which 
 is again offered to you !" 
 
 She looked at him with grief, and said in a 
 low voice : " I honor and esteem your devo- 
 tion, sir, but I cannot consent to what would 
 be perjury in my eyes. May Heaven bless 
 you for your kind intentions, and grant you a 
 happy life !" 
 
 " Without you ! no ! no ! Thank God, death 
 can be found at the cannon's mouth, as well 
 as on the scaffold, and we shall not be long 
 separated." 
 
 " In the name of that love which I believe," 
 said Cecilia with a grave voice, " allow me to 
 express to you my last wish. You must not 
 die for me, you must live, for your own happi- 
 ness and that of another. I have a sister, a 
 friend ; suffer me to commit her to your care." 
 
 " Where is she ?" 
 
 •' Here a prisoner like myself, exposed to the 
 same dangers. She loves life, she is formed 
 foi happiness. Oh, that it had pleased God 
 that she had been tlie object of your noble de- 
 votion ! your vows would have been accepted, 
 she would live, and you would be happy with 
 one another." 
 
 " That cannot be," said he in Iiis turn with 
 animation ; " I love only you !" 
 
 " What ! the life of a human creature is in 
 your hands, and you will deliver her to the 
 executioner? you can lift the stone from her 
 sepulchre, and you leave her there to die ? 
 You reject the only request that I can make 
 you 2 You refuse this comfort to my last mo- 
 mentH ? Since you began to speak, Heaven 
 inspired me with this idea, and I should have 
 been glad to have seen my Laura saved by 
 you, happy with you." 
 
 « Laura !" 
 
 " Yes, Laura Reger, my companion, the sis- 
 
 ter of my choice and my love. You know her, 
 you know that she possesses amiable and noble 
 qualities." 
 
 " I do not love her — no duty can oblige me 
 to make such a sacrifice." 
 
 " And if she loved you with all the love that 
 a wife owes to a husband, could you not love 
 her i n return ? Pardon, Laura, I have be- 
 trayed the secret which I discovered in your 
 heart. In the name of the attachment of which 
 you have given me such a tender proof, fill not 
 my soul with bitterness ; let Laura replace Ce- 
 cilia, and let my last moments be comforted by 
 the certainty of your happiness. Y^ou consent ; 
 is it not so, Estive ?" 
 
 The young man, completely vanquished, fell 
 on his knees. " Y'ou are an angel !" he said ; 
 " and when you speak I must obey. I will 
 marry Laura." 
 
 The novice clasped her hands and wept tears 
 of joy. " I will send her to you," she said ; 
 " take her away immediately. You will be her 
 father, her brother, and her husband. Be ten- 
 der and good to her, and never let her know 
 that you loved me before her. Farewell, Esteve, 
 my last prayer shall be for you both !" 
 
 Esteve uttered a groan ; she made him a 
 last sign, and left the parlor. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Laura waited impatiently the return of her 
 friend, who embraced her and merely said, 
 " Monsieur Gorsaz is waiting to speak to you 
 in tlie parlor ; go, I flatter myself he has good. 
 news." 
 
 Laura blushed, and stammered out a few 
 words. Cecilia again embraced and encour- 
 aged her, and the porter opening roughly the 
 door, cried, " Come, young lady, Captain Gorsaz 
 is impatient. He is in favor with the authori- 
 ties, and has permission to see our prisoners — 
 and they will say he has too many privileges ! 
 come, then, young lady !" 
 
 When Laura was on the threshold of the 
 door, Cecilia pressed her hand, and pronounced 
 the word, " Farewell !" The door was then 
 closed, the light footsteps of tlie young girl died 
 away in the long gallery, and Cecilia was alone. 
 
 An hour passed, an hour of suspense and 
 uncertainty, and which appeared unusually 
 long to the young prisoner. At length the 
 jailor's wife entered, exclaiming : " Miss Laura 
 is gone ! Captain Gorsaz has taken her to 
 his mother, and they say that he is going to 
 marry her — however, she is free. But in spile 
 
THE YEARS. 
 
 39 
 
 of all, she cried bitterly, and said she wanted to 
 return to you. Miss Cecilia, that she would not 
 leave you. The captain said, ' We will see 
 her again, we will save her.' He looked very 
 sad for a bridegroom : oh ! how pale he was ! 
 They will make a handsome. couple when they 
 are a little more cheerful." 
 
 " Frances," interrupted Cecilia, " I have a 
 favor to ask of you ; if I die here — ^you un- 
 derstand me ? — take this little book and this 
 rosary to Laura ; I shall leave them on the 
 table — she will recompense you. Farewell, 
 Frances ; God reward you for your kindness 
 to me I" 
 
 Frances, much affected, went out bathed in 
 tears. 
 
 Cecilia looked around her, examined the 
 solitary chamber, and said softly : " All is fin- 
 ished, Laura is saved, she will be united to 
 him wliom she loves, Esteve will be happy 
 with her. All is right; it only remains for 
 me to die, and God will support me. He will 
 pardon, I trust, the struggle I endured on finding 
 that I could be happy here below. Love for him 
 triumphed, and now I belong to him forever !" 
 
 That same evening the novice was cited to 
 appear before the revolutionary tribunal, in 
 spite of the efforts of Est&ve, who had again 
 petitioned the authorities of the city ; suspect- 
 
 ed, noble of birth, and a nun by profession, the 
 sentence could not be doubtful, and she heard 
 it with that intrepid firmness which had char- 
 acterized her whole life. 
 
 Our task is finished ; we shall not follow her 
 during her last night, which was spent in prayer 
 and self-communing ; we shall not follow her 
 to tlie scaffold, where she appeared neither 
 pale nor agitated at the approach of death ; but 
 where, to all who beheld her, she was like an 
 angel going to take her flight towards heaven, 
 and who, prejKired to leave tlie world, loses 
 herself in contemplating the supreme bUss she 
 deemed herself about to possess. 
 
 The union of Esteve and Laura, at first 
 slightly cold and sad, after the birth of two 
 children became more warm and confiding. 
 Their girl, according to the wishes of both 
 parents, was named Cecilia ; and it appeared 
 that the image of their angelic friend, always 
 present to their memory, was reflected in the 
 heart and features of that child. At first, 
 Esteve trembled when he found in the eyes of 
 his daughter that look which he had so much 
 loved ; at first, Laura would weep when that 
 infantine voice reached her ear ; and both 
 blessed God that they had in their house this 
 living portrait, this faithful representation of 
 the Novice of St. Pont. 
 
 ^lEH YlgAmg 
 
 BY EHASMDS FERRY. 
 
 The Years roll on, the Years roll on ; 
 And shadows now stretch o'er the lawn, 
 Whereon the sunlight fell at morn, — 
 
 The mom of mortal life ; 
 And dusky hours to me have come. 
 Life's landscape now looks drear and dumb. 
 And quenched the light, and ceased the hum. 
 
 With which my way was rife. 
 
 I now look backward on the path 
 
 Whereon I've walked 'mid wrong and wrath ; 
 
 I look, and see how much it hath 
 
 Of bitterness to tell ; 
 But life's hard lessons must be learned ; 
 By goading care is wisdom earned — 
 Then upward let the eye be turned. 
 
 And all earth's scenes are well ! 
 
 On roll the Y'ears, the swift, still Years ; 
 And as they pass, how feeling sears — 
 How dryeth up the fount of tears — 
 
 Emotion's fires grow dim ; 
 This pulse of hfe not long can last, 
 And as the Y'ears go hunying past. 
 The blooms of life are earthward cast. 
 
 And withered heart and Umb. 
 
 The Y'ears, the Years sublimely roll ! 
 Unfurling, like a lettered scroll — 
 Look on ! and gamer in thy soul 
 The treasures of their lore ; 
 It is God's Writisg there we see ; 
 O read, with deep intensity ; 
 Its truth shall with thy spirit be 
 When years shall roll no more. 
 
40 
 
 ON THE ADAPTATION OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 
 
 ON THE 
 
 TO THE CHARACTER OF HIS OWN MIND AND THE CIRCUMSTANCES IN WHICH 
 
 HE IS PLACED. 
 
 BY J. T. HEADLEY. ' • 
 
 The necessity of adapting all one's intellec- 
 tual efforts to the character of his mind, fur- 
 nishes a wide range of varied and intei'esting 
 thought, finding illustrations in the mathema- 
 tician and poet, the novelist and chemist, the 
 historian and the humorist. To trace out the 
 workings of different minds in their peculiar 
 departments, would be a delightful and instruc- 
 tive task. " Know thyself," was written on 
 the temple of Apollo, and though a heathen 
 injunction, outweighs volumes of wholesome 
 counsel. Perhaps there is no motive ope- 
 rating so powerfully on the mind of the 
 young student as the unexpressed desire to 
 excel as a speaker, a man of letters or of 
 genius. Probably there is no vision which 
 floats so dazzlingly before the spirit of the am- 
 bitious scholar as the sight of himself holding 
 an audience spell-bound by the force of his elo- 
 quence or the displays of his genius in some 
 department of learning or of art. If the secrets 
 of the studio were revealed, the dreams of the 
 ambitious sleeper uttered aloud, and the irre- 
 pressible longings of his spirit breathed in 
 the car, they would all speak of this one bright 
 vision. True, this dream, except in a few 
 cases, is never fully realized. It results from 
 the consciousness of power which the soul 
 feels as it first steps across the threshold into 
 the great intellectual universe, and expands to 
 the deepening, growing prospect above and 
 around it. But a man may sit forever and 
 gaze upon the hill-top of his desires ; invested 
 though it Ix) with real splendor, without indus- 
 try on his part he miglit as well gaze on the 
 
 moon. To have this industry well applied ; to 
 excel at all in our primary exertion.s, or after 
 efforts, we must let the mind work to its natu- 
 ral tendencies. 
 
 Neither the mind nor its tendencies are 
 created by education ; they are simply devel- 
 oped, corrected and strengthened. Every mind 
 has its peculiarities, its own way of viewing a 
 question, and its mode of presenting it. In 
 some one thing it is better than in all others. 
 There arc the feebler and the stronger powers, 
 and to know where one's intellectual strength lies 
 is the first lesson to be learned, but it is one 
 that many never learn. Our taste is not the 
 judge on this point, for taste is only a cultivat- 
 ed quality, receiving its character from the in- 
 fluences under which it has been educated. 
 Mistaking taste for genius is the rock on which 
 thousands have split. It has hurried many a 
 young and struggling author into scenes of 
 bitter disappointipent and an early grave. A 
 taste for poetry is not the divine " afflatu.«," nor a 
 love for eloquence its heaven-imparted power. 
 Mistaking taste for genius effectually prevents 
 a man from understanding his true intellectual 
 strength. One perhaps has been educated to 
 consider the true power of a speaker to consist 
 in logical argument and calm, deliberate dis- 
 cussion ; while his own mind is highly ima- 
 ginative, and its power consists in tlic force 
 and beauty of its illustrations ; the new forms 
 under which it presents truth ; its resistless 
 appeals, and impassioned bursts of feeling. 
 To comply with the rigid taste under which it 
 has been educated, that mind would leave un- 
 
ON THE AD^VPTATION 
 
 41 
 
 touched its greatest powers, and labor to lead 
 out those most weakly developed, and which 
 never can become more than ordinary. On 
 the other hand, a cool mathematician, whose 
 imagination never flew beyond a diagram, may 
 possess a wonderful penchant (or the pathetic 
 and highly figurative. He may struggle for- 
 ever, but his efforts will be like measuring 
 poetry by the yard or gauging beauty with rule 
 and compass. How many illustrations of this 
 tmth have been presented to each of us in our 
 lifetime. My memory refers this moment to 
 two. One, whose mind was of a bold and ar- 
 dent character, wished to be reputed a cool 
 and laborious metaphysician. To secure this 
 reputation, he labored through life against 
 Nature herself. Sometimes, when suddenly 
 excited, he would break away from the fetters 
 in which he had enthralled himself, and burst 
 with startling power upon his auditors. But 
 ho controlled these ebullitions of feeling, as he 
 termed them, and with the power of excelling 
 as an orator, he died as a common metaphysi- 
 cian. The other probably never could have 
 been a great man ; yet all the excellence he 
 possessed consisted in the plain, practical, com- 
 mon sense view he took of a subject adapted 
 to instruct or benefit his hearers. But he had 
 a wonderful taste for the pathetic. He fondly 
 believed he was fitted to stir an audience with 
 lofty feeling, and bear them away on the resist- 
 less tide of strong emotion. Mistaking the struc- 
 ture of his mind, he consequently always failed, 
 but consoled himself with the reflection that no 
 human power could arouse and agitate such 
 marble hearts. He never tore a passion to 
 tatters like a declamatory schoolboy, but he 
 gently rocked it to rest, then made a serious 
 caricature of it. He would turn even a tra- 
 gedy into a comedy. "Know thyself," is a 
 difficult but necessary lesson. Many a man 
 considers himself a sound critic of a speaker's 
 or writers power, while he brings every one 
 to the same test — his otcn taste. But minds are 
 as various in their construction as natural 
 scenery in its aspects. There is the bold out- 
 line of the mountain range, with its rocks and 
 caverns and gloomy gorges ; and there is the 
 great plain, with its groves and streamlets. 
 There are the rough torrent and headlong cat- 
 aract, and there is the gentle river, winding in 
 perfect wantonness through the vale, as if it 
 loved and strove to linger amid its beauties ; 
 there is the terrific swoop of the eagle, and 
 the arrow-like dart of the swallow ; there are 
 
 the thunder-cloud and rainbow, the roar of the 
 ocean and the gentle murmur of the south 
 wind ; all, all unlike, yet all attractive, and all 
 possessing their admirers. The same Divine 
 hand that created and spread out this diversi- 
 s fied scenery has formed mind with aspects as 
 \ various, and it appears most attractive in that 
 which the Creator has given it. 
 
 I recollect of seeing, some years ago, a con- 
 trast drawn by a western man between Dr. 
 Beecher and Bishop M'Dvaine. I do not recol- 
 lect the author's name, nor can I now recall 
 much of the comparison; but, among clher 
 things, he remarked, that the structure and 
 movement of their minds were as different as 
 the structure and movement of their bodios — 
 one abrupt, vehement and rapid ; the oilier 
 calm, easy and graceful. 
 
 The thoughts of one are like a chest of gold 
 rings ; of the other, like the links of an iron 
 chain. One makes the sky above you all 
 sunshine and beauty ; tlie other makes one 
 half of it too bright for mortal eye to gaze 
 upon, the other half with thunder-cloud piled 
 on thunder-cloud, and above all the wheels of 
 Providence rolling. These men are both elo- 
 quent ; yet how different the orbits in which 
 their minds revolve. One never could be the 
 other. One is the torrent among the hills ; the 
 other the stream along the meadows. One 
 startles ; the other delights. One agitates ; 
 the other soothes. One ever asks for the war 
 bugle, and pours through it a rallying cry that 
 would almost wake the dead ; the other cries, 
 " bring out the silver trumpet," and breathes 
 his soul into it till the melody dies away in 
 the human heart like sunset on the heavens. 
 Some one drawing a contrast between Lord 
 Brougham and Canning, remarks that tlie 
 mind of one (Lord Brougham) is like, a con- 
 cave mirror, converging all the rays of light 
 tliat fall upon it into one tremendous and burn- 
 ing focus ; the mind of the other, like a con- 
 vex mirror, scattering the rays as they strike 
 it, till it shines and glitters from every point 
 you view it. So Longinus, speaking of De- 
 mosthenes and Cicero, says one is like the 
 mountain torrent, bearing away every thing by 
 the violence of its current ; the other a con- 
 suming fire, wandering hither and thither over 
 the fields, ever burning and ever finding some- 
 thing to consume. Every great speaker and 
 writer in our own land has his pecuUar style, 
 that no otlier one can appropriate to himself. 
 How do all these varieties occur ? From obey- 
 
42 
 
 OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 
 
 icg Uie great — I mi^ht say greatest — maxim, 
 " Look into thine own heart, then write." Wal- 
 ter Scott would doubtless have died an ordinary 
 man if he had continued the law, to which ex- 
 ternal circumstances seemed resolved to chain 
 him. No one supposes that every man has 
 powers so strikingly developed as those I have 
 noticed. The upward tendencies of some minds 
 are so powerful, that no education can subdue or 
 change them, and. Titan-like, they will arise, 
 though mountains are piled on them. But 
 in more ordinary ones the better qualities are 
 not so prominent; they must be sought out 
 and cultivated. These varieties as really 
 exist in the most common intellects as in great 
 ones. A backwoodsman very soon knows 
 whether he is better on the dead lift or vigor- 
 ous leap, but how few who write or speak 
 know in what direction their minds work 
 with greatest power ; and yet, till they do, they 
 never can receive their best cultivation. A 
 man destitute of imagination might as well 
 attempt to fly with leaden wings, as strive to 
 excel in highly descriptive and ornamental or 
 figurative writing. While, on the contrary, 
 let one with a youthful, ardent and highly 
 imaginative mind, assume the deliberate judge 
 and deep philosopher, and aim to make every 
 word weigh a pound, and he will appear at 
 best like a child with his grandfather's specta- 
 cles on. And yet the world is full of these 
 unnatural efforts, till the mind often loses all its 
 elasticity and playfulness on the one hand, and 
 all its force and power on the other. Indeed, 
 sober-minded men often compliment themselves 
 on the soundness of their judgments in con- 
 demning writers and speakers, when they ought 
 to be reproved for the narrowness of their 
 views. That man who, on listening to a 
 beautiful poem, satirically inquired at the close 
 what it all proved, doubtless considered himself 
 blessed with a vastly deep and philosophical 
 mind. What did it prove ? It proved there 
 was harmony in the universe besides the jingle 
 of dollars and cents — that there was beauty in 
 the world besides lines and angles, railroads and 
 canals. Many seem to think there is nothing 
 proved, except by a long train of consecutive 
 
 reason. As if the stars and the blue sky, the 
 caroling of birds and the music of running wa- 
 ters, proved nothing ! They prove much to 
 one who has an eye and ear to perceive and 
 understand them. Said a great scholar and 
 distinguished man once to me, " Mrs. Hemans 
 never wrote a single line of poetry in her life. 
 Vastly profound / Methinks such a man could 
 discourse systematically on the compact, scien- 
 tifically-built wall of a garden all day, and 
 never behold a single flower it enclosed. For 
 such minds beauty and harmony are created in 
 vain. It is this rigidity of taste that often para- 
 lyzes the powers of the finest-wrought minds. 
 The variety which God has created is disre- 
 garded, and every one is brought to the same 
 iron-like standard. The mind is doubtless, in 
 a thousand instances, injured before it is old 
 enough to compare for itself. How^ many 
 parents regard institutions of learning as so 
 many intellectual mills, into which every 
 variety of mind is to be tossed, and come out 
 well-bolted intellectual flour ! How little do 
 they study the different characters of those 
 under their control ! and while they fondly be- 
 lieve they are granting them equal opportuni- 
 ties by the course they pursue, they are using 
 means adapted to develope the best powers of 
 one and the weakest of the other. Let not the 
 reader suppose that the intellect is self-educat- 
 ed ; that Nature is an unerring guide, and he 
 must follow as far as she leads. She directs to 
 which species the variety belongs, gently ad- 
 monishing man to cultivate it according to the 
 character of the plant. Nor do I suppose that 
 she has enclosed a path for any particular mind 
 to tread in without deviation to the right hand 
 or to the left, but that there is one in which it 
 can move with greater facility and pleasure. 
 There is one aspect of it more attractive than all 
 the rest. I may be considered as having given 
 an undue importance to this subject, but I am 
 confident that no one has advanced far with- 
 out knowing what his best powers are. Culti- 
 vate an ordinary mind so that it may possess 
 its greatest power, and it will be regarded as 
 a giant in this world of misapplied effort. 
 
THE TALE OF AN ITALIAN. 
 
 43 
 
 "ITISIll ^AllrlS (DIF AM Hf AILjUAM 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF CITY LIFE. 
 
 Many soom to have an idea that the tales of 
 sorrow they hear are all mere fictions, because 
 they do not sec the subjects. They do not go 
 where they are and seek them out. Sorrow — 
 true sorrow — does not show itself openly. In 
 a city like New York, for instance, a stranger 
 would see, in the crowds that throng the thor- 
 oughfairs, the semblance of nothing but busy 
 happiness. Splendid misery, although it may, 
 and does exist, is treated by those who are its 
 subjects, and by others, only as a poetic fiction, 
 anddoes not show itself abroad. Misery gloats 
 and fats itself in solitude. That is the proper 
 aliment of the heart tliat corrodes. Society 
 requires a cloudless brow, though the brain be- 
 neath it may throb with agony, and tiie heart 
 heave each pulsation with pain. But sorrow, 
 severe as it may be in the lialls of rank and 
 wealth, is but a feeble type of the grief, and 
 misery, and despair, that are to be found in the 
 abodes of abject want. There, where life — 
 human life — is but a grade removed from an- 
 imal existence — where its poorest comforts 
 are rarely if ever seen — where food and cloth- 
 ing are scarcely known, and warmth comes 
 only with the season's change — and where 
 blessed health is almost a stranger — it is there 
 that misery reigns in all its ferocity, and fixes 
 its iron fangs into the heart of hearts. Virtue 
 may shed a beam of joy into such scenes — 
 but where these are co-tenants with vice, it is 
 a bitter that knows no sweet. The blessed 
 sun rises in vain, for its light brings no com- 
 fort — and the still night, with balmy sleep, 
 offers no balm nor forgetfulness. It is like 
 " the valley of ihe shadow of death." 
 
 To the physician of truly benevolent feel- 
 ings, these are scenes of every-day occurrence. 
 He sees misery in all its forms, and, if he 
 choose, may do much to relieve it. But it is, 
 alas too often, his lot to see the wretched lie 
 down and die hopeless of relief, and only 
 cheered in their last hours by a sympathy that 
 comes too late to save. Such was the case with 
 
 _ the subject of the following sketch, taken from 
 my notes of early practice. 
 
 It was one of those damp, disagreeable days 
 in the month of January 18 — , when the so- 
 called January thaw was prevailing, and the 
 lieavy snow which had been for some days lying 
 upon the ground was rapidly disappearing, that 
 word was left at my office for me to call, as soon 
 as I returned, at a hovel in the outskirts of the 
 village. Every young practitioner must go 
 through the same course of induction into busi- 
 ness, by attending all the poor and outcasts in 
 his neighborhood, anJ my initiation had not yet 
 been completed. Since I have been years in 
 business, I still make it a point cf stern duty 
 always to answer as readily the calls of the 
 poor as of the rich. I get my pay from the 
 latter for my care of both. 
 
 I did not reach home till after dark, wlien, tak- 
 ing my lantern in my hand, I picked my way as 
 well as I could through the mud and half-melted 
 snow to the door of the hovel. As is very often 
 the case in such circumstances, there was in 
 fact no sort of urgency for my coming, the poor 
 woman being only " complaining" a little for a 
 day or two. Kindness, and a control over one's 
 temper, however much cause there may be for 
 irritation, is never lost, and having administered 
 kindly to the trifling ailing of the woman, I 
 prepared to go. At this moment, a woman 
 from a neighboring house entered, and, seeing 
 me, asked me to call and see a stranger who 
 had been found sick on the road, and brought 
 into her house that afternoon. I of course went 
 immediately to see him, though the place was 
 at the distance of nearly half a mile. It was 
 just on the edge of a dense forest, and few 
 abodes of poverty can be found, especially in 
 the country, to compare with it. It consisted 
 entirely of one room — and in one corner, upon 
 an article meant no doubt for a bed, lay the 
 form of a man apparently in deep sleep. This 
 I soon found to be the effects of some cold and 
 fatigue. It was with difficulty he could be 
 
44 
 
 THE TALE OP \N ITALIAN' . 
 
 aroused, and when he was, I discovered that he 
 was a foreigner, and could not speak English. 
 I accordingly prescribed for him, and enjoining 
 upon the inmates the necessity of taking good 
 care of him through the night I left him. 
 
 January 7th. — Kindness and humanity never 
 lose their reward. It has often seemed to me 
 that the helpless insect, I turn my foot aside 
 from crushing in the path, showed by mute ac- 
 tions a sense of gratitude, and appreciation of 
 the act. I find my patient of last night sensi- 
 ble, and evidently deeply impressed with my 
 attention. He has been aroused from the 
 stupor in which he lay, and considerable reac- 
 tion having taken place, I have bled him freely 
 from the arm, which has reheved the pain he 
 seemed to complain of in his breast. He has 
 also considerable cough. 
 
 Besides prescribing such medicines as he 
 requires, I have had his other wants attended 
 to, so that he is now more comfortably provided 
 for, although he is too ill to be removed. 
 
 lOtk. — ^How stupid I have been. For some 
 days past I have been racking my brain to un- 
 derstand the signs, by which my patient tried to 
 communicate with me. By one word he ut- 
 tered this morning, which I understood, I was 
 reminded that he might perhaps speak in Span- 
 ish which language 1 understand, and I asked 
 if he could. He exclaimed with a gesture of 
 extreme satisfaction, " O si, senor, si !" 
 
 I am thus relieved from much embarrassment 
 in treating his case, which is a complicated 
 one, an old disease being aggravated by his late 
 exposure. I do not believe he can long survive. 
 He tells me he is an Italian, and lately from his 
 own country. 
 
 13/A. — For three days he has been troubled 
 very much with palpitation of the heart and 
 symptoms which indicate extensive structural 
 disease of that organ. This morning I find the 
 disease has acquired considerable more inten- 
 sity. After conversing some time with him, he 
 suddenly exclaimed — " Ah ! senor, qui pena." 
 
 " Adonde esta la pena ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Aqui — aqui !" said he laying his hand upon 
 his heart. 
 
 I was more surprised at his manner than the 
 expression, and drawing my seat nearer to his 
 side I inquired the meaning of it. He covered 
 his face with his liands, and sobbing bitterly, 
 exclaimed, " Victoria — mi cara Victoria !" I 
 began to fear his intellect liad been affected, 
 but soon mastering his feelings he said, " I 
 cannot tell yon now — to-morrow, if I am alive. 
 
 > I am not mad, sir. When you come to me 
 to-morrow I will tell you all." 
 
 After administering a soothing draught I 
 left him. 
 
 The next morning I received from him the 
 following relation. Told in the soft, passionate 
 language of Spain it made a deep impression 
 upon my feelings. 
 
 THE Italian's tale. 
 
 I had resolved that the memory of my life 
 should go down with me to my grave. But 
 the few words you have spoken to me in a 
 tongue that is not an utter stranger to my ear, 
 and your undeserved kindness, have called back 
 the thoughts of other days, and though the 
 recollection may be bitter I will open to you 
 my heart. It did seem hard for me to die thus 
 — in a strange land and in such a place without 
 a friend to trust in. But now it will not be so. 
 You know what youth is, and in your own ex- 
 perience can doubtless find some pardon for 
 the follies of one like yourself. All I ask of 
 you is to reveal nothing till I am dead. Then 
 you may do as you please. 
 
 My family was one of the first in Florence. 
 Being the youngest of five sons, I was early 
 destined for the Church, and, educated in all 
 the superstitious ceremonies of the Catholic 
 faith, was early taught the belief that the 
 highest attainment was that entire separation 
 from the world which the leaders of our orders 
 professed to obtain. Not only the pomps and 
 vanities of life, but its pleasures and social en- 
 joyments were condemned, and he who would 
 be nearest heaven, was he who feared to miss 
 one footstep on earth, lest he should lose the 
 heaven beyond. Yet, ascetic as I was taught 
 to be, I had seen enough in my boyhood, in my 
 father's halls, to give me, at least, a taste for 
 the world's pride, and it was not with the 
 greatest satisfaction that I took the cowl and 
 commenced my mission in Spain. I travelled 
 through its beautiful valleys, and saw proud 
 mirth in the courtly halls, and humble content- 
 ment in the shepherd's cot, and the more I saw, 
 the more I felt myself an outcast. 
 
 I pass thus hastily over this part of my life, 
 because it was only a scene of strife between 
 my duty to God, and the love of the world, and 
 that I may come to that which decided my 
 fate. 
 
 The last rays of the sun lingered on the 
 mountains as I paused in a deep valley in the 
 north of Spain. "I gazed on the scene, as the 
 
THE TALE OC AN ITALIAN. 
 
 45 
 
 light below pew dim, while above it seemed to / 
 sleep so calmly on the mountain tops. The 
 last song of the bird was heard as he sunk 
 quietly to rest — the distant sound of the flocks, 
 as the shepherd drove them homeward, fell dis- 
 tinctly on my ear, and I sighed, for I felt most 
 lonely. As I was rapt in the contemplation of 
 the beautiful view before me, a shepherd passed, 
 and devoutly crossing himself humbly asked my 
 blessing. 
 
 " My blessing," I replied, " you have, my son. 
 But methought as I looked but now upon this 
 vale, that ye who dwell witliin its peaceful 
 bosom, needed not for human blessing." 
 
 " Nay, father," he said, " thy blessing is that 
 of Heaven." 
 
 '■ True, my son," said I, " but with this quiet 
 hamlet before me, I almost forgot ye needed 
 Heaven's blessings more. Night draws on 
 
 apace. I am Father Eugenio" 
 
 '• ^^'Tlat !" he exclaimed, interrupting me," 
 the Father Eugenio with whose virtues all 
 Spain resounds V' 
 
 " Nay, my son — my caihng forbrds me to < 
 listen to such praise, and my heart is far from i 
 it. Let us seek thy cot, for I am weary." / 
 
 " The castle hall is yonder, and its lord even \ 
 proud of Father Eugenio's presence." i 
 
 '• Nay, I seek not the hall of pride, but the > 
 cot, where peaceful, quiet happiness is found, S 
 and like my master I would shun the world's < 
 noise and tumult" I 
 
 In silence he led the way, and as he paused / 
 at the cottage door the shades of twilight deep- I 
 ened into night. But the moon rose from < 
 behind the eastern hills and cast its gentle light l 
 upon the valley, and I felt more deeply than > 
 ever before the goodness of the great Author of ^ 
 all things. The bay of the watchdog came 
 softly over tlie air from the castle, and there 
 was nothing to interrupt the peace of the scene. 
 It was holy — and I felt how pure ought to be 
 the hearts of those who are brought up in these 
 vales, away from the pomp and vanities of 
 the world. As we entered the cottage, the 
 shepherd's daughter met us, and when he pro- 
 nounced my name, with all the grace and 
 beauty of even the humblest of Spain's daugh- 
 ters, she bent her knee, and crossing her hands 
 upon her bosom, craved my blessing. 
 
 "Heaven bless you, daughter — bless you," 
 said I, and she rose and prepared the evening 
 repast for her father. Wearied and exhausted 
 with the toil of the day, I sought my bed, and 
 slept in peace. How little did I think it was 
 
 for the last time. How little did I think, that 
 in that vale where the distractions of life were 
 unknown, and where at first I had been filled 
 with the purest emotions, I was doomed to 
 leave the last remnant of sanctity, save its out- 
 ward garb. O cielof — how my brain bums 
 with the memory. Little did I think, when I 
 rose in the morning, and prayed that the pas- 
 sions that bind us to earth and estrange us 
 from heaven might be subdued in my heart, 
 that ever after an idolatrous love, stronger tlian 
 that I gave to my God, v.-ould mingle in my 
 prayers, and pollute the fountain of ray holiest 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Peace be to this house," said I, as I entered 
 the room where the family was assembled. At 
 the head of the table the father took his seat, 
 and gave me the place on his right hand. Op- 
 posite me sat his daughter Victoria, who had 
 received me the night before. My fatigue had 
 prevented mp from noticing her then, but now 
 as she sat before me I saw her in all her native 
 beauty. Her hair was braided in a raven coro- 
 net around her brow, and better became her than 
 a diadem of gems. And who can look into the 
 dark burning eye of one of Spain's daughters 
 and be unmoved ? I had before. I had wander- 
 ed through all that romantic countr}% and seen 
 all its beauties, and had laid my hand upon the 
 head of her proudest maidens to bless them, 
 and forget them. Now I forgot I was a conse- 
 crated priest of the most high God, and opened 
 my heart, to an idol which entered its inmost 
 shrine. Day passed by after day, and still I 
 lingered. I visited the neighboring hamlets, 
 but night always found me under tlie same roof 
 with Victoria. I strove witli the passion — I 
 tried to tear it from my heart — I felt how utterly 
 I was separated from woman's love by my sacred 
 office — but I could not go. The humble cot- 
 tagers asked my blessing, and my soul shrunk 
 in horror as I felt how vain it was. Yet with 
 practised command over my conduct, I did not 
 betray the canker at my heart. With her I 
 roved the valley and gazed on the beauties of 
 the .glowing world — we lingered abroad at 
 twilight, and watched the last rays of the sun 
 as they tinged the tops of the Pyrenees. We 
 gathered flowers in the wild dell, and I taught 
 her their names and their virtues — and to me 
 every herb and stone possessed a charm, while 
 her dark eye glowed in answer to my descrip- 
 tions. She took her guitar and sung the 
 "Evening Hymn to the Vigin," and then I 
 quailed — for I felt my apostacy. 
 
46 
 
 THE TALE OF AN ITALIAN. 
 
 "Why do you tremble, Father Eugenio," 
 she inquired. " The chill air is blowing down 
 from the mountains — let us return." 
 
 And I was a hyfocrite. I replied, "Nay, 
 daughter, I thought of IIim and his goodness, 
 and my sin," while I thought only of her. 
 
 A month passed away and still I was there. 
 Under the sanctity of my garb no one thought 
 that I gave one thought to earth or its happi- 
 ness, whilst the Father Eugenio, whose holi- 
 ness was the praise of all, was lost to all 
 virtue. 
 
 The heart that is filled with strong feelings 
 and strong affections gives its own hue to those 
 with whom it is conversant. We see this 
 every day in our intercourse with all our fel- 
 lows. How then shall it be with a gentle 
 woman, exposed continually to that intercourse 
 which makes her own the thoughts and feel- 
 ings of another. She becomes soon captivated, 
 and so it was with Victoria. She loved me. 
 I knew it. O no ! she would have never be- 
 lieved that she could sin so deeply. 
 
 But I must hasten on with my story. I 
 returned one day from a visit in the valley, just 
 as the sun was setting, and Victoria stood by 
 the door watching my approach. We gazed 
 upon the last ray as it faded and left behind the 
 star that warms all hearts. I spoke to her of 
 its beauty, and we talked of the God above till 
 I shuddered at my sinful hypocrisy. I turned 
 to her, and with a mockery of holy feeling, said : 
 " Daughter — to-morrow I must leave you." 
 
 As if it had discovered to her her heart, with 
 the suddenness of lightning she said : " Leave 
 us to-morrow — leave wic — O Father Eugenio!" 
 
 We forgot what we were. We forgot all 
 but ourselves, and as I pressed her to my heart I 
 exclaimed, " Victoria — I love you — I love you !" 
 
 It is said that those men who have been 
 drowned and afterwards recovered describe the 
 sensation of drowning as by no means painful, 
 but on the other hand attended with feelings 
 of pleasure. But tiiey describe the feeling of 
 recovery, as the suspended circulation is slowly 
 and painfully restored, and the blood creeps 
 sluggishly back to its accustomed channels, as, 
 beyond description, agonizing. Such must 
 have been to Victoria the discovery of her 
 heart Slowly and imperceptibly she had drank 
 In the fatil poison, deceived by its sweetness, 
 till all at once she felt how much too far she 
 had gone. As if the words I had spoken had 
 restored her to her virtue, she withdrew from 
 my embrace, and with a strange mastery over 
 
 her heart, she said, " Father, I have sinned — 
 forgive me : let us part." 
 
 "Part!" said I; "we whose hearts have 
 beat like one ? Yes, Victoria, we must part. 
 To-morrow I leave you, and by long penance 
 may hope to expiate my sin." 
 
 " And I," she exclaimed -" how can I ae 
 forgiven ?" 
 
 She took from her bosom a small crrss and 
 placed it in my hand. 
 
 « What is this ?" I asked. 
 
 She only replied, " That when you look on 
 it you may pray for a. penitent," and turning 
 entered the house. That cross I have worn 
 next my heart till now, and when I am dead, 
 will you take it and keep it as a token of a 
 heart's mad idolatry — a heart that forgot its 
 God? 
 
 But I will hasten on. In the morning Vic- 
 toria was gone. Search was in vain — she 
 could not be found. I left that part of Spain. 
 I inflicted unheard of penance on my body. I 
 would have gone naked and barefoot to my 
 grave if I could have rid myself of the curse 
 that hung upon my soul. I had not only 
 sinned myself, but I had brought guilt upon a 
 heart that before was holy. Whole nights 
 have I lain upon the ground in untold agony, 
 and prayed for the pardon I could not obtain. 
 Yet I continued to wear the garb and perform 
 the offices of my calling, till the Father Eugenio, 
 who was known for his virtue, became almost 
 sainted for his humility and severity of faith. 
 Spain's monarch and nobles bent their knees 
 for his blessing and in his hypocrisy he gave 
 it. The proud and the humble both rejoiced in 
 the laying on of his hands who almost feared 
 to pray for himself. 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 It was high festival in Rome. Crowds were 
 gathered from all parts of the world, and I was 
 among them. The last tones of the organ 
 died away in the vaulted roof of St. Peter's, 
 and still I knelt at the altar. A strange quiet 
 had come over my spirit, and I prayed with 
 hope of pardon. I heard a sigh, and raising 
 my head, I saw that all had 'eft the church 
 except a nun who knelt by my side. She 
 seemed in deep anguish of soul, and sighed 
 often and deeply. Thinking to speak words of 
 comfort to her, I addressed lier. She raised 
 her head — it was Victoria. 
 
 She had fled from her father's house, and 
 taken the veil. Yet, strong as her vows were, 
 there was a love she could not subdue. Better 
 
DEATH 
 
 47 
 
 if she had stayed at her father's hearth ; bet- 
 ter she had died before she broke from her first 
 dream of love. Now it was too late. Fate 
 had thrown us together, and we would not be 
 separated. I led her from the church, and 
 tjjrowing off my priestly garb, resolved no 
 more to desecrate the holy character. 
 
 We were pursued. I know not how it was 
 discovered, but it was soon known throughout 
 Rome that Father Eugenio, the meek and vir- 
 tuous, was apostate, and had drawn away a 
 sister from the convent I told it to Victoria, 
 and that we must fly. I was standing with my 
 arm about her — I felt her shudder — she raised 
 her eye to mine — she groaned, and her head 
 fell upon my shoulder. I held her a moment, 
 supposing she was trying to subdue her feel- 
 ings, but seeing that she did not move, I raised 
 her head. She was dead. The struggle had 
 been too severe — her heart had broken. 
 
 I heard a tumult in the street, and my 
 cowardly and guilty heart told me that I was 
 the cause. I laid the body hastily on a couch, 
 and escaped. Once more I passed through 
 Spain. The news of my fall had not reached 
 there, and I had resumed the garb of a priest. 
 I was fondly received and honored. I visited 
 tlie quiet vale where I had first seen Victoria. 
 I feasted my heart on the associations of for- 
 mer days. I lingered among the wild scenery 
 where I had wandered with her ; I called her 
 name, and waited for an answer, but it came 
 not. I was lonely and desolate, and my grief 
 for a lost idol men called my penitence. 
 
 The news, however, was not long in coming I 
 from Rome, and again I fled — in the agony of ] 
 
 my soul I cared not whither. I recollect little 
 of what followed for many weeks. There is 
 an indistinct idea of tossing in a ship for many 
 days, of wanderings from place to place, till I 
 found myself here. Now I shall die, and then I 
 shall meet my Victoria — " mia cara Victoria !" 
 And when I am dead, then take the cross from 
 my heart, and keep it, as I said, in remem- 
 brance of a heart's mad idolatry — a heart that 
 forgot its God. 
 
 January 25lh. — Last night the priest Euge- 
 nio died. I think it my duty always to urge 
 upon men, in view of approaching death, the 
 important consolations of religion, and recom- 
 mend them to converse with a minister of their 
 own faith. How dark the passage to the grave 
 must be to those who go down through it in 
 gloom and without hope beyond. To this man, 
 although educated in the doctrines and hopes 
 of his church, beyond most others, religion 
 had been always a form and external observ- 
 ance. As there was no priest of his own church 
 in the place — and had there been, he would 
 not have seen him — I proposed to him to per- 
 mit me to call in a neighboring Protestant 
 clergyman. He consented with little hesita- 
 tion, and I believe his mind was thus opened to 
 hopes unknown to him before. How glorious 
 that hope which can throw such clear light all 
 through the gloom of the dark valley. 
 
 I took the cross from its resting-place, and 
 had his body decently buried. He will be for- 
 gotten ; biit tliat love will bum again in some 
 passionate soul, to light a heart it cannot sanc- 
 tify. 
 
 IDISA'IPIEr. 
 
 A MIGHTY sceptred monarch sways 
 
 The realms of mortal breath ; 
 For every human soul obeys 
 
 Tho mandate stern of Death. 
 Death never smites a feeble blow, 
 
 Nor waiteth long between; 
 He Cometh from the depths below 
 
 This harvest ground to glean. 
 He hangs a fearful gloominess 
 
 About the wizard sea; 
 A never-failing loneliness, 
 
 When flowing pleasantly. 
 But when the howhng tempests rise. 
 
 Death hasteth to the fray. 
 
 And o'er the billows swiftly flie« 
 
 In rain's dread array. 
 In plaintive sounding melody 
 
 The breezes whisper low : — 
 'The agency of death shall be 
 
 Through time's all-ceaseless flow." 
 Death rideth on the stormy blast 
 
 Amid the lightning's play ; 
 And shouteth when the war-clouds fast 
 
 Their many victims slay. 
 He floateth on the noiseless breeze 
 
 In fragrant summer time ; 
 And hideth 'mid the leafy trees. 
 
 Whence music sweet doth chimo. 
 
48 
 
 THE MOTHER OF PRESIDENT EDWARDS. 
 
 He glitleth where deep waters flow, 
 
 And spreads the ripple wide ; 
 And stands where fetid marshes low 
 
 Extend their sluggish tide. 
 He saileth on the sun's bright beam, 
 
 Like love's resistless glance ; 
 And where the festive torches gleam. 
 
 Whirls in the giddy dance. 
 Death mingleth tempting pleasure's cup, 
 
 And crowns all earthly joy ; 
 He hovers where the song goes up, 
 
 Commissioned to destroy. 
 
 He filleth every spot of earth. 
 
 Like all-peiTading light; 
 And all that claimcth mortal birth 
 
 Death smites in giant might. 
 There's horror in the very air 
 
 When o'er the dead ffe oend : 
 There's mingled terror everywhere 
 
 If Death an arrow send. 
 What wonder then we stand aghast 
 
 When summoned far away ? 
 For Death, unwelcome till the last, 
 
 Fills up the gi'ave for aye. T. 
 
 BY MRS. M. E. DOUBLEDAY. 
 
 There is yet extant a letter from Mrs. Stod- 
 dard, of Northampton, to her daughter, Mrs. 
 Edwards, of East Windsor, in which she con- 
 gratulates her upon the birth of a son — that son 
 since so well known as the elder Jonathan Ed- 
 wards. 
 
 It is a touching epistle, written in the quaint 
 style and orthography of a century and a half 
 since ; and, while the mother rejoices in the 
 health and happiness of her child, she commu- 
 nicates intelligence of events deeply afflicting 
 their domestic circle, as she comprises in a few 
 simple words a narrative which thrilled our 
 school-days with fear and terror. 
 
 She writes to her daughter that the Indians 
 had made a descent upon the peaceful settle- 
 ment of Dcnfield, and taken her half-sister, Mrs. 
 Williams, (a daughter of Mrs. Stoddard, by a 
 former marriage,) with her children, into cap- 
 tivity. And «he tells her, too, of the death of a 
 brother, in a prison, " at a place they called Brest, 
 in France" whither he had been carried after 
 having been taken a prisoner from an English 
 vessel. 
 
 The heart of the mother had been wrung 
 with anguish, but a sweet spirit of piety 
 and submission breathes throughout the let- 
 ter ; while mingled with these more important 
 events, are the trifling details of domestic life, 
 and the kind remembrances of maternal love, 
 as she sent a silver porringer to the baby, and 
 an ounce of pins to the motlier. We had then 
 no manufactures, and such gifts were not to be 
 despised. 
 
 The more important events to which that let- 
 
 ter referred have passed, like "a tale that is told ;" 
 yet there are many in our land who may feel that 
 they have something like a personal interest in 
 the cradle beside which that letter was read — 
 in the pale mother who pc<ndered the sad news 
 as she rocked her sleeping boy. And those 
 who duly estimate the influence of the mother 
 upon the heart and mind, by the formation of 
 one aff'ecting the destinies of many, will feel 
 no small interest in her to whom was commit- 
 ted the early impressions of the future divine 
 and metaphysician. 
 
 Mrs. Edwards inherited much of the talent 
 of her father, the " venerable Stoddard," and 
 New England sages of the past century believ- 
 ed the intellectual powers of the celebrated son 
 transmitted, as an inheritance, from the mater- 
 nal side. 
 
 Few have been placed in circumstances more 
 entirely favorable to the strengthening and de- 
 veloping of the n-.ental powers, and the cultiva- 
 tion of the moral an*cctions, than was Jonathan 
 Edwards ; and he has carried through life, and 
 no doubt into the eternal world, the in^uences 
 of a pure and happy home. 
 
 lie shared the care and aflfection of his mo- 
 ther, with a large family of sisters ; and if they 
 none of them have acquired the celebrity of 
 their brother, they were all well educated — in 
 the language of this day, we may say highly 
 accomplished — intelligent women. Their father 
 taught them I^atin and Greek, so that the elder 
 sisters were the first instructors of their brother, 
 tiiough probably not so well versed in the cla.<- 
 sics as President Wolsey. At some fashiima- 
 
ENGLISH NOTABILITIES. 
 
 49 
 
 ble school of these days, they were taught 
 painting and embroidery, while the mother 
 communicated things of far higher importance. 
 She trained them in the fear of the Lord, and 
 accustomed them to habits of industry, order 
 and economy. And, marrying into the most 
 respectable families of their native land, they 
 carried with them the maxims, the habits, and 
 the principles in which she educated them, and 
 transmitted them to descendants who have been 
 among the most useful and respectable of the 
 Sons of New England. 
 
 Many cares must have devolved upon the 
 wife of a country minister in these old-fashioned 
 times, in which the congregation looked to the 
 minister's family as the example to the flock ; 
 and while they showed them all deference, they 
 expected a reciprocation of all neighborly kind- 
 ness and civility ; and when the minister's doors 
 were to be kept open, and the table spread for 
 all wayfaring brethren, while the family circle 
 was enlarged by students who were prepared 
 for the pulpit in the study of the husband. But 
 Mrs. Edwards was well able to meet, and well 
 sustain them all. She was the mother of eleven 
 children. President Edwards was her only 
 son. She dwelt with the husband of her youth 
 more than half a century. She survived him 
 twelve years. 
 
 She lived until she attained her ninetietii 
 year, and passed the years of her widowhood 
 in the house to which she had been brought a 
 bride — where she had rocked the cradles of her 
 children — where the marriage benediction had 
 been pronounced over her daughters before 
 
 they had left their father's house — where she 
 had known the joys and sorrows of wife and 
 widow — had welcomed the new-bom, and wept 
 over the dead. Her husband's success in the 
 ministry doubly bereaved one whose age, posi- 
 tion and character entitled her to all respect, 
 and the people of her husband's charge never 
 forgot to show her all reverence. The last 
 years of her life she read much, and the Bible 
 and those theological works in which the New 
 England puritans so much delighted, were al- 
 ways on her table : and the venerable matron 
 seated beside it, with her knitting, often stopped 
 to comment on passages read aloud by her 
 daughter, who never left her, to the ladies of the 
 neighborhood, who were fond of assembling in 
 her parlor. And after the social visit, before they 
 separated, the daughter would read a chapter 
 from the book they loved so well, and then the 
 aged woman commended them to God in prayer. 
 And while many sought counsel and comfort 
 from her, it was believed she was used in the 
 conversion of many — who shall sliine as jewels 
 in the crown of her rejoicing. 
 
 She was said to have been a woman of fine 
 personal appearance, dignified and polished 
 manners, educated in Boston, the seat of the 
 provincial court, accustomed to all tl*-} etiquette 
 and ceremonial of the colonial aristocracy, and 
 teaching and observing in her own family all 
 the proprieties of life and manners, even to 
 that minutiae of dress and appearance which 
 marked the manners of the higher classes in 
 the day in which distinctions of rank were not 
 forgotten. 
 
 ISH^ILirSIEI Kr^lP^lItJLIIf HlgS. 
 
 BY J. T. HEADLET. 
 
 THE REG.ALIA— BANK OF ENGLAND— THAMES TUNNEL— OUT OF LONDON- 
 ING OF THE KLNG'S ENGLISH— OXFORD— STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 -MURDER- 
 
 The visitor can never say enough of the 
 old Tower, but I will here mention only one 
 or two things. In Queen Elizabeth's Ar- 
 mory are stored all the varieties of ancient 
 weapons of warfare. There are the glaive, 
 giusarne, the bill, catchpole, Lochaber axe, 
 two-handed battle-axe, haldberd, crossbows. 
 
 Sec. Passing over the rooms and instniments 
 of torture, let us drop for a moment into the 
 Tower House containing the Regalia. Here 
 in a single glass case is gathered all the crown 
 jewels, diadems, sceptres, 6cc., of rich old Eng- 
 land. There are five crowns in all, and five royal 
 sceptres, heavy with gold and flashing w^ith 
 
50 
 
 ENGLISH NOTABILITIES. 
 
 diamonds. The Queen's Diadem, made for 
 the wife of James II., is a single circlet of gold, 
 yet with its large, richly set diamonds and 
 edging of pearls it cost a half million of dol- 
 lars. Victoria's crown has a large cross in 
 front entirely frosted with brilliants, and in 
 the centre a single sapphire, two inches long 
 and blue as heaven — it is the size of a small 
 egg. There leans St. Edward's staff, four 
 feet and a half long and of pure gold, and 
 near it a royal sceptre, three feet and a half 
 in length, radiant with its own jewelled light. 
 There, too, are the Golden Eagle, which holds 
 the anointing oil for their most gracious sove- 
 reigns — the anointing spoon — the great golden 
 salt-cellar of state surrounded with twelve 
 smaller ones, all of gold — the baptismal font, 
 in which Victoria and the present Prince of 
 Wales were both baptized, silver-gilt, /our /eei 
 high — and the heavy sacramental plate — two 
 massive tankards, &c., &c., all of solid gold. 
 
 " Only sixpence a sight," and lo ! the eye 
 feasts on this profusion of diamonds, and jewels, 
 and precious stones. Millions of money have 
 been wasted on these baubles, and there 
 they idly flash year after year, while their 
 worth expended on famishing Ireland would 
 give bread to every starving family, or instruc- 
 tion to every ignorant and depraved child of the 
 kingdom. But this is the way of the world — 
 millions for show, but not a cent for wretched, 
 starving men. 
 
 With a mere glance at the Bank of Eng- 
 land and the Thames Tunnel, and we will 
 away to the open country — to the green hedge- 
 rows and rolling fields of merry old England. 
 The Bank of England is a fine building ; " it is 
 an immense and very extensive stone edifice, 
 situated a short distance north-west of Corn 
 Hill. The principal entrance is from Thread- 
 needle street. It is said this building covers 
 five acres of ground. Business hours from 
 nine o'clock until five p. m. There are no 
 windows opening on the street ; light is ad- 
 mitted through open courts ; no mob could 
 take the bank, therefore, without cannon to 
 batter the immense walls. There are nine 
 hundred clerks employed in the bank, and not 
 one foreigner among the whole. Should a 
 cicik be too old for service, he is discharged 
 on lialf-|Kiy for life. The clock in the centre 
 of the bank has fifty dials attached to it ; each 
 of the rooms has a dial, in order that all in the 
 bank should know the true time. Largo cis- 
 tema are sunk in the courts, and engines in 
 
 perfect order, always in readiness in case of 
 fire. The bank was incorporated in 1694. 
 Capital £18,000,000 sterling, or $90,000,000." 
 
 The Tunnel is one of the chief wonders of 
 London. This subterranean passage is thirty 
 feet beneath the bed of the Thames river and 
 twenty-two feet high. It is thirteen hundred 
 feet long and thirty-eight wide, and lighted 
 with gas. One has strange emotions in stand- 
 ing under these dark, damp arches. Over his 
 head is rushing a deep river, and vessels are 
 floating, and steamboats are ploughing the 
 water, and he cannot but think of the effect a 
 small leak would produce, and what his chance 
 would be in a general break down of the 
 arches above. 
 
 The Tunnel is composed of two arches with 
 a row of immense columns in the centre. It is 
 designed for carriages, but is not yet suffi- 
 ciently completed to receive them. You de- 
 scend by a winding staircase, and passing 
 under the river emerge into daylight by a 
 similar staircase on the farther side. Little 
 hand printing-presses, fruit and candy tables, 
 and nick-nacks of various kinds, are strung 
 through this passage. 
 
 As I was sauntering along suddenly I heard 
 a low humming sound which startled me pro- 
 digiously. The first thought was that the 
 masonry above had given way, and that ring- 
 ing was the steady pressure of the down-rush- 
 ing waters. The bare possibility of being 
 buried up there was too horrible to entertain 
 for a moment. I looked anxiously around, but 
 finding no one, not even those who lived there, 
 the least alarmed, I concluded it was all right, 
 and walked on. But that strange humming- 
 ringing grew louder and louder, and com- 
 pletely bewildered me. It had no rising swell 
 or sinking cadence, but monotonous, deep, and 
 constant, kept rising every moment louder and 
 clearer. Hastening forward I came to the 
 farther entrance of the Tunnel, and there sat a 
 man and boy, one with a violin and the other 
 with a harp — the innocent authors of all the 
 strange, indescribable sounds that had so con- 
 fused me. The endless reverberations amid 
 those long arches so completely mingled them 
 together — one overtaking and blending in with 
 another, and the whole bounding back in a 
 mass to be again split asunder, and tossed 
 about, created such a jargon as I never before 
 listened to. The sounds could not escape, and 
 in their struggles to do so— hitting along the 
 roof and sides of the Tunnel — they at length 
 
ENGLISH NOTABILITIES. 
 
 51 
 
 lost all distinctness of utterance, and became 
 tangled up in the most astonishing manner. 
 
 At length I bade smoky London adieu, and 
 driving early one morning to a stage-office, 
 booked myself for Oxford. As I was waiting 
 for the stage to start, I stepped into a shop 
 near by for some crackers, thinking perhaps 
 my early breakfast would leave me with some- 
 thing of an appetite before it was time to dine. 
 But to my surprise the keeper told me he had 
 no " crackers," and looked as thougii he re- 
 garded me a lunatic or fresh from some remote 
 region. I returned his look of surprise, for 
 there before me were bushels of crackers. All 
 at once I remembered that cracker was an 
 Americanism, and that Englishmen call eveiy 
 thing of the kind biscuit. This put matters 
 right. 
 
 In a short time we were trundling through 
 the long streets of London, and at length pass- 
 ing from the dirty suburbs, found ourselves 
 in the open country. For a while it was 
 pleasant, but we soon came to a barren, deso- 
 late tract, which quite damped the hopes with 
 which we had set out. 
 
 Hal. this being passed, we entered on the 
 beautiful farming districts of England. The 
 roads were perfect, and the long green hedge- 
 rows gently rolling over the slopes ; the masses 
 of dark foliage sprinkled here and there through 
 the fields, and the fine bracing air, combined to 
 lift our spirits up to the enjoying point. I had 
 taken a seat on the top of the coach, and hence 
 could overlook the whole country. Marlow, 
 which we passed, is a pretty place, and the seats 
 of English gentlemen along the road are pic- 
 turesque and beautiful. 
 
 As we were descending a gentle inclination 
 to Henly-on-the-Thames, the valley that opened 
 on our view was lovely beyond description. 
 But just here an accident overtook us ; one of 
 our wheels broke, and we were compelled to 
 foot it into town. The driver immediately sent 
 one of those hangers-on around taverns and 
 stables to a coachmaker, to see if he could 
 obtain a coach or extra wheel. As he came 
 slouching back, Lwas struck with his reply. 
 English people are always ridiculing the lan- 
 guage spoken in this country, but that loafer 
 beat a down-easter out and out. He had been 
 unsuccessful, and as he came up he drawled out, 
 "Ae hainU got nary coach nor nary wheel!" 
 Now, an ignorant Yankee might have said, 
 •' he hain't got nary coach nor wheel," but he 
 never would have doubled the " nary''' — this 
 
 was wholly English. I had often noticed a 
 similar dreadful use of the English language 
 among the cabmen of London ; they are alto- 
 gether worse than our cabmen at home. 
 
 We, however, succeeded in getting under 
 way at last, and reached Oxford just as the 
 clouds began to pour their gathered treasures 
 down. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe old Oxford. 
 It is a venerable place, and the pile of buildings 
 which compose the University one of the most 
 imposing I have ever seen. Old and time- 
 worn, with their grave architecture and ancient 
 look, they present a striking appearance amid 
 the green sward that surrounds them. Of the 
 Bodleian and Radclilfe libraries I shall say 
 nothing. In conversing with one of the tutors 
 of the University, I was surprised to learn that 
 Pusey was regarded there rather as an honest 
 old granny than an able and profound man. 
 
 The morning I left Oxford for Stratford-on- 
 the-Avon was as beautiful a one as ever smiled 
 over New England. The fragmentary clouds 
 went trooping over the sky, the fresh, cool wind 
 swept cheerfully by, and the newly-washed 
 meadows and fields looked as if just preparing 
 themselves for a holiday. Again I took my 
 seat on the top of the coach, with two or three 
 others, and started away. We soon picked up 
 an additional companion — a pretty young wo- 
 man — who also climbed to the roof of the 
 coach. The inside was full, and you must 
 know that an Englishman never gives up his 
 seat to a lady. He takes the place he has paid 
 for, and expects all others, of whatever sex, 
 to do the same. If it rains, he says it is un- 
 fortunate, but supposes that the lady knew the 
 risk when she took her seat, and expects her 
 to bear her misfortune like a philosopher. 
 
 This lady, I should think from her general 
 appearance and conversation, was a governess. 
 She had evidently travelled a good deal, and 
 was very talkative and somewhat inquisitive. 
 When she discovered I was an American, she 
 very gravely remarked that she mistrusted it 
 before from my complexion. Now it must be 
 remembered that I have naturally the tinge of 
 a man belonging to a southern clime, which 
 had been considerably deepened by my recent 
 exposures in the open air in Italy and along 
 the Rhine. Supposing that all American* 
 were tawny from their close relationship to 
 the aborigines of our country, she attributed 
 my swarthiness to the Indian blood in my 
 veins. I confessed myself sufficiently sur- 
 
o2 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 prised at her penetration, and humored her in- 
 quisitiveness. She left us at Stratford, bidding 
 my friend and myself good-bye with a dignified 
 shake of the hand. We of course regarded this 
 great condescension on her part to two Indians 
 with proper respect, attributing it to the com- 
 parative fluency witli which we spoke Eng- 
 lish. She evidently thought us savages of 
 more than ordinary education. 
 
 After dinner, I strolled out to the house of 
 Shakspcare, a low, niiserdble affair at the best, 
 and hardly large enougli for three persons. 
 Yet here the great dramatist was born. After 
 going through it, I went to the church where 
 his bones repose, and read, with strange feelings, 
 the odd inscription he directed to be placed 
 over his tomb. 
 
 It was a beautiful day, and I went out and 
 sat down on the banks of the Avon beside the 
 church, and gazed long on the rippling waters 
 and green slopes of the neighboring hills and 
 greener hedges. Cattle were lazily browsing 
 in the fields ; the ancient trees beside the 
 church bent and sighed as the fresh breeze 
 swept by, and all was tranquillity and beauty. 
 I had never seen so pure a sky in England. 
 
 The air was clear and bracing, and although 
 it was the middle of August, it seemed like a 
 bright June day at home. 
 
 How many fancies a man will sometimes 
 weave, and yet scarce know why. A single 
 chord of memory is perhaps touched, or some 
 slight association will arise, followed by a 
 hundred others, as one bird, starting from the 
 brake, will arouse a whole flock, and away they 
 go swarming together. It was thus as I sat on 
 the banks of the Avon, soothed by the ripple of 
 its waters. Along this stream Shakspeare had 
 wandered in his boyhood, and cast his dark 
 eye over this same landscape. What gorgeous 
 dreams here wrapped his youthful imagination, 
 and strange, wild vagaries crossed his mind. 
 Old England then was merry, and plenty 
 reigned in her halls, and good cheer was every 
 where to be found. But now want and poverty 
 cover the land. Discontent is written on half 
 the faces you meet, and the murmurs of a 
 coming storm are heard over the distant hea- 
 vens. 
 
 Farewell, sweet Avon ! your bright waters, 
 bordered with green fields, and sparkling in 
 light, are like a pleasant dream. 
 
 l¥IgMI[M(i 
 
 BY D. W, BARTLETT. 
 
 Sweet evening in her robes of sable hue 
 Is here, and is bestowing her soft dew 
 Upon the earth, and shutting up the flowers 
 With her moist fingers for the sleeping hours. 
 My heart is sad to-night, and on my brain 
 Care heavily doth press, and bitter pain. 
 And I am lonely, for no friend is here ; 
 But most of all I miss mij mother dear. 
 My mother ! — ah ! mcthinks I see her now, 
 With those soft, loving eyes of hers, and brow 
 So kind ! Oh ! sad am I, because I know 
 That I have caused dark, bitter tears to flow 
 From out those blessed eyes of hers — and now 
 I clasp her hand and bend before her low — 
 Methinks I feel her tears upon my cheek, 
 And hear her breathe a prayer for me her weak 
 And erring boy ! Dear mother ! let me lay 
 My head upon thy heart — would God for aye 
 
1 i :••;•. ^ y' 
 
 4: # 
 

 •* 
 
THREE DAYS IN TilE APPENINES. 
 
 53 
 
 It might remain ; for there I could not sin, 
 
 Where such pure, heav'n-like virtue reigns within ! 
 
 But thou art far from me, and oh ! perhaps 
 
 1 ne'er again shall see thy face — a lapse 
 
 Of time at least must slowly pass, ere I 
 
 Can let my head upon thy bosom lie ; 
 
 But if thy cheek I never kiss again — 
 
 If never more thy tears shall wash the stain 
 
 Of sin from off my heart, I'll not despair, 
 
 For God, I know, will grant my mother's prayer ; 
 
 And granting it, " O Death, where is thy sting ?" 
 
 For then to me eternal joy thou'lt bring ! 
 
 BY Gr. F. SEGCHI DE OASALI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The morning had just dawned ; the golden 
 sun of Italy gleamed upon the crest of the 
 Appenines. The valleys resounded with the 
 lowing of herds and the matin-songs of birds ; 
 gaily-dressed peasants went in companies to 
 their labor, headed by some musician, who 
 echoed back the sweet songs of the beautiful 
 peasant girls, that, crowned with flowers, were 
 about commencing the vintage. All around us 
 was magnificent ; all spoke to the mind as well 
 as to the heart. Emerald valleys ; meadows, 
 gemmed with flowers of every hue ; hills, pic- 
 turesque and varied with cottages and villas ; 
 above all, a heaven pure and serene promised 
 one of the most glorious days of autumn. 
 
 Oh, then I felt awakened to a new life ! I 
 beheld these beauties of nature with a lively 
 pleasure, a peculiar admiration. Every thing 
 around us recalled constantly to mind the days 
 and scenes of my childhood, the hopes, the fer- 
 vent desires of revisiting them, when thou- 
 sands of miles lay between us. How often 
 amid the deserts of Egypt, upon the burning 
 shores of the Nile, beside the wasted fountains 
 of Palestine, in the shadow of Atlas, and 
 even upon the barbarous and inhospitable soil 
 of Asia, I thought of these valleys and moun- 
 tains, my beloved and beautiful Italy. 
 
 After four years of vicissitudes and wander- 
 
 ings, of suflferingB and perils, it was granted 
 me to behold once more my country and my 
 friends. What do I say ? — my friends ! My 
 mother was no more ! The companion of my 
 childhood and of my later studies, Ludovico, 
 resumed with me our excursions among the 
 mountains, the chase of the fox, and our pil- 
 grimages to the shrines of the Virgin and the 
 saints. These solemnities, though in the mid- 
 dle of the 19th century, preserve more of the 
 character of heathen worship than of Christi- 
 anity. 
 
 Every village has its particular virgin, its 
 patron saint ; and at each anniversary of these 
 divinities are renewed the rural fetes, the pil- 
 grimages, and the re-union of thousands who 
 prefer to revere their gods and goddesses as 
 bacchanals, rather than to render to the true 
 God a simple worship, an adoration purely spi- 
 ritual. 
 
 A fete was announced to be given by the 
 village of Montalto. The concourse of pil- 
 grims, of devotees and spectators, wended 
 their way to the shrine of San Gottardo, and 
 the day of our excursion was the one previous 
 to the anniversary of this saint. 
 
 Already the day was considerably advanced ; 
 the sun flung his glistening rays over the 
 earth ; a slight breeze blew gently from the 
 north, and the air was fragrant with the per- 
 
64 
 
 THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 fume of flowers. Never, in all my wanderings, 
 had I witnessed a scene so enchanting as that 
 of the valley of the Trebbia and the villages 
 upon its banks. What a glorious day was 
 this ! Nature herself seemed endowed with a 
 new life, and autumn was confounded with 
 the awakening of spring. 
 
 Far in the distance was heard tlie noise of 
 the cataract as it plunged into the depths of 
 the valley. The flocks, led by young and 
 beautiful shepherdesses, sought their pastures ; 
 multitudes of women were already commencing 
 the vintage ; others reaped upon the brows of 
 the rocks, while their husbands drove home- 
 ward tlie loaded carts, or filled the cellars with 
 the fruit consecrated to Bacchus. All this 
 labor was carried on amid song and music, amid 
 joy and love. Happy friends and dwellers in 
 this valley ! how sweet and noble the life to 
 which you are dedicated, constantly surrounded 
 by all that nature can offer of the beautiful or 
 the useful, with one common accord, and with 
 brotherly love, you labor in the midst of song 
 and music. 
 
 Ah ! yes, you are right — music instructs, 
 awakens, expands, communicates, while the 
 harmony of its tones rules the will and the 
 heart. Music is faith, it is friendship, it is 
 the association of all excellence. Labor on, 
 then, speaking still the language of angels, that 
 language that binds us to heaven and to earth ! 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The clock of the church of St. Egidio struck 
 the hour of noon, just as we arrived at the 
 " Rocca di Casale." This castle, fantastic in its 
 architecture, built upon the summit of a moun- 
 tain, still preserves the warlike aspect of the 
 middle ages. This fief had borne a conspic- 
 uous part in the intestinal wars between 
 the Guelphs and the Ghibellines. These two 
 parties, who disputed the victory for centuries, 
 shedding seas of the blood of their own people, 
 of their own nation, had been, by turns masters 
 of the " Rocca di Casale." How much blood 
 had been spilled ! how many battles fought ! 
 how many skeletons were mouldering beneath 
 those walls ! 
 
 On entering the Rocca, we passed through a 
 gate that opened by a drawbridge. We de- 
 scended first by a narrow and obscure passage, 
 and afterwards mounted to the tower by a 
 winding staircase, in which, at short distances, 
 were little cells, deep and damp, closed by iron 
 
 doors bolted and barred. In the great halls, 
 now desolate and uninhabited, were still seen 
 armorial bearings and paintings, representing 
 battles and victories — some, a father strangling 
 his child because he had discovered him to 
 belong to the opposite faction ; and others, sons 
 assassinating their fathers, that they might ob- 
 tain a triumph for their party even at the cost of 
 a parent's life ! How many brave men perished 
 in that fortress ! how many heroes languished 
 there for weary years to gratify the hatred of 
 their enemies ! 
 
 Tiie peasants of the neighborhood regarded 
 the Rocca di Casale as a mysterious place. 
 Never had one of them dared to approach it 
 after nightfall, lest they should meet the wan- 
 dering spirit of some one of those unhappy 
 warriors, who for centuries had reposed there 
 in silence and death. The warder even, the 
 sole inhabitant of the chateau, was looked upon 
 as a gipsy, as one who held intercourse with 
 these nocturnal shades, the spirits who were 
 now the possessors of the " Rocca." 
 
 Giacomo, such was the name of the worthy 
 warder, after having played for us the part of 
 cicerone, regaled us with a dinner purely 
 Pythagorean, and which was rendered still 
 more agreeable by his own good company, 
 while he related to us marvellous tales of the 
 ghosts of the castle. At once devout and ex- 
 ceedingly superstitious, he was fully persuaded 
 that night after night he heard the cries of the 
 suffering — the groans of the dying — and the 
 noise of men prepared for battle, who, as they 
 marched out, made the midnight air echo with 
 the clang of their heavy and ancient armor. 
 He insisted that he had seen, walking back and 
 forth in the vast citadel, men of gigantic forms 
 in white garments, others clad in black, bearing 
 in their hands lighted torches and trailing after 
 them long chains. During the night he had 
 been awakened by the cry of strange voices 
 demanding succor, prayers and masses : in fact, 
 he recited for our benefit a thousand tales of 
 this sort — all more or less attractive — tales 
 well worthy of recital by the warm fireside of 
 a winter evening, with the accompaniment of 
 the wine-cup to drink to the restless spirits of 
 Uio " Rocca." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Little by little the sun was descending behind 
 the Appcnines. Some stars had already ap- 
 peared in the blue heavens, and from afar were 
 perceived the fires that had been lighted for the 
 
THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 55 
 
 glory of San Gottardo. The death toll sounded 
 from Montalto, and the peasants, with uncov- 
 ered heads, turned towards their church, as the 
 Mussulman turns towards his Mecca, and 
 prayed for the departed. 
 
 **Pace ai poveri morti.'" whispered a young 
 girl in the garb of a mourner. " I pray for my 
 mother," said she, turning towards us, when 
 surprised at our indifference she asked if we 
 had no dead. " Is it not sweet, O Signori, and 
 consoling to the heart," said she with deep emo- 
 tion, " to render a tribute, a homage to those 
 who have loved us so well and have suffered 
 for us ? Is it not at the tomb of those who 
 have been dear to us that we feel renewed 
 within us our faith, our trust, our hope in the 
 one God, alone and perfect ?" 
 
 Ludovico, who had determined upon playing 
 the part of a theologian, replied, that, acccording 
 to the Scripture, there was but one place of 
 glory, and another of eternal expiation ; that 
 purgatory was but an invention of the Church, 
 and fruitful means of procuring money with 
 which to maintain superstition, ignorance, and 
 her high-handed domination over the poor and 
 credulous. " I know," replied the girl, " that 
 our priests make it generally a matter of mer- 
 chandise, thus profaning our religion, and that 
 they redeem souls by their prayers and their 
 doctrines, always with a view to interest ! But 
 supposing, as you say, Signore, that our depart- 
 ed ones do not need our prayers, is it not con- 
 soling to repeat upon a mother's grave the 
 prayers she taught us when we were children ? 
 Such prayers, it seems to me, animate us ; they 
 transport our souls to the celestial dwellings of 
 the happy. " Beati mortui qui in Domino mo- 
 n'uJi/Hr," added she, saluting us — and follow- 
 ing with our eyes the path of the pretty orphan 
 we saw her seat herself beside a grave. 
 
 At some distance from us was a cemetery, 
 that an inattentive observer would have scarcely 
 distinguished, so little had it been adorned by 
 the hand of man. Its bounds were marked 
 only by hedges, which surrounded it as with a 
 garland of flowers and of verdure. The graves 
 were only perceptible by a slight elevation of 
 the earth, or by the crosses which were plant- 
 ed here and there among them. The weeping 
 willow and the poplar took from this little en- 
 closure its air of nakedness, and to this spot of 
 respect and silence, in this last resting-place of 
 man, the devoted and pious daughter had gone 
 alone, to seat herself beside her mother's tomb, 
 to pray over it and water it with her tears! 
 
 How sublime, and yet how admirable is reli- 
 gion ! A heart tender and devoted to her who 
 had carried her in her bosom, who had first spo- 
 ken to her of a God, seeks no other consolation 
 than a prayer, believes in no happiness, no joy 
 unconnected with heaven ! Humble and faith- 
 ful, not from a blind belief, but from a convic- 
 tion pure and enlightened, she trusts in and 
 adores the Creator of all things ; and in grief, 
 her faith consoles, encourages her to bear suf- 
 fering and wait for those days that are better 
 and eternal ! O Atheist ! canst thou again 
 openly deny thy God after having been witness 
 of such a scene — beneath a starry sky, beside 
 the tomb of the parent who is no more, and in 
 defiance of every thing around thee that bears 
 testimony to the existence of a God supreme, 
 great and all-powerful ? Nature, thy sole Deity, 
 speaks she not to thee ? says she not. Look 
 upon my beauty, my composition, my fruits — 
 thyself, a part of me ? all is the work of Him 
 whom thou deniest .' 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Although fatigued by our long journey, we 
 were happy in the enjoyment of the scenes we 
 had passed through and of our twilight ramble ; 
 if the day had appeared to us magnificent, the 
 night at least equalled it. The moon had 
 already risen ; its rays, at first pale, grow more 
 brilliant as the twilight disappeared. This sis- 
 ter of the sun, surrounded by millions of glitter- 
 ing stars, shone with unusual brightness, while 
 their united splendor seemed to vie with the 
 fervor of day. Oh ! a beautiful star-light night ! 
 One of those matchless nights of Italy ; is it 
 not an image of whatever is most beautiful and 
 happy under heaven ? the tranquillity of a vir- 
 tuous man, who, in his ripe age, reposes beneatli 
 his paternal roof, where he enjoys, in happy 
 obscurity, the delights of domestic life ? the 
 union and reciprocal affection of a youthful pair 
 but just united ? the unlimited confidence of two 
 real friends dwelling in solitude ? 
 
 " Ah ! la pure amitie, tendre, sans jalousie ; 
 Des hommes qu' elle enchaine, elle channe la vie." 
 
 In a word, a beautiful night is an image of per- 
 fect felicity — of a conscience pure and without 
 remorse. 
 
 From all sides were seen approaching the 
 sanctuarj', dealers in liquors, charlatans and 
 dentists, each prepared to plant their booths, 
 shops or tents. The peasants of the vicinity 
 went in crowds bearing to the holy protector 
 
56 
 
 THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 such offerings as poultry, lambs, flax or fruits, 
 which they deposited at the gate of the convent. 
 Numbers of sick, deformed and infirm, were 
 kneeling in front of the church ; two monks in 
 the dress of their order stood at the door, one 
 holding a plate to receive the alms of the faith- 
 ful, the other with holy water and white ribbons 
 which he asserted to be the exact measurement 
 of the height of the saint. According to this holy 
 father, these ribbons were possessed of especial 
 virtue ; they healed the sick, even of the most 
 incurable maladies, if they were but placed upon 
 the part affected. These two reverend person- 
 ages, by giving the holy water gratuitously and 
 the ribbons at five sous each, were charged at 
 the same time to see that no male should enter 
 the church. Sick or barren women, who de- 
 sired to be cured of their infirmity, passed the 
 night in the church of San Gottardo, praying, 
 singing, &c.,&c., although surrounded by mys- 
 tery ; but the men were excluded. Husbands 
 were obliged to confide their wives to the 
 care of the monks and content themselves until 
 the morning under the porch of the chapel. 
 But murmurs arose amid this multitude ; some, 
 who wished to be considered philosophers, said 
 that they would rather have trusted their 
 women to the soldiery than to men in gowns. 
 The husbands of those within tried to quiet 
 these malcontents, by repeating the rigorous 
 rules of the order, the clause and interdiction 
 of these women into the convent, and the vows 
 of chastity by which the monks were bound ; 
 still the younger men insisted that the friars 
 were not to be trusted as far as the soldiery ! 
 
 It was already late, and it became necessary 
 that we should seek an asylum, for, having no 
 wives within the church, we could well dispense 
 with passing the night in the open air. As 
 sons of those general benefactors, the monks, 
 we were entitled, at least, to their hospitality — 
 and with this conviction, rang the gate-bell of 
 the convent. The porter, after having kept us 
 waiting a long time, at length made his appear- 
 ance with a lantern in his hand, like a spirit 
 from the shades of night. This venerable old 
 man, bent with the weight of years and fatigues, 
 was slowly languishing out the remainder of 
 his existence, ready to depart from the scenes 
 of this world. 
 
 Like a commissioner of the police, before 
 introducing us into the convent, he demanded 
 our naniei), our passports, whence we came, and 
 what was our object ? At length satisfied as 
 to all these particulars, ho received us as 
 
 friends. Wishing to spare him all the trouble 
 we could on our account, we proposed retiring. 
 Signori, said he with a sigh, I am accustomed 
 to keeping vigils (and those of the most severe 
 kind) for many years ! I am il cavallo magro 
 of the convent, and having here the latest and 
 most painful duties to perform, I am obliged at 
 all times to submit to the caprices of the 
 monks. Fraternal love is unknown here, ex- 
 cept in name, and to procure for us the good 
 opinion of the world ! Neither my zeal, my 
 age, already advanced, nor my birth (and here 
 he paused, and as he raised his eyes to heaven 
 we saw the big tears coursing down his wan 
 cheeks) have been able to soften, in any de- 
 gree, their obdurate hearts, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Father Placido (such was the name of the 
 porter) had been induced to join one of the 
 monastic orders by the intrigues of a Jesuit, 
 who hoped, by thus disposing of him, to be 
 able to secure to himself the inheritance of his 
 family estates. The porter, then a young man, 
 had loved the daughter of a patrician of the 
 Venetian republic, but from difference of rank 
 or fortune his suit had proved unsuccessful ; 
 Vinnamorata was removed from Venice, and ho 
 sent to a convent in Romagna. At the age of 
 nineteen, Father Placido had accomplished all 
 his studies ; he was ardent and generous, and 
 endowed by nature with most uncommon capa- 
 cities. The other monks, jealous and envious 
 of his wisdom and love of study, hated him, 
 and seized every opportunity of humiliating 
 him. They saw in him, not merely a brother 
 of their order, but a true son of the republic of 
 Venice, of that republic which had made itself 
 the light and the mistress of tlie greater part 
 of the world. 
 
 In his lectures, for he held a professorship, 
 he recalled to his pupils the happy times of 
 Italian liberty, and the great men whom that 
 time had produced. He spoke of Arnold of 
 Brescia, the first reformer, as of a messenger 
 sent from God to regenerate Italy, and to re- 
 form religion and the depravity of the Church. 
 Girolamo Savonarola was, according to him, 
 the prophet of the IGth century, the tribune of 
 the Florentine people, the martyr of liberty and 
 truth ; the writings of Paolo Sarpi, and of the 
 Bishop Scipione Ricci, furnished him with ex- 
 traordinary texts for his sermons ; in a word, 
 ho was much better fitted to have been a min- 
 ister of the Reformation than a monk of St. 
 
THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 57 
 
 Fruncis. He was afterwards accused as a ; 
 heretic and a Carhonaro, summoned to Rome 
 to render au account of bis conduct and of his 
 writings, and finally obliged to appear before 
 the terrible tribunal of the Inquisition. 
 
 To avoid the penalties and chastisements 
 of the first accusation he nmst retract, and 
 make public amends; as a Carhonaro, he 
 could save himself from condemnation only 
 by denouncing his companions as conspira- 
 tors. Father Plncido did neither the one nor 
 the other; he suffered torture, and ten years 
 of close imprisonment in the Castle of San 
 Leo with the most unheard of stoicism and 
 the greatest firmness. Afterwards he was 
 sent to the convent of San Gottardo as a sim- 
 ple lay-bi-otber, and was obliged to submit to 
 the most severe rules of the order, and per- 
 form the most painful labors. 
 
 " At the age of twenty-eight years," said 
 Father Placido, " I was elevated to the rank of 
 superior of a convent in Romagna. Upon en- 
 tering upon the duties of this office I wished to 
 introduce reform, to oblige the monks to submit 
 to the strict rules of their founder, and to ob- 
 seiTe solemnly the vows of their order. I 
 began by preaching to them a new doctrine ; 
 I desired, in matters of religion, to bring them 
 back to the times of the primitive Church, and 
 to the simplicity of her holiness. I spoke in 
 public against the monastic orders that abound- 
 ed in wealth, and sometimes I touched, also, 
 upon the doctrines of republicanism which 
 were to unite divided and enslaved Italy. The 
 monks, who loved better their own amuse- 
 ments and abandoned lives, felt my superiority 
 as an iusuj)portable yoke, and finally deter- 
 mined to rid themselves of me by denouncing 
 me to Rome as a heretic and a republican." 
 
 AH was silence and darkness within the 
 convent ; the lamps in the passages had been 
 extinguished, which was not the ordinaiy cus- 
 tom ; the lay-brethren, in the ai*ms of Morphe- 
 us, snored loudly, while the father confessors 
 were in the church, ready to give absolution 
 to the women. The hour for the performance 
 of the miracle approached, and we were curi- 
 ous to witness the intercession of the saint ; 
 accordingly we applied to Father Placido for 
 permission to enter as spect^itors. This, he 
 assured us, was impossible, and forbidden even 
 to the lay-brothei-s. "All is mysteiy," said 
 he, " this night in the church ;" and conduct- 
 ing us to the chamber that had been assigned 
 uS, he gave us his benediction and retired. 
 
 On entering in my new lodgings, I believed 
 at once they had been used for a kitchen or 
 as a vestiy, so dark were the walls ; all the 
 furniture of the room consisted of a cot, a 
 wooden chair, a stool to kneel upon, with a 
 large copper crucifix and a closet full of books, 
 all dusty and confusedly scattered, as if those 
 books had forever to be forgotten, and no more 
 to interest any reader. A small table was neai- 
 the bed with my ti-embling light, which made 
 a thousand various shades around me ; upon 
 the table was a Latin prayer-book, an horn- 
 glass, and a human skull. 
 
 The dawn had not yet appeared when the 
 church bells began to ring and announce the 
 fete of San Gottardo ; the monks were singing 
 the morning prayers, while the husbands and 
 all the male sex were admitted into the church. 
 The mii-acle was already done ; the barren 
 women were sure to become mothers, and the 
 sickly person believed to be cured. San Got- 
 tardo's day announced itself beautiful and se- 
 rene . The convent was early full of strangers, 
 visitors, and benefactors; the lay-monks had 
 to receive the offers, and give as a reward 
 leaden or copper Jesuses and small rosaries. 
 Some of them were entertaining friends with 
 chocolate and coffee, but the most busy were 
 the cook and the butler. The noise that was 
 heard from time to time any one would have 
 believed to be the crackling of fire-works, but 
 it was the corks of hundreds of bottles which 
 were cleared at eveiy moment. The fathers 
 of the convent were not less occupied ; they 
 had to say mass, to confess, to bless those who 
 were animated by devilish spirits, to receive 
 money in order to pray for the souls in purgato- 
 ry, or for those who were sick or unbelievers. 
 Prayers and toasts were addressed to the 
 saint by eveiy one, and a splendid sermon was 
 preached by Father Baccus, who had lately 
 an'ived from Jenisalem, where he had been 
 sent as a punishment for a little amour with 
 one of his female penitents. He began his dis- 
 course by making a tremendous noise with his 
 hands and feet, exposing little by little all the 
 virtues of San Gottardo, his history, death, and 
 millions of miracles. According to the preach- 
 er, San Gottardo had been a great man — not 
 in his form, or in sciences, but in penances and 
 sufferings ; he deprived himself always of meat 
 and fish, eating only grass and bread ; he lived 
 not in a palace like a bishop, nor in a tub like 
 Diogenes, but in an oven, where he passed all 
 his life and died. San Gottardo had raised 
 
58 
 
 THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 from the dead an ass, tlie only support of a 
 poor laborer ; granted to thousands of barren 
 women to become mothers — this was the most 
 •dear miracle of the saint, and I believe of the 
 preacher; he had cured millions of invalid per- 
 sons, and what not ; — Father Baccus finished 
 his bombast by exhorting the hearers to give 
 alms, &.C., &c. While such a comedy was 
 playing in the church, outside of the con- 
 vent the people were not silent. The liquor 
 sellers wore doing good business ; the dentists 
 or quacks, after having amused the crowd with 
 songs and music and magic plays, offered to 
 them for a sous the leaden medal of San Got- 
 tardo, blessed in articido mortis by the holy 
 father, with twenty years of indulgences, and 
 all this gratuitously. A person who carried 
 it on him was preserved from every danger, 
 and from sudden death. Near the convent 
 was a fountain called San Gottardo's fountain, 
 in which it was believed that he appeared visi- 
 ble once a year. 
 
 Among the monks I met a friend of mine, 
 who some years before professed an eternal 
 hatred to religious orders and difFerent princi- 
 ples. The surprise was great on both sides ; 
 while he believed me buried in a desert of 
 Egypt, or, as the prophet Jonah, in the womb 
 of a whale, I thought him in a different place 
 from that of a convent. Entering his hum- 
 ble cell he began to tell me his interesting 
 history since his entrance into a religious 
 order. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I was scarcely seventeen years old when 1 
 lost my mother. My father, being entirely 
 devoted to religion, destined me from my earli- 
 est childhood for the Church. A man of irre- 
 proachable moral conduct, he was thought to 
 possess great piety; a saint in fact, in the 
 opinion of the world, because he was neither a 
 gambler nor libertine, neither given to women 
 nor wine. Indeed he often boasted to his fam- 
 ily of the popular estimation which he really 
 thought he deserved on account of his works 
 of piety and charity. 
 
 My sister, too, although younger than myself 
 by a year, could not escape the snares that 
 wefe pet for us, nor avoid the sad lot for which 
 w« were destined. 
 
 My father believed that as a zealous servant 
 of God, he could <lo no more holy or meritorious 
 deed, than in offering two agreeable victims to 
 him* by enrolling both of us in monastic orders. 
 
 To sacrifice two victims at a blow was, in his 
 opinion, to gain two new titles to future hap- 
 piness. One day he sent for me to come to 
 his room, where, after some preliminary prom- 
 ises, and affectionate speeches, he explained to 
 me his settled determination. " My son," said 
 he, " it is now several years since I made a 
 vow to consecrate my children to God, and now 
 is the most suitable time to do it. You are 
 motherless, and I see no surer means of saving 
 you from the snares of the world than by placing 
 you both in the ranks of one of the religious 
 orders." I answered my fatlier that such was not 
 our wish ; that I and my sister were as yet too 
 young to come to any determination, that we 
 ought to be allowed time seriously to reflect on 
 an affair of such immense importance to us, 
 that he should wait until our minds were more 
 fully matured. 
 
 My father, not expecting such an opposition 
 to his wishes, and finding promises of no avail, 
 had recourse to threats. He told me that i£ per- 
 suasion would not determine me to act accord- 
 ing to his wishes, /orce should. With regard 
 to my sister, he acted with more circumspection. 
 He charged his worthy confessor with this deli- 
 cate mission, and, as you may well suppose, she 
 was soon conquered. 
 
 He told her of a certain holy woman, who 
 every day after dinner used to walk with Jesus 
 in her garden, of another who received him at 
 midnight in her bed-chamber, where they con- 
 versed about the eternal glory and the life of 
 the blessed. He dazzled her mind by his picture 
 of her change of life, he excited her curiosity 
 with regard to the mysteries unknown to the 
 people, the honors accorded to the virginal 
 condition, the example, religious discipline, &c. 
 He assured her that after death she would 
 enjoy the pleasure of being beatified, venerated, 
 sanctified, and what not. She finally yielded 
 to these deceitful illusions, and at the age of 
 eighteen took the veil. 
 
 Discouraged by the precipitous decision of 
 my sister, abandoned by all my relatives and 
 friends, assailed every day with new ti.'-eats, 
 and despairing of any other resource, I offc~ed 
 my neck like a lamb to the butcher, and the 
 cowl was forced upon me at the age of nine- 
 teen. 
 
 Once entered upon my novitiate 1 had no 
 news of my father until I heard of his death 
 eleven months after I entered the monastery. 
 As to my sister, after three montiis of a con- 
 ventual life, she was tired of it and disgusted 
 
THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 59 
 
 with ever)' thing that surrounded her. These 
 poor young girls shut up from their earliest 
 childhood in cloisters, surrounded by high walls, 
 without the slightest hope of ever leaving 
 them, repent of the vows they have pronounced, 
 and ashamed of having been deceived, they 
 hscome like famished tigers enclosed in cages 
 and deprived of their liberty. Always sur- 
 rounded by superannuated nuns, ir-capable of 
 love or tolerance, these young victims pass their 
 life in the midst of regrets and tears. 
 
 Engaged in an order of mendicant friars,! was 
 obliged to live among a set of men, brothers in 
 name but far from being so at heart,* men of 
 the profoundest ignorance, who always live in 
 the obscurity of their monastic institutions, 
 strangers to all science and to every new discov- 
 ery, for fear of being suspected of heresy ; who 
 pass their time in prayer, except such part of it 
 as is devoted to scolding or chastising 'the no- 
 vices; men, without a future and without a 
 past, incapable of teaching wliat they them- 
 selves do not know, and whose only use ap- 
 pears to be to fill tlie world with beings useless 
 to society, with coarse and unlearned monks, 
 with badly educated laymen, who derive all 
 their wit and eloquence from pinches of snuff 
 and bottles of port wine. 
 
 Because I was delicate and of frail constitu- 
 tion, having been nursed in the lap of luxury ; but 
 above all, because I belonged to one of the first 
 families of Italy — I was loaded with kindness 
 and caresses, and, during the first months of 
 my monastic life, was exempted from fasts and 
 night vigils ; nothing, in fact, was demanded of 
 me, and for nothing was L scolded. I soon dis- 
 covered tliat the plan of the superior was, that 
 in the commencement I should be so treated 
 that every thing about me should wear a smiling 
 aspect. All these indulgences and caresses 
 were of short duration, for, scarcely was my 
 father in his grave, before the severest penances 
 were heaped upon me, such as the holy fathers 
 never thouglit of inflicting upon themselves. 
 What an lUusive idea the world forms of these 
 monastic labyrinths. I myself, before enterinor 
 one, aad formed quite an erroneous conception 
 of it ; I thought that I would there find charity, 
 tolerance, fraternity and love, but alas! in a 
 s'lort time my bright vision had vanished before 
 the sad reality. I soon learned that these fathers 
 (fathers in more senses than one) only lived 
 
 • I frati nascono senza vedersi, vivcmo sema 
 amarst, mu jon ; s(nza jnangtrsi. \ 
 
 for ths enjoyment of good eating and drinking, 
 and frequently for the indulgence of less inno- 
 cent appetites. I found that the reason that 
 induced them to enter the convent, was rather 
 a taste for il dolcefar niente, than -any motives 
 of piety. As they are lazy, stupid, and igno- 
 rant men, having no taste for literature, entirely 
 abandoned to the indulgence of their appetites, 
 they are always ready to pounce upon any one 
 of their body, who shows any refinement of 
 mind, or any preference for study, over idleness 
 and the pleasures of the table. 
 
 The time for me to take the vows* was fast 
 approaching ; at first I expressed my intention 
 of quitting the convent and the cowl, and openly 
 spoke of regaining my liberty, for my health 
 was daily giving way, and continuing to live 
 in this detestable manner would, I plainly per- 
 ceived, be entering upon a career of tears and 
 troubles. Now the superior let loose upon me 
 all the monks and demimonks, the caterer, and 
 even the turnspit of the convent. I was told 
 that my desire to quit the cowl was the work 
 of the devil, that he wished to withdraw me 
 from under the protection of St. Francis ; that, 
 in order to withstand his temptations, it would 
 be necessary to redouble my fasts, my hair- 
 cloth shirts and other penances : singular and 
 miraculous examples were quoted ; the perils 
 of the world were depicted to me in the most 
 tragical colors ; I was told that beyond the walls 
 of the monastery I would find neither peace nor 
 salvation ; that hell was filled with apostates, 
 who after having entered the convent had re- 
 turned to the world ; that many were now suf- 
 fering the torments of purgatory, who, having 
 quitted the cowl, had again returned to their 
 duty, but who, for this first transgression, were 
 condemned to weep and wail in purgatory, 
 until the holy and just anger of the founder 
 should be appeased. Some would tell me that 
 in the world I would be always surrounded by 
 dangers, drawn by insensible degrees to perdi- 
 tion, assailed at one time by the devil, at ano- 
 ther by the women. In a word they tried every 
 thing to shake my enfeebled resolution. Be- 
 sides these means of seduction, they added the 
 terrors of their exorcisms, apparitions and even 
 ghosts. 
 
 A short time before the day for taking mj 
 
 * "Monks make three vows, those of obedience, 
 poverty, and chastity ; the first is said to be kept best 
 of all — I doubt it — as to the second I can affirm that 
 it is not at all observed ; of the third I leave you to 
 judge for yourself. — Montesquieu — iMtres Persannes. 
 
60 
 
 THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 vows, the fatal day when I was to make the 
 greatest possible sacrifice, my father died, and 
 left all his possessions to churches and con- 
 vents. Thus deprived of every resource, shut 
 out from ev«ry hope, I consented to pronounce 
 the vows rather with my lips than with my 
 heart (as almost all monks do), and to say to 
 the fatal destiny which pursued me " Fiat vo- 
 luntas tua."* 
 
 CHATTER VII. 
 
 At this time the dinner bell rang, and we 
 were obliged to defer the conclusion of our in- 
 teresting conversation until some more favora- 
 ble opportunity; Ludovico and myself were 
 placed at that part of the table appropriated to 
 strangers, and the monks commenced the repast 
 with the benedicite and the mangicate benefra- 
 tres, eat ' well, brothers. A profound silence 
 reigned in the vast refectory interrupted only 
 by the clatter of knives and forks of the monks, 
 who devoured the chickens in ictu oculi, and 
 with the most unparalleled avidity. After a 
 few moments a novice mounted the rostra to 
 read. The selection for that day happened to 
 be the life of St. Gaetano, the famous antago- 
 nist of Luther, the intimate friend of Tetzel. I 
 must commence by telling you that the author 
 of this work was a monk, and one of those 
 monks too of the 15th century, a dirty, igno- 
 rant, drinking, bloated demagogue. 
 
 The historian calumniated, no less than he 
 did Luther, the prudent Erasmus and the mild 
 Melancthon. These three wonderful geniuses, 
 these three great lights of the 15th and 16th 
 centuries, who did so much good to humanity, 
 although of different religious opinions, and far 
 from agreeing among themselves, were con- 
 sidered in the same light by the historian, and 
 treated in the same manner. Luther, Erasmus, 
 and the mild Melancthon, that celebrated Hel- 
 lenist, that young apostle of truth, endowed 
 with an elevated genius, of an angelic expres- 
 sion of face, of a most compassionate heart ; 
 who, in all his actions and words inspired only 
 charity and love ; these three, I say, were con- 
 sidered by this low and ignorant monk as a 
 Diabolic Trinity. 
 
 This is a specimen of the profitable reading 
 that is listened to in monastic institutions. To 
 
 • The gacrifice of one's self, that is, the double sa- 
 crifice of body and soul, the renouncing of all that 
 Nature offers us and that God prescribes for our use, 
 is a part of the religion of Cybella, of Brahma, of 
 Buddhab and of the Pythagorean School. 
 
 the newly initiated what an improving lesson, 
 and with what love they must be inspired for 
 those of a different religion ! ! This literary 
 nonsense reminded me incessantly of those 
 times when the monks and theologians con- 
 temporary with these three great men, em- 
 braced in the same hatred sacred and profane 
 literature, philosophy, and the free discussion 
 of religious matters, even that of the antiquity 
 and authenticity of the Evangelists. I do not 
 deny that the monks, and the whole religious 
 hierarchy, had good cause for attacking them, 
 particularly Erasmus. For Erasmus did them 
 more harm by his writings than Luther by his 
 eloquence. These orders of every name, these 
 monks heated with wine, in vain declaimed 
 against the Reformers ; in vain burnt their 
 works in public ; in vain cursed them, anathe- 
 matized them ; in vain called them by turns 
 fools, asses, heretics, (" heretics, particularly," 
 says Erasmus himself, "for that word includes 
 all the rest.") 
 
 While the fathers were engaged in loosing 
 their girdles, their bellies had already begun 
 to distend, the novices and the lay-brothers 
 of the week waited on the table with the 
 greatest modesty and the profoundest silence. 
 One of these young monks having accidentally 
 broken the plate, was punished by the father of 
 the novices, heated with wine and anger, in 
 the same manner as an unmanageable horse 
 would be punished. He was forced to kne^l 
 down in the middle of the refectory, holding in 
 his mouth a wooden bit. This poor victim was 
 obliged to remain in this painful position during 
 the whole of dinner-time, and as if tliis was 
 not enough, the superior compelled him to say 
 200 paternosters for eight days in succession. 
 It was an entirely new thing to me, that prayer 
 should be considered a punishment to man. 
 An excellent means, forsooth, to draw prose- 
 lytes to this religion of love and pardon ! At 
 length the dinner over, the agimus and requiemus 
 were chaunted, and then the whole community 
 retired to the gardens for recreation. 
 
 Wiiat a delicious, what an enchanting view 
 the position of the convent offered ; an abode, 
 more suitable for society and love, than for 
 solitude and apathy. It was situated on the 
 summit of a picturesque hill, covered with 
 green lawns, dotted in every direction with 
 a great variety of beautiful flowers, and here 
 and there extensive vineyards, which appeared 
 to lose themselves in the shades of the valley 
 by an almost perpendicular descent. A shady 
 
THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 61 
 
 forest, abounding in herbs and flowers, and 
 watered in all directions by rippling brooks, 
 protected the garden from the scorching rays 
 of the sun. A high wall surrounded this ex- 
 tensive garden, as if forever to separate these 
 recluses from other men. Following the course 
 of this enclosure was a walk between rows of 
 Lombardy poplars, and at regular intervals 
 were seen grottoes, where the monks were in 
 the habit of retiring for reading or meditation. 
 
 Whilst walking in the midst of these ceno- 
 bites, I remarked some frightfully hideous 
 faces under their dirty hoods, which rather be- 
 tokened barbarity than a religious vocation. 
 They were, so at least I was told, Spanish and 
 Portuguese refugees, the remains of the guer- 
 illas monks of Don Carlos and Don Miguel ; 
 men most formidable in war, but most useless 
 in peace. These monks, that were once the 
 terror of Spain and Portugal — in fact, the ab- 
 solute and arbitrary masters of them — here 
 they were, at length compelled to fly from the 
 just vengeance of these long-oppressed people, 
 and obliged, as a last refuge, to take shelter in 
 Italy, a country already sufficiently infected by 
 thousands of others. One of them, who seemed 
 rather a Bey of Africa than a monk of St. 
 Francis, had been one of the most faithful and 
 sanguinary followers of Don Miguel, the Nero 
 of modem times, and at the epoch of the Por- 
 tuguese revolution one of the editors of a 
 paper called the " Flayed Beast."* 
 
 Leaving in our rear these ex-inquisitors, we 
 directed our steps, by a short and shady path, 
 towards the house of the dead. Ha vi ng arrived 
 in this species of grotto, I contemplated with 
 interest the last home of these cenobites, who 
 pass their whole lives in solitude and idleness. 
 Contiguous to the principal grotto there were 
 four small cells, where werp placed the tombs 
 of those monks who died in the odor of sancti- 
 ty (in odore di sanctita). In each cell there were 
 paintings, if you can call paintings what were 
 mere daubs, the meaning of which it would re- 
 quire a most expert cicerone to explain. Father 
 
 ♦ The monk Macedo, editor of this terrible paper, 
 pablished at Lisbon, in 1826, with the stamp of Don 
 Miguel and the Inquisition, in the 12th number ex- 
 presses himself with the most friglitful calmness in 
 the following manner : " Fresh meat should be served 
 every day to the people, on account of the scarcity j/" 
 wheat, and this fresh meat oug^t to be that of the 
 Democrats." As if the religion of the Man-God 
 was nothing else but a human butchery, conducted 
 by butcher-priests after the manner of those of 
 Moloch. 
 
 Angiolina told us that this place of the dead 
 was considered of peculiar sanctity by the bro- 
 therhood ; that here many came to celebrate the 
 divine offices for the relief of the souls of those 
 of their brethren who were undergoing the pains 
 of purgatory. He told us also that the pictures, 
 done by a monk of unpractised hand, filled 
 w^ith false ideas, and of an imagination wholly 
 mythological, represented the four abodes 
 created by God for the human race, viz : the 
 World, Purgatory (created by the Church ?), 
 Hell and Paradise. 
 
 On tlie walls of the first cell, which was de- 
 dicated to those monks who had not yet pro- 
 nounced the last solemn vows, was painted the 
 world and its troubles — the halt, the lame 
 and the blind ; men bending under the weight 
 of chains, murders and assassinations ; kings, 
 princes and petty princes, without a throne, 
 without a sceptre, and without a crown ; in 
 fact, the reverend dauber had forgot nothing 
 except the Jesuits, the Holy Office, the Inqui- 
 sition and torture (madre di iormenti), the 
 greatest scourges of humanity. By the side 
 of this scale of ills was a naked Eve, which 
 appeared to be a bad copy of the Venus di 
 Medici, placed there as the source of all evil. 
 Beneath this figure was written, "Cansa mali 
 tanti mulier sola fuit." Unfortunate Eve ! 
 how much blame you have to bear for having 
 tasted that sweet forbidden fruit ! 
 
 To complete this mystical daub, on every 
 side you saw the separate tombs of the novices, 
 for each body had its own niche, as each sailor 
 in a ship has his own berth. They were ranged 
 in this regular order so as not to ba con- 
 founded with the multitude of irreligious monks, 
 and in order to distinguish them from one ano- 
 ther, if they should on e.xamination give any 
 miraculous proof of beatification, &c. What 
 particularly astonished me was, that, in despite 
 of their virtues and works of piety, over the 
 tomb of each was written with charcoal a 
 faithful description of the worldly lives of the 
 enclosed monks, their vices and their crimes. 
 " This resulted," said our liberal and enlight- 
 ened guide, " from the enmity of some worth- 
 less laymen, who, not being able to revenge 
 themselves during the life of their brethren, 
 had, by their libels, insulted their memory after 
 death. Over one we read, " Here lies Brother 
 Bemadone, a monk, long and lank, a fool and 
 an ignoramus, surpassing in his natural sim- 
 i plicity all the other recluses, in the number of 
 ^ pinches of tobacco that he had taken, and the 
 
62 
 
 THREE DAYS IN THE APPENINES. 
 
 paternosters he had said. Requiescat in pace." 
 Over another : " Within is enclosed the putre- 
 fied body of Brother Romanino, who died, they 
 say, in the odor of sanctity. He had the habit 
 of drinking too much and sleeping too long 
 (monkish customs) ; but in order to do a pen- 
 ance worthy of his sins, he went barefooted at 
 midwinter, and lay in the snow at midnight, 
 probably to cool the vinous spirit with which 
 he was heated." Another said : " Here is en- 
 tombed Brother Rimond, of Spanish origin, 
 who, after having been soldier, brigand and 
 what not, took the cowl, and became a model 
 of the ridiculous. He resuscited the ass of the 
 convent, because he was not dead." 
 
 The third day of our stay at San Gottardo, I 
 went to see the large and useless library of the 
 convent, full of fanatical and religious works, 
 and of libels against other Christian denomina- 
 tions. The philosophical books were of course 
 all Aristotelian, while Plato was banished as a 
 heretic and an immoral philosopher. Not a 
 book of impartial history, but all those writers 
 against reformers or authors who were opposed 
 to their ultra-Catholic doctrines. There were 
 some hundred lives of saints and of holy monks, 
 accounts of miracles, visions, or magical facts. 
 The martyrs of the church had their place in 
 it, but those murdered by the fanatics of the 
 church were forgotten. Such are the literary 
 works studied and taught by the monks of the 
 19th century ! 
 
 Father Angiolino was silent at ray indignant 
 remarks, and I saw that, although he did not 
 like the religious orders, he had become so ac- 
 customed to their idle life that the life of doing 
 nothing was very pleasant to him. 
 
 The last evening I spent in the monastery, 
 my mind was seized by horrible thoughts con- 
 cerning the human skull. I could not leave 
 that solitary and mysterious place without 
 learning the true meaning of the infamous 
 writing which I found upon it the first evening 
 of my visit to the convent. 
 
 It was already midnight, and the monks 
 were retiring to their cells. Alone, in that 
 dark and gloomy room, I looked again at the 
 closet filled with the old books. I hoped to 
 find in it some memento left by the unfortunate 
 man who had inhabited that cell before me. 
 My expectations were not entirely disappointed. 
 After liaving carefully examined the dusty 
 book-case, I found an old manuscript, tied and 
 Mtled with black wax. It was left to me to 
 
 discover a mystery unknown till now to the 
 inhabitants of the convent. 
 
 The author of this manuscript was the owner 
 of the skull which the monks had so infamously 
 abused, and I could perceive by the style of the 
 memento he had committed suicide. Before 
 quitting the world his intention was to leave a 
 record or history of his life, but being deprived 
 of every friend to whom he could confide his 
 secret, he left this writing among those books, 
 believing that one day it would be discovered. 
 He said he had been an innocent and unhappy 
 victim to the custom of noble families, whose 
 younger child or daughter was compelled to 
 enter a religious order, and so maintain the 
 hierarchy and religious aristocracy. When 
 seventeen years old he loved a fair Italian 
 beauty, to whom he hoped one day to be united. 
 But his father sent him to a convent some 
 hundred miles from home. When there, they 
 told him that the lady he loved was dead. 
 After eight years of monastical life in different 
 parts of Italy, he was sent to San Gottardo, as 
 the father confessor of the monastery of the 
 nuns of Saint Orsola. There ho discovered 
 his beloved Maria, who had taken the veil. 
 The passion had not been extinguished in their 
 hearts, they had not forgotten each other, and 
 the dark plot used to prevent their union could 
 only irritate them against the monastical life. 
 In vain did he write to Rome to the holy father 
 to be dismissed from his vows. 
 
 She was an angel of beauty. She had taken 
 the veil because she heard from her first con- 
 fessor that her lover was dead. Jesuits make 
 people die when living. Finding all other 
 resources to fail, the confessor and the sister 
 at length determined to fly from the convent. 
 But alas ! on the day fixed for their departure 
 the sister Maria fell suddenly sick, and after a 
 few days died. He assisted her as the father 
 confessor at her dying bed. He received her 
 last breath, listened to her last words, and 
 pronounced the last prayer for the departed over 
 her. She died with an angelic smile on her 
 face, and with her hands clasped in those of her 
 lover. 
 
 By his last words, I have no doubt that he 
 commited suicide, and the monks, as an eternal 
 and horrible memory of the victim, had stripped 
 the skull, and wrote upon it infamous words. 
 I buried the skull the day I left that mysterious 
 convent. 
 
TO A MOTHER.— THE HOSTILE BROTHERS. 
 
 63 
 
 THREE TIMES BEHBAVED OF AN ONLY CHILD. 
 
 'Tis said, beneath the tropic's bound 
 
 Rises a stately tree, 
 With graceful verdure fitly crowned — 
 
 Lofty and fair to see. 
 
 But though its top a tenderer green 
 
 Wears in the early spring, 
 And the young thrifty shoots are seen 
 
 Betokening blossoming ; 
 
 And though tall spires of bell-shaped flowers, 
 
 As chiselled ivory pure. 
 Might rise to crown its summer hours. 
 
 And wealth of fruit ensure ; 
 
 Nor fragrant flower nor graceful fruit 
 
 That fated palm may know ; 
 Spring after spring its tender shoot 
 
 Puts forth, but not to grow ; 
 
 For ever comes the tiller's knife 
 With stroke severe and true. 
 
 And severs there that palm-tree's life — 
 Its old life from its new. 
 
 Back on its heart the living tide 
 
 Is turned — not there to die 
 A wasted fount — but channels wide 
 
 Of rarer use supply. 
 
 From that alembic shall come forth 
 
 A cordial rich and high, 
 A timely draught of priceless worth, 
 
 Amid the deserts dry 
 
 When he on arid sands who faints, 
 Revived shall bless its power. 
 
 Sad mother, where toere thy complaints^ 
 If thine that palm-tree's dower ? 
 
 From the German of Anerbach. 
 Br MHS. ST. SIMON. 
 
 Iir the damp and thinly-populated street called 
 the " Kniebis, in a village of the Schwartz- 
 wald, there stood a small house, with a stall 
 and shed. This abode had but three windows, 
 which were provided, in part, with paper, in- 
 stead of glass ; the shutter of the garret window 
 hung but by a single hinge, and seemed ready 
 to fall at each moment. A small garden lay 
 adjacent to the dwelling, divided lengthwise 
 into two equal parts by a hedge of thorns. 
 
 This house was occupied by two brothers, 
 who had dwelt together for fourteen years in 
 incessant hostility. Like the garden, the 
 whole house was divided, fro.i. the garret down 
 to the little cellar ; the trap-door was open, but 
 below each had a space partitioned off" with 
 laths ; padlocks were fastened upon all the 
 doors, as if they stood in hourly fear of burg- 
 
 lars ; the stall belonged to the one, the shed to 
 the other brother ; not a word was heard in the 
 house, except when one or the other muttered 
 an oath. 
 
 Michel and Conrad (thus were the two bro- 
 thers called) were both well advanced in years, 
 and both unmarried ; Conrad had early lost 
 his wife, Michel had never married. 
 
 A large blue-painted chest was the original 
 cause of their enmity. 
 
 After their mother's death, the property wag 
 to have been divided between them, as their 
 sister, who was married and lived in the village, 
 had alreiiiy received her due share. Conrad 
 declared that he had bought the chest with his 
 own money, which he had earned by breaking 
 stones upon the highway ; that he had only lent 
 it to his motiier, and that it belonged to him. 
 
64 
 
 THE HOSTILE BROTHERS. 
 
 Michel, on the other hand, maintained that his 
 brother had always lived at home, eaten of his 
 mother's bread, and could therefore call nothing 
 his own property. After a violent personal 
 altercation, the matter came before the burgo- 
 master, and then before the court, and it was 
 decreed that, as the brothers could not agree, 
 all the furniture in the house, including the 
 chest, should be sold, and the proceeds be 
 divided between them. Indeed, the house 
 itself was offered for sale, but as no purchaser 
 was found, the brothers were obliged to 
 keep it. 
 
 They must now purchase their own things, 
 their beds, their tables, and so forth, at auction ; 
 this caused Conrad many a sigh, for he was 
 somewhat more sensitive than is usual among 
 men in his class of life. There are, in every 
 family, various articles which a stranger can- 
 not obtain for money ; they are worth much 
 more than he is willing to pay for them, for 
 thoughts and remembrances cleave to them 
 which have no value for any but the original 
 possessor. 
 
 Such articles should be silently bequeathed 
 from generation to generation, that their inward 
 value may remain inviolate ; if one is obliged 
 to wrest them from the hands of others, to strive 
 for them with a stranger for money, a large 
 part of their original worth vanishes ; they are 
 obtained at their market price, and not inher- 
 ited as a family relic. Such were the thoughts 
 which often caused Conrad to shake his head 
 as some old article of furniture was struck off 
 to him, and when the black velvet-covered 
 hymn-book of his mother, with its silver clasps 
 and hinges, was put up for sale, and a pedlar 
 weighed the silver in his hand, in order to judge 
 of its value, the blood rushed to his face, and 
 he bought the hymn-book at a high price. At 
 last it came to the chest; Michel hemmed 
 aloud, cast a challenging glance upon liis 
 brother, and at once offered a considerable sum 
 for it. Conrad, without looking up, bid quickly 
 a florin more, and lie counted the buttons upon 
 his coat, but Michel, glancing boldly around, 
 bid higher; no one else made an offer, and 
 neither of the brothers would resign the chest 
 to the other — each thought to himself, " I shall 
 only have to pay for lialf of it," and thus they 
 bid higher and higher, until at last the chest 
 was Btruck off for more than five times its 
 value, for right and twenty florins, to Conrad. 
 
 He now, for tlie flrst time, looked up, and 
 the expresMion of his face was entirely altered ; 
 
 ( scorn and mockery gleamed from his staring 
 > eyes, his open mouth, and from every feature 
 I of his visage. " When you die I will give you 
 the chest, that they may lay you in it," he said, 
 trembling with fury, to Michel ; and these were 
 the last words which he had spoken to him for 
 fourteen years. 
 
 The story of the chest caused great amuse- 
 ment throughout the whole village, and when 
 a neighbor met Conrad, he would remark how 
 shamefully Michel had treated him, and Con- 
 rad grew more and more enraged against his 
 Drother. 
 
 In addition to this, the two brothers were of 
 very different dispositions, and pursued differ- 
 ent paths. 
 
 Conrad had an ox which he worked in the 
 field with the ox of his neighbor Christian ; at 
 other times he broke stones upon the highway 
 for fifteen kreutzers a day. He was very 
 near-sighted, his gait was unsteady, and when 
 he struck a light he always brought the tinder 
 close to his nose, in order to be certain that it 
 had caught fire. He was called through the 
 whole village " blind Conradli." The li was 
 appended to his name because he was short in 
 stature. 
 
 Michel, on tiie other hand, was entirely the 
 reverse of this; he was tall and thin, and 
 walked with a firm step ; he went dressed as a 
 peasant, not because he really was one, but 
 because it was advantageous to him in his oc- 
 cupation ; he traded, to wit, in old horses, and 
 the purchasers had far more confidence when 
 bargaining with a man in the dress of a coun- 
 tryman. Michel had been a blacksmith, and 
 had failed in his business ; he in part sold, in 
 part farmed out his land, turned his whole 
 attention to horse-dealing, and led as gay and 
 careless a life as possible. He was considered 
 an important personage throughout the whole 
 district; for six or eight leagues around, in 
 Wurtemburg, in all Sigmaringen, and Hech- 
 ingen, even as far as Baden, he was acquainted 
 with the condition and complement of the 
 stables, as a great statesmen is with the statis- 
 tics of foreign countries, and the position of 
 their cabinets ; and as the latter learns the dis- 
 position of the people in the newspapers, the 
 former learned it in the taverns. In every 
 village, also, he had some vagrant residing as 
 an accomplice, with whom he often held secret 
 meetings, and who, in an emergency, sent 
 Michel a courier, namely, himself, for which 
 service ho demanded nothing more than a good 
 
THE HOSTILE BROTHERS. 
 
 C5 
 
 Trinkgeld* in the literal sense of the word. He 
 employed his secret agents, also, to induce 
 people to make changes in their stalls, and thus 
 he almost always kept in his shed, which 
 served as a stable, some broken-down horse, 
 which he was preparing for a new campaign, 
 for public life — as he called it — to wit, for sale 
 upon the market-place. He dyed the hair 
 above its eyes, he filed its teeth, and although 
 the poor beast could no longer eat any thing 
 but clover, and must starve over any other 
 provender, yet that gave him but little uneasi- 
 ness, provided he succeeded in getting it off 
 his hands. He made use of various tricks and 
 expedients ; for example, he would hire an 
 accomplice to chaffer and barter with him ; 
 they would dispute long and loud, and then 
 Michel would exclaim at last, " I cannot 
 barter; I have no provender, no room, and I 
 must sell him, if I part with him for a louis 
 d'or." Or he was still more crafty ; for a few 
 kreutzers he sometimes hired a stupid clown, 
 gave him the horse, told him to ride on before 
 him, and said to those whom he met : " Yonder 
 goes a fine horse! if a good farmer owned him 
 he could fatten him up, and make a capital 
 beast of him ; the frame is there, the bones are 
 right, he wants nothing but flesh, and then he 
 is worth twenty louis d'or." He thus found a 
 customer, agreed upon a fee for himself as a 
 dealer, and thus sold his own horse and re- 
 ceived an extra profit besides. Michel was a 
 sworn enemy to any thing like a written guar- 
 anty, in which the animal is warranted free 
 from vices and unsoundness ; in those cases he 
 preferred to abate a few florins of the price, 
 rather than enter into such obligations ; still 
 he was engaged in many a law-suit, which eat 
 up horse and profit; yet there was something 
 60 alluring in this careless, idle, roving hfe, 
 that Michel could never resolve to give it up. 
 
 Whan, in riding to market, or returning home, 
 he passed Conrad as he was busy breaking 
 stones on the roads, he glanced at his brother, 
 half scornfully, half in compassion, for he said 
 to himself: " Oh, poor wretch, you break stone 
 from morning until evening, for fifteen kreutz- 
 ers, while I, when matters go at all well, can 
 make my fifteen florins !" 
 
 Conrad, who, notwithstanding his short- 
 sightedness, observed this, would then hammer 
 away at the stones, so that the fragments flew 
 on all sides. 
 
 A' 
 
 • Trinkgeld, small fee— literally drink-money. \ 
 
 But we will see who succeeded best, Michel 
 or Conrad. 
 
 Michel was one of the most amusing fellows 
 in the village, for he could relate stories for 
 days and nights. Ho was familiar with many 
 tricks and adventures, and he could talk of 
 religion also, and of the world. Of religion, 
 indeed, he knew but little, although he often 
 went to church, which no one in this district 
 can entirely avoid ; but he went to church, like 
 many others, without thinking of his true 
 errand there, and without regulating his life 
 according to the precepts which he heard from 
 the pulpit. 
 
 Conrad also had his fiiults, and the chief 
 among them was his hatred against his brother, 
 and the manner in which he displayed it. 
 When any one asked him, " How goes it with 
 your brother Michel ?" he would invariably 
 answer : " It still goes thus ;" while he made 
 movements under his chin with both hands, as 
 if he was tying a knot, then threw out his 
 hands on each side, and stretched out his 
 tongue, meaning very evidently, " he will yet 
 come to the gallows." 
 
 As was natural, this question was often asked 
 him, and loud shouts followed when Conrad 
 replied in his usual manner. 
 
 The villagers fanned the flame of hatred be- 
 tween the two brothers in other ways also, not 
 exactly out of malice, but because they found 
 amusement in it ; but Michel merely shrugged 
 his shoulders.contemptuously when they spoke 
 to him of the " poor wretch." 
 
 The brothers never remained in the same- 
 apartment together; when they met in the 
 tavern, or at their sister's house, one or the 
 other at once withdrew. 
 
 No one thought now of trying to reconcile 
 them, and when two men lived at enmity with 
 one another, it was said as a proverb : " They 
 live like Michel and Conradli." 
 
 At home neither spake a word when they 
 met, nay, they did not even look at each other. 
 Still, when either remarked that the other lay 
 sick in bed, he would go to his sister's, who 
 lived at a considerable distance, and say to her :; 
 " Go up, I think all is not right with him ;" and', 
 then he would do his work softly and \yithout 
 noise, in order not to disturb the other. 
 
 But out of the house, and among their neigh- 
 bors, they lived in steadfast enmity, and no- 
 one thought that a spark of love dwelt within, 
 their hearts. 
 
 This had lasted for fifteen yeairs.. With his- 
 
66 
 
 THE HOSTILE BROTHERS. 
 
 !)argains and barterings, the money which \ 
 Michel had received for his two fields had | 
 slipped, he knew not how, through his fingers ; 
 but Conrad had purchased a new field from an 
 emigrant, and liad almost paid for it. Michel 
 was now obliged to content himself with help- 
 ing other people in their bargains, and he con- 
 templated selling another field, in order to 
 obtain capital to trade upon his own score. 
 
 " Now there arose up a new king over Egypt." 
 This verse of the book of Exodus, Chapter I., 
 verse 9, the inhabitants of the village could now 
 apply peculiarly to themselves. Their old 
 pastor was dead ; he was a worthy man, but 
 he let matters take their course. His suc- 
 cessor was a zealous young man ; he resolved 
 to set every thing in order, and in many 
 respects he was successful, until his ardor 
 excited the opposition of many of his flock, and 
 checked him in his course. But all was as 
 yet in fair progress. 
 
 It was upon a Sunday, after church, that the 
 villagers were seated together upon the timber 
 for the new engine-house, near the town-hall 
 brook ; Michel was with them. He sat bent, 
 and biting idly upon a wisp of straw. A boy 
 of five years, named Peter, now passed by, 
 when one of the villagers called the cliild to 
 him and said, feeling in his pocket : " Look, 
 Peter, you shall have four nuts if you will do 
 as Conradli does. How is it Conradli does ?" 
 The boy shook his head and tried to get away, 
 fo. he was a shrewd little fellow, and he was 
 afraid of offending Michel ; but they held him 
 fast and almost forced liim, and he at last imi- 
 tated the tying of the knot, the movements of 
 the arms, and the stretching out of the tongue. 
 A burst of laughter followed, which could be 
 heard through half the village. When the boy 
 demanded the nuts, it appeared that the one 
 who liad promised them had none, and a sec- 
 ond burst of laughter ensued as the boy struck 
 the man who had deceived him with his feet 
 and hands. 
 
 In the mean while the new pastor had de- 
 scended the hill near the town-hall ; he had 
 been a spectator of the whole scene. As the 
 man who had been struck was about to beat 
 the boy for his rudeness, the pastor stepped 
 quickly forward and snatched the child from 
 his grasp ; all the peasants at once arose and 
 drew off their caps. The pastor called to the 
 •exton, who was among them, walked with 
 him through the village, and asked for an ex- 
 planation of the matter. He now learned the 
 
 hatred which existed between these two bro- 
 thers, of which the reader is already in- 
 formed. 
 
 On the following Saturday, as Conrad was 
 breaking stones upon the road, word was 
 brought him that the pastor wished to see him 
 the next day after morning service. He was 
 struck dumb with wonder ; his pipe went out, 
 and for almost a minute the stone that lay be- 
 neath his wooden shoe remained unbroken. 
 He could not imagine what was going on in 
 the parsonage, and would gladly have run 
 thither at once. 
 
 The message was brought to Michel as he 
 was brushing his horses' " Sunday boots," as 
 he called the trimming and greasing of his 
 hoofs. He whistled the air of a coarse song, 
 but stopped in the middle of it, for he well 
 knew what was in store for him on the mor- 
 row. He was glad that he had time to prepare 
 a well-seasoned reply to the sermon which he 
 expected, and muttered a few sentences of it 
 softly to himself. 
 
 On Sunday morning the pastor preached 
 from the first verse of Psalm cxxxiii. : " Behold 
 how good and how pleasant it is for brothers to 
 dwell together in unity." He showed bow vain 
 and empty is all happiness upon earth, when 
 we cannot enjoy it and share it with those who 
 have rested upon the same maternal bosom witli 
 ourselves. He showed that parents could 
 neither be happy on this side, nor completely 
 so beyond, the grave ; when here below, envy, 
 hatred, and malice, disunited their children. 
 He cited the example of Cain and Abel, and 
 showed how a brother's murder was the first 
 venomous fruit of the fall. 
 
 All this and still more the pastor uttered 
 with a clear and powerful voice, so that the 
 peasants, speaking of it, said : " It pierced the 
 very walls !" but alas ! it is often easier to 
 pierce walls than to penetrate the close-locked 
 breast of man. Their sister shed bitter tears 
 at the hard-heartedness of her brothers, and 
 although the pastor repeated again and again 
 that he did not refer to this or that one, but 
 that each should lay his hand upon his heart 
 and ask himself if he felt true love for his 
 kindred, yet all thought to themselves, " That 
 is meant for Michel and Conradli ; that is 
 aimed at them." 
 
 The two brothers sat not far from each 
 other ; Michel bit upon his cap, which he held 
 between his teeth, but Conrad listened with 
 open mouth. As their eyes met, Michel's cap 
 
THE HOSTILE BROTHERS. 
 
 67 
 
 fell from his hands, and he stooped quickly to 
 raise it. 
 
 A soft and harmonious hymn closed the ser- 
 vices, but before the last notes had died away, 
 Michel had left the church, and stood at the 
 door of the parsonage. It was locked, and he 
 walked into the garden ; here ne mused long 
 by the bee-hives, and gazed at the busy stir of 
 these little insects, ^ 
 
 " Who do not know what Sunday is," 
 and he thought to himself: "I also have no 
 Sunday with my trade, for I have no true 
 v\'orking-day ;'' and he thought again — " How 
 many brothers and sisters dwell together in 
 such a bee-hive, and all work like the old 
 ones." He did not keep these thoughts long, 
 however, but resolved not to suffer the pastor 
 to put a snaffle on him, as he said, and as he 
 looked across to the graveyard, he thought of 
 Conrad's last words, and he clutched his fists. 
 
 On entering the parsonage he found the 
 pastor and Conrad engaged in earnest conver- 
 sation together. The former arose ; he seemed 
 to have given up the hope of seeing the new 
 comer. He offered him a seat, but Michel, 
 pointing to his brother, replied : 
 
 " Worthy pastor, I have all respect for you, 
 but I do not sit where he is. Good sir, you 
 have lately come into our village, and you do 
 not know what a liar and what a sanctimonious 
 hypocrite he is. All the children imitate him," 
 he continued, grinding his teeth, " how goes it 
 with brother Michel ?" he then made the ges- 
 tures to which we have referred, and added, 
 trembling with rage : " Worthy pastor, he is 
 the cause of all my misfortunes ; he has driven 
 peace from the house, and I have given myself 
 to Satan in my wicked dealings. You have 
 prophesied," he cried, rushing towards his 
 brother — " you have prophesied that I should 
 die by the halter, but you shall be strung up 
 the first." 
 
 The pastor suffered the brothers to give free 
 vent to their rage ; he availed himself of his 
 authority only so far as was necessary to keep 
 them from actual violence. He was well 
 aware that when long- restrained fury is once 
 
 poured forth, love then makes its appearance ; 
 but he was almost in error. 
 
 At last the two brothers sat silent, breathing 
 heavily, but neither stirred. The pastor now 
 spoke, at first with a low, soft; voice ; he 
 opened all the hidden recesses of the heart — 
 il was of no avail ; the two kept their eyes 
 fastened upon the ground. The pastor then 
 described the sorrow of their parents in the other 
 world — Conrad sighed, but did not look up. 
 The good man now exerted all his pow-ers; 
 his voice sounded like that of a rebuking 
 prophet. He represented them as appearing 
 before the tribunal of the last judgment, and 
 listening to the fearful sentence : " Woe ! 
 woe ! woe ! you have lived in hatred and hard- 
 ness of heart together, you have severed the 
 bands of brotherly love — go hence, to pine, 
 chained together during an eternity of tor- 
 ment !" 
 
 All were .silent ; Conrad wiped away the 
 tears with his coat-sleeve, then rose, and said, 
 '« Michel !" 
 
 So many years had passed since Michel had 
 heard this sound, tliat he looked up suddenly, 
 and Conrad stepped nearer and said : " Michel, 
 forgive me !" The hands' of the brothers were 
 clasped together, and the pastor's hand rested 
 upon theirs, as if in benediction. 
 
 All in the village looked up and smiled as 
 they saw Michel and Conradii walk hand in 
 hand down the hill by the town-hall. 
 
 They did not loose their clasp until they 
 reached their home ; it seemed as if they 
 wished to indemnify themselves for the priva- 
 tions of the past. On entering their little 
 dwelling, they quickly removed all the padlocks, 
 - then went into the garden and pulled down the 
 hedge ; notwithstanding the loss of their cab- 
 bages, this sign of enmity must be destroyed. 
 
 They then went to their sister's, and all ate 
 together at the same table. 
 
 In the afternoon the two brothers sat to- 
 gether in the church, and each held a comer 
 of their mother's hymn-book in his hand. 
 
 Their whole life became henceforth a new 
 one. 
 
68 
 
 HENRY NELSON. 
 
 HMmy ]MIL^§(Dlf, 
 
 BY PHILIP PHILLIPS, ESQ. 
 
 No class of men have the opportunities of 
 intimate acquaintance with the hearts of their 
 fellow-men that are continually within the reach 
 of lawyers. The profession is little understood 
 by those whose experience in it has not been a 
 practical one; and it is for the purpose of 
 bringing before the minds of readers the fact 
 that this is a responsible profession, in a great- 
 er degree than is ordinarily supposed, that I am 
 induced to undertake the task I now commence. 
 The romances of real life that may be found in 
 the diary of any member of the profession in 
 only ordinary practice, are enough to stock the 
 brains of a dozen modern novel writers, and 
 supply the world with light reading foran age. 
 Romances, said I ? I have but to open my own 
 note-book, and I find the truths of life. Aye, 
 here are records of joys and sorrows, of smiles 
 and tears, of hopes and realizations glad and 
 gloriou.s, of yearning, bleeding, breaking, 
 broken hearts, and deep, deep graves of 
 loves that sparkled In the light of hope 
 once but now faded from this weary earth. Oh, 
 the graves of the loving and the loved are 
 all over the earth, and the rest of the forgotten 
 is undisturbed, while tale-tellers rack their 
 brains to devise histories not half so strange as 
 the stories of those that sleep in any graveyard 
 in the land. I open my book at a venture. Ah! 
 this note reminds me of the story of my friend 
 and fellow-student in Princeton. Times have 
 changed since our old college days, but he is 
 unchanged. I shall begin at the beginning of 
 the narrative, as I have learned it from him and 
 from others, and as briefly as may bo, trace the 
 life of my quondam chum, Harry Nelson. 
 
 In the eastern slope of the mountaiii 
 
 is a gorge or ravine, through which runs a clear 
 brook, giving out a merry voice continually. 
 At the foot of the mountain the ravine widens 
 into a smooth field, across which the stream 
 flows slowly. In the summer of 1820, a cot- 
 tage stood on the bank of this stream, in which 
 resided a widow and her son — a boy of twelve 
 at the date of the commencement of this his- 
 tory. Their story none knew, except that ihey 
 had come there six years previously, and the 
 widow had bought the cottage, where she still 
 
 lived. Judge Pierson, of S , supplied her 
 
 with money, which she had placed in his hands. 
 The cottage vv;ts silent now. All day lontr 
 the widow had lain awaiting death. Night 
 came, and the light of life had not wholly flided 
 from the eye of the mother; and her boy 
 still lay on the bed, with his tiny hand grasping 
 hers in the agony of fear. A bitter agony is 
 that, when the loving and the loved are leaving 
 us, to return no more forever ! 
 
 The night, which had been cloudy and sultry 
 at the commencement, grew black and tempes- 
 tuous, and ever and anon a flash of wild light 
 from a distant thunder-cloud lit the mountain 
 side, and showed the ragged peak against the 
 gloomy covering of the sky. Shortly the tem- 
 pest, which had seemed to bo gathering strength 
 and lingering until it had grown miglity, sv.-ept 
 down the gorge, and moaned around the little 
 cottage in the glen. The mountain trees shook 
 in the wind and nodded their giant heads one 
 to another, and the wail of the storm that began 
 from afar like the wail of a desolate child, 
 came creeping down towards the cottage in the 
 glen, till the whole dell rang with the mournful 
 shriek, as if it was the shriek of angels foiling 
 from their birth-place. The lightning grew 
 frequent and vivid, until the whole scene was 
 illuminated by a fearful succession of flashes 
 that totally put to nought the feeble flame of 
 the candle on the little table by the window ; 
 and yet the mother and the boy, heedless of the 
 rolling thunder that shook the mountain's foun- 
 dation, heedless of the crash of falling trees, 
 and the wild cry of the tempest, lay silent on 
 the bed, and the storm passed on. 
 
 It was midnight. Faraway in the cast lay I 
 black bank of clouds, over the top of which or 
 star, bright as a diamond on a queen's forehead 
 shone, with calm, holy rays, silvering the edge 
 with a fringe of light, peering into the windov 
 of the widow's cottage, and falling on the fore- 
 head of the dying woman with an angel kiss. 
 
 "Open the door, my son ; I grow f^tifled in 
 this air!" 
 
 Ho rose and opened the door, and the cool, 
 pure air came in and fanned the face of the 
 sick mother, so that she revived, and calling 
 
HENRY NELSON 
 
 69 
 
 him to her side, spoke in low, earnest tones, 
 wliile ihc boy stood by her bedside : 
 
 " You will be alone soon, Harry '.—all alone 
 in this wide world ! You have been told what 
 to do with the contents of the cottage, and I 
 need not tell you again. You will find in that 
 bo.x yonder a paper, directing you what to do 
 when I am dead. In the hands of Judge Pier- 
 son you will find a sura of money secured to 
 you when you come of age, till which time the 
 income, small though it be, will assist you. It 
 was mine during life, and when I am dead will 
 be yours. Again, my son, let me warn you to be 
 true to the principles I have made your guide. 
 You have your Bible and your God ; the last, 
 the God of your father and your mother. Your 
 father ! I must speak of him now. I have 
 never shown you this miniature. Take it. I 
 sold the gorgeous casing in which it was once 
 set, and had this plain one fitted to it. Your 
 father was wealthy once. But that matters not 
 now. Enough for you to know, that he was 
 one you need not bo ashamed to think of. He 
 is dead, and I shall meet him soon.'' 
 
 She paused, and seemed in deep thought, then 
 spoke again ; but her voice was fainter than be- 
 fore, and scarcely audible : 
 
 " It was strange, very strange. He must 
 have died alone in the forest ! How changed '. 
 Those were bright days in old Ireland. Dear 
 old Ireland. Harry, go and sit by the door, and 
 tell me when the moon is rising." 
 
 A half hour passed in silence, but the 
 mother prayed. Anon she turned restlessly, 
 and looked at her boy, and said : " Harry, sing 
 me a song of Ireland — that song I taught you 
 by the streamside in the glen, last summer." 
 
 The moon was just below the verge of the 
 horizon ; and the clouds, which had gone to- 
 wards the north-east, left a single faint line of 
 silver lying over the hill from behind which she 
 was coming. The boy raised his clear voice 
 in the solemn starlight, and sang a song of 
 Ireland. It floated out on the night-air, and the 
 angels heard it : and the mother listened, and 
 her heart sprang back to the olden time when 
 she was young, and heard another's voice 
 sing that song in her ear — and her cheek 
 lay on his shoulder; and thus in the quick 
 thiobbing of her pulse she remembered the 
 golden past, and then her breast was still. She 
 was dead. The boy sang on. When he had 
 finished he sat long and earnestly looking up at 
 the holy watchers, then turned to his mother's 
 
 Iside, and spoke; and when she answered 
 
 not he saw that she was dead, and threw him- 
 self beside her and wept till morning. A 
 traveller found him lying on his face beside 
 her. A holy smile was on her lip, and was 
 there too when they buried her. 
 
 I have given the particulars of this scene, 
 inasmuch as they are important to the chain of 
 evidence which was afterwards made up — as 
 will appear in our history. 
 
 It was seven years after this that 1 first met 
 Henry Nelson, the boy of the Glen Cottage. 
 He entered the Sophomore class while I was a 
 Junior ; and an acquaintance accidentally com- 
 menced, was continued until we became inti- 
 mate friends. I have never known a kinder and 
 a truer heart. A universal favorite, he led his 
 class without difficulty ; and at the close of his 
 course I returned to hear him deliver his vale- 
 dictory ; an honor he fixed his eye on in pre- 
 ference to the Latin salutatorj', which, in P , 
 
 has always been the prize of scholarship. 
 
 While in college I had noticed a peculiar 
 disposition in Nelson to think sadly. There 
 was a look of earnestness about his eye when 
 he heard any moving story of sorrow, and a 
 fondness for pathos in his reading, and in his 
 own productions, that led me to inquire for, and 
 obtain the history I have given above. To this 
 was added another however, which was simply 
 this : — He loved, and with no idle love, tlie 
 daughter of Judge Pierson, who held the small 
 property which his mother's will had left to 
 him. The income from this property amount- 
 ed to about tliree hundred dollars a year, which 
 was regularly paid him, and which he had 
 devoted sedulously to his education. But Judge 
 Pierson was an aristocrat of the straitest sect, 
 and the nameless son of the widow was no 
 match for his beautiful daughter. They cor- 
 responded, however, through the assistance 
 of a brother of the lady ; and when Harry 
 graduated, the father, supposing all danger 
 at an end, consented that Fred and Ellen 
 should attend Commencement at Princeton. I 
 remember the scene well. How beautifully 
 she appeared in the gallery, and how lier eye 
 dimmed at the inimitable pathos of that last 
 appeal of the student to his brethren. Harry's 
 face was pale, and contrasted with his black 
 gown so as to make it more so. As he com- 
 menced it began to be whispered about that he 
 was the lover of the fair girl in the gallery, 
 and all eyes were turned towards her. She 
 saw none of it, however, but shaded her face 
 with her hand, and Ustened eagerly to every 
 
70 
 
 HENRY NELSON. 
 
 word; and when at last he paused in the 
 midst of his adieu, and with choked voice 
 exclaimed, " Good bye, God bless you all, good 
 bye !" and reached out both his liands to grasp 
 the many that were extended to him, I heard 
 her sob aloud. 
 
 There was another and a sadder scene under 
 the stars that night. I had my horses with me, 
 and while the gay and mirth-loving were in the 
 ball-room, I took Fred, and Ellen, and Harry, 
 and drove out on the Trenton road towards 
 the old Quaker meeting-house, a place not to 
 be forgotten by the lovers of the beautiful 
 in old Nassau. On the bank of the stream, 
 in the calm night, they talked of the future. 
 Fred and myself strolled away. When we re- 
 turned she was weeping ; and he held her 
 hand, and looked in her face. 
 
 " I have been telling her, Phil, that I am 
 poor, and a wanderer ; and her father says she 
 must not love me, and she may marry a wealthy 
 man, and be happier than with me. In duty 
 to her father I tell her thus much, and in duty 
 to myself I tell her that I love her. She will 
 not hear any of my story but the last. What 
 shall I do ? I am literally homeless now, and 
 nameless. I am, as you know, satisfied that it 
 is my duty to enter the ministry ; her father 
 would never hear of her marrying me, a poor 
 clergyman. What can I say to her ?" 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on his ; and, as he 
 paused, she exclaimed, with a smile of irresis- 
 tible beauty, " Where thou goest I will go !" 
 It was impossible to doubt her holy love, or 
 withstand that smile. 
 
 " We must wait awhile, Ellen." 
 
 " Years — I care not how long. I will love 
 none else but you ; I can love no other. Why 
 ask me to forget you ?" • 
 
 " So be it." 
 
 A party of revellers interrupted us, and we 
 drove back to the village. Three years after 
 this Judge Pierson was dead ; having left a 
 will, in which his daughter received a fortune if 
 she should not marry Henry Nelson : if she did, 
 his whole fortune was to go to Fred, his otiier 
 child, provided he retained it in its form of real 
 estate for ten years, and did not make over any 
 part whatever thereof, or give any assistance to 
 Ellen. If he gave any help to her, the fortune 
 was to go to the next heir-at-law ; who was to 
 recover the same on proving the fact of such 
 help having been given. This heir-at-law, 
 however, was not named ; and on this fact 
 hangs the story. 
 
 1 
 
 True to her own heart, Ellen married Nel- 
 son. He was settled as pastor of a small con- 
 gregation in the northern part of Illinois, 
 where he had gone of his own choice to preach 
 the words of truth. She made a lovely woman, 
 and as the wife of the missionary, was inde- 
 fatigable. They lived a happy, though labori- 
 ous life, and in frequent letters from Henry I 
 learned that his soul was strong and his hope 
 growing brighter and brighter, as he fixed his 
 eye on the far world beyond the river of death. 
 
 So we went on our walks in life. I entered 
 my profession, and he was my counsellor and 
 friend, and in his home I found a welcome often 
 when weary of the world. 
 
 I was one day engaged in overhauling some 
 papers which I had received from Ireland — ex- 
 tracts from parish registries and such affairs, 
 which were to be used in a partition suit, then 
 pending in the court of chancery in this State 
 and circuit — when I was struck by the occur- 
 rence of the name of Nelson in some of the 
 papers, and especially with the following note, 
 made by the copying clerk : 
 
 " Henry Nelson married Harriet Wilson, and 
 left this country in 1812. He has not been 
 
 heard of since. He sailed in the ship . 
 
 He left a small property, which Mrs. Nelson 
 converted into money, and taking her boy with 
 her, departed for America. It is supposed that all 
 are dead, as their friends never heard of them 
 again. It will be seen, however, that if living, 
 they would take precedence, &c., &c." 
 
 I wrote immediately to Harry, and asked him 
 for all the evidence he had of his ancestry. 
 He replied, giving me the particulars of his 
 mother's death, and enclosing some papers 
 found in her cottage after her decease. I 
 wrote to Ireland again for all the information 
 that could be obtained, and received in return 
 a certificate of the marriage of Henry Nelson 
 and Harriet Wilson, a certificate of the bap- 
 tism of their child, and also a certificate of the 
 marriage of George Wilson, colonel in the 
 British army, to Emma Pierson, daughter of 
 Joseph Pierson of New York, which last person 
 was flie motiicr of Harriet Wilson. 
 
 I found the registry of the ship's arrival in 
 this country which brought the mother and her 
 boy, and finding it I also found the captain, an 
 old sailor, who had retired with a handsome 
 fortune. He remembered them well, and re- 
 membered a mark on the arm of tlie boy, which 
 was on the arm of my friend, as I knew right 
 well. 
 
SUMMER MOONLIGHT HOUR, 
 
 71 
 
 It is not necessary that I go into a detail of 
 the mass of evidence which was collected. 
 The most important point, and that which 
 •tartled me as well as all others engaged in 
 the matter, was that the Colonel Pierson, the 
 father of Mrs. Nelson, was shown to be the 
 uncle of Judge Pierson, the father of Ellen — 
 and the nearest heir-at-law of the judge, next 
 to his son, was none other than the son of Har- 
 riet Nelson, my chum and friend. 
 
 Until this point was reached I had not spoken i 
 to Harry on tlie subject, except as I have stated | 
 by asking for his means of information, and < 
 then I only intimated that he had better let me ? 
 possess the facts in the case, as they might be 5 
 
 of use to him at some future day. I now wrote 
 to him, requesting him to come east, and bring 
 on Ellen with him. He came. The miniature of 
 his father was produced, and the likeness to the 
 father of Judge Pierson was instantly remarked 
 by old men. The end is clearly seen. Fred 
 Pierson instantly made over a large portion of 
 his father's estate to Nelson, and the person who 
 had been supposed to be the next heir-at-law did 
 not see fit to commence any proceedings against 
 the mass of evidence we had accumulated. 
 
 Henry Nelson and Ellen his wife, are known 
 in their county and State. Their lives are 
 calm and peaceful, spent in doing and getting 
 good. Their tale is told. 
 
 Sl^MMIiia m(ID(DM3LI[f ISrf ISKDWia, 
 
 BY EL I A. 
 
 How calm the silver moonlight falls 
 On sleeping vale and hill. 
 
 While softly gleam the angled walls. 
 With shadows deep'ning still. 
 
 And hearts, the weary and the worn, 
 In Life's more hopeful years 
 
 Revive, like drooping flowers upborne 
 By Night's refreshing tears. 
 
 A spell is on the summer leaves, 
 That lulls them to repose ; 
 
 Nor rose-tree climbing to the eaves, 
 A dancing shadow throws. 
 
 We muse upon each folly past. 
 
 With tender, deep regret, 
 And pause in Life's swift stream at last, 
 
 Its turmoil to forget. 
 
 The bee has sought her waxen cell, 
 
 From daily toil to rest ; 
 The bird forgets his song to swell. 
 
 And sleeps in airy nest. 
 
 A sabbath stillness breathes around. 
 No light-winged zephyr blows ; 
 
 And softly in the calm profound. 
 The stream low murm'ring flows. 
 
 Subdued is earthly passion's power ; 
 
 The calm and peaceful breast 
 Must sympathize at such an hour, 
 
 With Nature's holy rest. 
 
 Full oft some dear remembrance chngs 
 
 Around the tranquil hour, 
 To thrill the heart's most tender strings 
 
 With its mysterious power. 
 
 Some voice we miss, whose tender tone 
 We never more may hear — 
 
 Some heart responsive to our own, 
 Affection holds most dear. 
 
 And oft as round our weary head, 
 Affliction's cloud may lower. 
 
 We feel the peace around us shed, 
 By one soft moonlight hour. 
 
72 
 
 ON THE ADAPTATION OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 
 
 f lEi® sMiFiLWSMii m uiRmwnAm(Bm 
 
 UPON THE MODE OF ONE'S INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT, AND DIRECTION HE 
 SHOULD GIVE TO HIS MENTAL DISCIPLINE AND EFFORTS. 
 
 BY J. T. HEADLEY. 
 
 One aspect of this subject — the adaptation 
 of one's self to circumstances — may seem, at 
 first sight, to conflict with the principle, that 
 one should consult the peculiar tendencies and 
 powers of his own mind in his mental efforts. 
 But it does not ; for although one may possess 
 an excellence on which he must mainly rely, 
 yet there may be some circumstances calling 
 forth a lower order of powers that shall exhibit 
 the mind to greater advantage from the very 
 beauty of the adaptation itself Besides, the desir- 
 ed result does not always depend on the weight 
 of the given blow, but on the direction it takes, 
 and the point of contact. So the mind cannot 
 always produce the greatest results by the em- 
 ployment of its greatest powers. That de- 
 pends very much upon the minds with which it 
 comes in collision, and the tastes it has to en- 
 cotiiuter. When there is a broad and striking 
 contrast in the occasion, this rule is always fol- 
 lowed. No one would make the same address on 
 a funeral occasion and jubilee day. But re- 
 flective men go farther and adapt their efforts 
 to the different intellectual capacities of as- 
 semblies and their various habits of feeling. 
 The necessity of regarding this variety of 
 taste and habits of thought is seen by one who 
 has travelled in different sections of the world. 
 The same speech would be very differently es- 
 timated in this State, in the far South, and in 
 the Western States. One that would please 
 the taste of most Southern asitcmblica would 
 be considered too flowery and ornamental by 
 an assembly here ; while an address that would 
 be regarded liere as very sound and logical, 
 
 might rock many a Western audience to sleep. 
 Some divines, able to control large parishes in 
 New England, could not keep a Western con- 
 gregation together. Uncultivated countries 
 naturally draw into them men of a bold and ar- 
 dent character. T|ie startling appeal, the bold 
 figure, and fearless action, correspond to their 
 habits of thought and manner of living. I 
 suppose many a sound Eastern lawyer would 
 have been an unsuccessful rival against Col. 
 Crockett, among the hitter's constituents. I do 
 not introduce this to show that one should as- 
 sume the bad manners of others to move them. 
 But to elevate those whose mental habits have 
 been directly opposed to his own, to what he con- 
 siders correct taste, is a long and difficult process, 
 and never can be done unless he throws himself 
 somewhat into the current of their thoughts 
 and feelings. Who would think, for instance, 
 of moving a French audience, with all their 
 ardor, by the same kind of eloquence that he 
 would the Dutch, their neighbors ; or address 
 an Italian assembly, with their poetic feeling 
 and deep sentiment, in the same strain that he 
 would an English one ? Similar, tliough not 
 so striking contrasts, sometimes exist in towns 
 that border on each other. Daniel O'Connell 
 docs not harangue in the same style in the 
 British Parliament that he does before iiis Irish 
 constituents. Place a man of great and varied 
 powers before a small audience of savans, per- 
 chance the faculty of a university, and if he 
 wishes to convince them of some abstract pro- 
 position, he keeps his heart as emotionless as 
 marble — imagination furls her wings in repose, 
 
ON THE ADAPTATION 
 
 73 
 
 and naked reason toils alone. He advances 
 from argument to argument with a watchful- 
 ness that eludes suspicion, and omitting no proof 
 that strengthens his cause, he presses right on 
 to the point towards which he is laboring, till at 
 length, with all the gravity of a matliematician, 
 he exclaims, " quod erat demonstratum." Place 
 him the next hour as a political aspirant, in the 
 midst of a motley multitude, and he that was a 
 moment before allj moderation, suddenly be- 
 comes all appeal and declamation. The most 
 extravagant assertions, and exaggerated state- 
 ments, bring down upon his head thunders of 
 applause. I^t him the next hour be transport- 
 ed before an enlightened audience, and he one 
 moment enchains attention by a train of rapid 
 reasoning — now startles with a sudden flight 
 of the imagination and again delights, by the 
 harmonious flow of his sentences. He receives 
 the admiration of all by adapting himself at 
 times to each. I do not suppose that minds 
 usually possess such varied powers, but the 
 fact is a forcible illustration of the principle of 
 adaptation, on which those act who seek to 
 influence others, and which must control more 
 or less every one who would directly benefit 
 any. Men study well the rules of the schools, 
 but very defectively that strange and restless 
 thing, the human heart. 
 
 This principle operates so extensively that 
 what would be considered violent declamation 
 in some circumstances would be the truest elo- 
 quence in others. Take, as an illustration, 
 the speech which Sir Walter Scott puts in the 
 mouth of Ephraim iMcBriar, when addressing 
 the Covenanters after a successful battle. It 
 exhibits his wonderful knowledge of the human 
 heart. The Covenanters had been driven from 
 their homes and altars by tlie merciless Claver- 
 house and his followers, till at length, hunted 
 even among the hills and caverns, and driven 
 to despair, they turned at bay, and falling on 
 their pursuers, repulsed them with great slaugh- 
 ter, leaving the field covered with the slain. 
 As the last shout of battle died away on the 
 mountain air, with their brows yet unbent from 
 the stern conflict, and their hands crimson with 
 the blood of their foes, they gathered together 
 on the field of death, and demanded a sermon 
 from one of their preachers. Amid the silent 
 dead, encompassed by the everlasting hills, be- 
 neath the open sky, those stern and fiery-heart- 
 ed men stood and listened. A young man, 
 scarce twenty years of age, arose, pale from 
 watching, fasts, and long imprisonment — the 
 
 hectic flush on his cheek writing his early 
 doom. But as he stood, and cast his faded eye 
 over the multitude and over the scene of battle, 
 his cheek burned with a sudden glow, and a 
 smile of triumph played around his lips. His 
 voice at first faint and low, was scarce heard 
 by the immense multitude, but gathering 
 strength and volume from his increasing emo- 
 tion, its clear and startling tones fell at length 
 like a trumpet-call on the ears of the throng. 
 He wished to nerve them to sterner conflicts, 
 and urge them on to new victories, and what 
 should be the character of his address ? Should 
 he attempt to convince those wronged and 
 hunted men of the righteousness of their 
 cause ? From history and law should he 
 calmly prove the right of defending themselves 
 against the oppressor ? No ; such argument 
 would have been tame amid the stormy feel- 
 ings that agitated their bosoms. He at first 
 awoke indignation by describing their outraged 
 altars and violated homes. He spoke of the 
 Church, compared her to Hagar, watching the 
 waning hfe of her infant in the desert — to Ra- 
 chel, mourning for her children and refusing 
 to be comforted ; then suddenly taking fire at 
 the wrongs in which he felt a common interest, 
 he bursts forth : " Your garments are stained, 
 but not with the blood of beasts — your swords 
 are filled with blood, but not of bullocks or 
 goats ; neither are these wild hills around you 
 a sanctuary planked with cedar and plated with 
 silver; nor are ye ministering priests at the 
 altar, with censers and torches ; but these are 
 the corpses of men who rode to battle — ^these 
 hills are your altars, and your own good swords 
 the instruments of sacrifice ; wherefore turn 
 not back from the slaughter on which ye have 
 entered, like the worthies of old ; but let every 
 man's hand be like the hand of the mighty 
 Samson, and every man's sword like that of 
 Gideon, which turned not back from the 
 slaughter ; for the banners of the Reformation 
 are spread abroad on the mountains in their 
 first loveliness, and the gates of hell shall not 
 prevail against it." In this wild and enthusi- 
 astic manner he continued, till at his single 
 bidding those iron-hearted men would have 
 " rushed to battle as to a banquet, and embraced 
 death with rapture." I do not speak of the 
 moral character of such an appeal, but of its 
 adaptedness to produce the effect he desired, 
 and to establish the fact that cveu declamation 
 may become eloqueuce, and argument be equiv- 
 alent to nonsense. He wished the resistance 
 
74 
 
 OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 
 
 unto blood which had commenced should not 
 terminate through hesitating fears and calm re- 
 fleption. He wished them to be upborne by the 
 same lofty enthusiasm that sustained him in 
 the perils and death that surrounded him. To 
 effect these objects, he acted with consummate 
 skill. Powerful minds study more carefully 
 than we imagine the principle I have advanced. 
 There is no doubt that it should be the design 
 of all intellectual efforts to make men wiser 
 and better. But truth may be clothed in gar- 
 ments various as the different phases which 
 the human mind assumes. Its illustrations 
 are as diversified as the forms of nature, and 
 on the appropriateness of them its power and 
 success very much depend. I know there is 
 an objection in the hearts of some good men 
 against exciting emotion ; they prefer calm, 
 deliberate reason. But the danger seems to 
 me to consist in the means used to awaken it. 
 The feelings are transient, but the effect they 
 work while in being may not be. In agitating 
 times men govern too much by enlisting the 
 sympathies, while in calm and ordinary times 
 they entirely neglect it. To hear some men 
 speak, one would think the heart was quite a re- 
 dundant thing, or at least very subordinate ; and 
 thought and reason alone regal. But the heart 
 also knows how to play the despot, and it is 
 more difficult to arouse it than to convince the 
 reason. The greatest truths in the universe 
 are as clear as daylight to the mass of enlight- 
 ened men. But reason regards them with a 
 cold and stony eye till the heart kindles upon 
 them. It is easier to make the judgment as- 
 sent than to awaken emotion. It requires a 
 master hand to sweep successfully that strange 
 and delicate instrument, the human heart. 
 Any man can easily learn to adjust the strings 
 of an instrument, and prove the design and 
 propriety of every part, till reason is satisfied 
 with its construction ; but it is quite another 
 thing to make it discourse sweet music, and 
 breath forth harmony, to which the spirit's 
 harp gives out a continual response. As much 
 as men deprecate sudden impulses, if governed 
 by truth they often originate right action when 
 nothing else would do it. In the first House 
 of Delegates, doubt, fear, and irresolution char- 
 acterized all its proceedings, till Patrick Henry 
 arose, and by a short and stirring appeal, 
 poured his determined and excited soul into 
 every bosom. Then the cry of " to arms ! to 
 arniH !" tan liko wild-fire from lip to lip. 
 When strong emotion sleeps the baser pas- 
 
 sions often rule, and man's habitual selfishness 
 becomes the dominant motive. One's first 
 thoughts may not be the best, yet the first feel- 
 ings on good subjects generally are. 
 
 These principles apply with equal force to 
 writers. In all those works which impart the 
 greatest pleasure we behold the heart of the 
 author written out. They all follow the direc- 
 tion, " Look into thine own heart, then write." 
 One excels in description, another in humor ; 
 one in colloquy, another in discussion. Some 
 minds work with greatest power when thrown 
 into collision with other minds, as steel and 
 flint when brought in contact emit fire. 
 
 But rules are useless without enthusiasm — 
 they form the structure and muscles, but the 
 breath of life is needed. It is the great mov- 
 ing power bestowed on man — it is, indeed, his 
 only inspiration. When, under its influence, 
 thoughts which reflection never could have 
 suggested, come rushing like angels upon him, 
 and visions, gorgeous as the midnight heavens, 
 and as real, throng about him, until the soul 
 toils like a giant amid the terrible elements it 
 has gathered around it. It constitutes the 
 wings of the soul by which it scales heights 
 mere industry never could reach. It is the 
 divine afflatus, and when kindled upon truth 
 will make the laggard blood roll like lava 
 through the veins. 
 
 An American once entered the church of 
 Robert Hall when that eloquent divine was 
 fast sinking under the ravages of disease. 
 As he arose and leaned feebly on the desk, 
 and glanced over the multitude, his eye was 
 dull and dead in its sunken socket, and 
 around it that dark and sickly hue which de- 
 notes great physical exhaustion. His cheek 
 was hollow, and his voice low and scarcely 
 audible. He proceeded in this manner for some 
 time, when a sudden flash passed over his 
 countenance, lighting the eye and giving full- 
 ness to the cheek. It disappeared, and the eye 
 lapsed again into its dullness and the features 
 into their wan expression. After a short inter- 
 val that sudden glow a second time kindled over 
 his countenance, and remaining a little longer 
 than before again subsided away. But the inter- 
 vals between them gradually became shorter, 
 and the duration of the excitement longer, till 
 at length the veins swelled to their utmost full- 
 ness and remained so — the eye lightened to its 
 intcnscst brilliancy and burned on while thought 
 after thought, such as seemed never to have 
 frtllcn from mortal lipa before, poured ovor the 
 
ON THE ADAPTATIOX OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 
 
 75 
 
 audience, and at the close they found them- 
 selves standing erect, gazing up into the face of 
 the orator. Enthusiasm came to him in his 
 weakness like a good angel, keying up for him 
 the strings of his shattered harp, which he 
 could not do for himself — not too suddenly and 
 violently, but gradually, till in perfect tune. 
 It bade the player sweep it ; he obeyed, and 
 it discoursed sweetest harmony. Reason nev- 
 er could have strung up that man's failing sin- 
 ews so, nor brought those vivid conceptions to 
 his soul, nor poured such a torrent of eloquence 
 ftom his lips. Lord Brougham never exhibits 
 his great qualities as an orator, till he has 
 wrought himself into this overwhelming excite- 
 ment. Not till his mind seems in a state of 
 fusion are the red-hot bolts launched from it. 
 
 It was this that made Paul appear like a 
 minister of vengeance when he reasoned with 
 Felix of the judgment to come. As he proceed- 
 ed in his discourse, and the scenes of that terri- 
 ble day passed before his vision — forgot were all 
 — the noble auditory, his bonds, his coming fate. 
 That palace seemed to shrink away before the 
 descending God — its massive walls crumble 
 before the archangel's trumpet — the throne was 
 set — the judge had ascended the seat — before 
 him stood tliat terrible throng awaiting their 
 doom — gone was the contemptuous sneer and 
 careless smile, and look of incredulity, and 
 when the fearful speaker closed, the haughty 
 Felix trembled. Not even the sneer of Tertul- 
 lus could prevent conviction. 
 
 '• No orator for God, or his country, or in- 
 jured innocence, was ever eloquent without en- 
 thusiasm. No poet ever sung in strains that 
 made him immortal, unless he felt the spirit of 
 enthusiasm hke the pressure of a sensible pre- 
 sence upon him. No artist ever made the can- 
 vas breathe with power without it. Nor, without 
 it, would have come those great conceptions, 
 that wrought out, made the dumb marble elo- 
 quent. Some of the most gifted have been 
 called crazed, till the groves they have made 
 sweet with their song are silent forever, and 
 the world learns why they are silent, and calls 
 to them in vain to return. Then the enthusiast 
 is deified, and man enacts his former folly over 
 again." Enthusiasm forces a man to forget 
 his miserable, selfish schemes and act from his 
 loftier impulses. " The enthusiasm of the pa- 
 
 triot is the self-devotion of Winkelried, of Tell, 
 of Curtius, of the first Brutus, of Washington. 
 " The enthusiasm of the bar is the face of 
 Moses from the top of Horeb. 
 
 " The enthusiasm of the pulpit is the pillar 
 of fire and of cloud, the symbol of joy to the 
 Church and of terror to its enemies." In all 
 trades and professions, in all occupations of 
 whatever character, enthusiasm is the impul- 
 sive power that carries one to eminence in it. 
 The ideal perfect which it ever presents to the 
 view, acts as an increasing stimulus to urge 
 him on to still greater excellence, till at length 
 he may die unsatisfied but blessing the world. 
 A man cannot have enthusiasm without pos- 
 sessing with it a love for the perfect and the 
 beautiful in that he seeks after. The concep- 
 tions it brings to the mind are all beyond the 
 reality. It hfts the standard of perfection a 
 little higher and higher, still urging him on, 
 while, like the rainbow, it keeps receding as 
 he advances. He never finds the spot where 
 its light arch 'rests its foot He can only gaze 
 at the curve as it bows above the storm-cloud. 
 It is to tMs hot p'lrsu t after perfection we owe 
 all that is ff'xnd anc jeautiful in language or 
 art The man who ooasts of being no enthu- 
 siast, is never troubled with this longing after 
 the faultless, and never seeks it, and hence 
 never excels. He has the good sense to be 
 very well satisfied with what he does. He pities 
 the enthusiastic, dissatisfied lover of perfection, 
 as the steady old dray horse commiserated the 
 fiery Pegasus, when he would gall his breast 
 with such fiery leaps against his harness. If 
 that dray horse could have spoken, he would 
 have said, " Keep cool, Pegasus, and take a 
 steady jog like me. You only get thumps for 
 your pains. Besides, you wear your strength 
 out at tlie start. You will not be a long liver, 
 I fear, Pegasus." 
 
 But the soul needs excitement to give it 
 force. This enthusiasm may not be boister- 
 ous, indeed never come to the surface at all, but 
 calm and deep burn on like a hidden fire. It 
 matters not, so that it only has an existence. 
 Under its influence man breaks away from 
 those petty fears which cramp thought and feel- 
 ing, and exhibits that daring which of itself 
 will create genius. Ho then writes, with his 
 own heart not a critical audience before him. 
 
76 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 mifmwwfiKDM. 
 
 A PAGE OF A PHYSICIAN'S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 *' NUi mortuis nisi bonum," was long ago 
 exchanged for " Nil mortuis nisi verum," — 
 " Say nothing of the dead, but good," for " Say 
 nothing of the dead, but — tke truth." The 
 change is a good one, and the original must 
 have been written by some classical rogue, 
 who was afraid his misdeeds would be talked 
 over when he was gone. 
 
 The rule supposes, of course, that something 
 is to be said. It is very often the case, how- 
 ever, that nothing — not even the truth — had 
 better be said, either for the sak8 of friends, or 
 society at large. Let their character be buried 
 with their bones. 
 
 With regard to the subject of the following 
 sketch, neither of these considerations operates 
 to prevent my writing the truth. He had no 
 friends — a desolate condition even in this 
 friendless world — and his history may do good, 
 at least that portion which I write : the his- 
 tory of the last days — the last moments — of a 
 Usurer. He was a man of almost fifty years, 
 and lived in a splendid mansion, in the most 
 elevated part of the village — alone. I do not 
 mean by this that no one lived in the house 
 with him ; but that he had neither wife nor 
 children, nor kin of any degree. The only 
 companion in the whole large house was the 
 female servant, who had always lived with him, 
 and who had the whole care of the establish- 
 ment, if it could be called by that name. Who 
 she was, none knew. She saw no one ; and 
 went out no where. The coachman and gar- 
 dener lived in a separate house. 
 
 I do not mean to say that Mr. S n was 
 
 himself a solitary or unsociable man. On the 
 contrary he saw a great deal of company at 
 his house ; and gave, frequently, large dinner 
 parties, to which all the principal gentlemen of 
 the place were invited ; and ho often vieitcd 
 them in return. He was frequently jested, es- 
 pecially by the ladies, to whom such jokes 
 Beem to bo very natural, on his being a bache- 
 lor, and living alone in such a large house ; but 
 
 he bore their raillery with the most perfect 
 coolness. He was considered odd in this re- 
 spect, and none troubled themselves any far- 
 ther about it. 
 
 Mr. S n was a rich man — very rich. He 
 
 had become so by his own means, for he had 
 begun life a poor young man. He had made 
 his money by usury — and often of the most 
 grinding and unrelenting kind — and this was 
 well known in the place, but made no difference 
 there. He might have made it by piracy : so 
 long as he remained unconvicied and unhung, 
 he would be respected, if he were rich. He 
 followed the same practice still, and seized 
 every opportunity for making money as greedi- 
 ly as when he first began life in poverty. He 
 -occupied a seat in church every Sunday, as 
 regularly as the most devout ; and in quite ad- 
 vanced life was received into the communion of 
 the Church. 
 
 Yet, unpleasant and repulsive as such a 
 character ought to be to every mind of truly 
 noblfe and manly feelings, I must still say, that 
 
 Mr. S n had many good traits. He was a 
 
 gentleman, and what is generally called a very 
 clever fellow. I have spent hours in his com- 
 pany, and found him a very entertaining man. 
 
 I have felt it necessary to say so much of the 
 
 general character of Mr. S n in order to 
 
 prepare the reader for what follows. God for- 
 bid that any of my readers should die his 
 death. I wish I could relate it in connection 
 with the death-bed scenes of another character, 
 which took place about the same time. But I 
 must give them separately ; and his, first. 
 
 I was sitting down to dinner, when a mes- 
 senger arrived, summoning me hastily to tlie 
 
 house of Mr. S n. Of the cause of the 
 
 Buiuinons he knew nothing. He only knew 
 that ho was to ask me to come as quickly as 
 possible, and if 1 were not at home, he was to 
 
 go after Dr. M . \ did not wait to swallow 
 
 a morsel, but hastily obeyed the call. I enter- 
 ed the house in less than five minutes from 
 
RETRIBUTION. 
 
 77 
 
 leaving my own door. The single female ser- 
 vant met me at the door, with a strange expres- 
 sion of distress on her face ; and, with a ges- 
 ture towards the stairs, and only the words, 
 " up there," she disappeared into one of the 
 low^er rooms. ♦ 
 
 Not a little surprised, and perhaps alarmed at 
 this mute demonstration, I ascended the first 
 flight of stairs, into the sleeping-room, where I 
 
 found Mr. S n. He was sitting in his 
 
 large easy chair, his feet upon a stool, and 
 his back and head pressed forcibly against the 
 back of the chair. A hand grasped each of 
 tlie arms with such a convulsive grasp as 
 seemed almost to crush the solid wood. Every 
 muscle of his whole body seemed exerted to 
 the utmost tension. His face wore an expres- 
 sion of the most unutterable agony and wretch- 
 edness ; while he was struggling for breath as 
 if a band of iron had been about his chest, re- 
 sisting every effort to inhale the air. Each 
 effort was attended with that extreme exertion 
 which was almost as distressing to the by- 
 stander as to the sufferer himself. He did not 
 breathe — there was only a quick, rapid panting, 
 like what is often seen in a small animal, ex- 
 hausted by a long chase in very warm weather ; 
 each attempt being utterly ineffectual to fill the 
 lungs. His countenance was extremely flushed, 
 the veins distended and prominent ; his eyes 
 bloodshot, and almost projecting from their 
 sockets. 
 
 As I entered the room he perceived me, and 
 fixing his eye upon me with an agonized ex- 
 pression of anxious inquirj', Le never removed 
 it whilst I remained. He could not speak ; but 
 through his thick, rapid panting, he attempted 
 to utter words, which, from the motion of his 
 lips, perhaps aided somewhat by my fancy, I 
 translated — 
 
 " Doctor, do you think I am dying ?" 
 
 It was not Mr. S n, the calm, gentleman- 
 ly, collected money-lender. All the man 
 seemed lost, and sunk in the overwhelming, 
 cowardly fear of death. 
 
 Perceiving, at a glance, as I approached 
 him, that he had experienced a severe and sud- 
 den attack of congestion of the lungs, I at- 
 tempted, by a few words, to render him more 
 composed ; and then took a large quantity of 
 blood from his arm. He was somewhat re- 
 lieved by the bleeding, and I left him, after 
 having given directions to the housekeeper for 
 his care till I should call again. Upon attempt- 
 ing to lay him down, he experienced such a 
 
 degree of suffocation that I left him as I found 
 him, in his easy chair. 
 
 3 o^lock p. M. — Mr. S n is now easy, and 
 
 has been asleep for an hour. I did not awake 
 him. 
 
 He continued to improve, and in a few days 
 was able to resume his business. 
 ******* 
 
 I have not written the foregoing history of 
 the first attack of a series which eventually 
 
 destroyed Mr. S n, because there was any 
 
 thing of a peculiarly interesting character 
 about it, but because it was the first of such a 
 series. They followed each other at various 
 intervals, the symptoms becoming increasingly 
 alarming, till the one in which he died. Nei- 
 ther do I write the further history because 
 there is any thing more than ordinary in any of 
 the paroxysms, nor because the account of the 
 progress of the case is calculated to interest 
 the reader. There was nothing in the intel- 
 lectual powers of the man to develope itself 
 here, and the narrative of the disease and its 
 treatment could only interest the professional 
 man. But with the future course of his sick- 
 ness there were events of the deepest interest 
 to me, and to the fen who were conversant 
 with them at the time — events deeply mysteri- 
 ous, and so full of crime and shame as to drive 
 from the bed-side of the dying man every sym- 
 pathizing heart, and from his own soul every 
 vestige of hope beyond the grave. How full 
 of fearful import is that inspired declaration, 
 " The way of the wickedt He turneth 
 upside d0\\ts." 
 
 The period of his first attack was early in the 
 summer. In the course of six months they 
 followed each other in- rapid succession, and it 
 became evident, even to himself, that he could 
 not long survive. But as the weather became 
 colder, his strength increased and his constitu- 
 tion seemed to acquire new vigor, so that it 
 seemed almost probable that he might survive 
 the winter, and perhaps quite recov^er. But 
 standing, as he did, with the finger of the 
 Almighty always pointing at him, he never lost 
 sight, for an instant, of the truth that he was a 
 dying man, and he lived from hour to hour in 
 the most abject fear of death. Under such cir- 
 cumstances it seemed wonderful that he con- 
 tinued to live. It was for retribution. 
 
 I visited him almost daily, and often tried to of- 
 fer him consolation in the hope of his Christian 
 profession. But there was no comfort for him. 
 
 " No," he suddenly exclaimed, " I have no- 
 
78 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 thing, and can look for nothing, to make death 
 one ray lighter than the pit. I hope ! I ! who 
 have lived on human hearts — the hearts of 
 widows and orphans, and drank their tears ! I 
 hope that there is any mercy for me ! My 
 religion ! I never had any. I never knew any 
 God but gold, till now I first know him in his 
 wrath. Sir, I can tell you— but no, I will not 
 now. ' Give me something, doctor, of sufficient 
 power to make me sleep to-night, and come to 
 me to-morrow." 
 
 I complied with his wish, and when T had 
 seen him asleep for half an hour, I left him. 
 
 I did not see him on the next day nor the day 
 following, owing to my constant and unremit- 
 ting care being necessary at the bedside of 
 other patients. What the revelations were 
 which he designed to make when he told me to 
 call on the following day, can never be known. 
 He is dead. On the third day I was preparing 
 to visit him in the morning, when I was again 
 summoned to his bedside. 
 
 His attack, at this time, was of an entirely 
 new character. I found him in bed, reduced to 
 a state of extreme weakness by a sudden and 
 profuse hemorrhage from the lungs. I now 
 recur to my journal for the future history of 
 this case, as I find it accurately detailed from 
 day to day. 
 
 Jan. 19 tk. — Mr. S n has this day been 
 
 suddenly attacked with a truly alarming bleed- 
 ing from the lungs. After doing all in my 
 power to arrest it, I have partially succeeded, 
 but there can be no hope for him. He must die. 
 I have told him so, and that he ought to be now 
 fully prepared to meet it at any hour. The in- 
 telligence is not new to him, but being commu- 
 nicated in connection with the powerful proof 
 he feels in the profuse loss of blood and the 
 consequent excessive debility, it has aroused all 
 his remaining energies, not to prepare for it — 
 not to meet it as a Christian, nor even as a 
 man — but to resist and combat it, as a fiend 
 fighting with a fellow fiend. 
 
 " Die !" he exclaimed — " I cannot die — I 
 will not. You must not let me die, doctor. 
 You can save me — I know you can. You have 
 saved me before — and you must now. I am 
 not ready — ^I cannot be ready. I shall be 
 damned without hope. No — do not tell me of 
 hope There is none. I am given over to de- 
 ■pair. If God can forgive, he cannot blot out 
 my sins, and they must cling to me forever. I 
 dare not die — I dare not." 
 
 He changed his manner, and continued — 
 
 " Come, doctor, tell me you can cure me. 1 
 know you can. Tell me I shall get well — that 
 I shall not die yet. I have so much to do — give 
 me some encouragement, or if only a little, say 
 that you have some hope that I may possibly 
 recover. S^, the bleeding has stopped — there 
 — when I coughed then, there was only a slight 
 streak of blood in what I raised. I am weak, 
 to be sure, but" 
 
 Another fit of coughing here ensued, when 
 more than a " mere streak of blood" was seen. 
 What could I do in such a case ? It is one 
 of the most trying in which the physician is 
 ever placed, and it requires all his firmness to 
 do his duty. It may hasten the end of his 
 patient's life — it may produce an alarm which 
 may in an instant terminate the scene. Yet 
 can it ever be duty, to let a mortal and a sin- 
 ful man go down to his grave in ignorance 
 that his disease is a mortal one, and having no 
 preparation to meet the hour that appals the 
 firmest heart — no prej)aration to stand before his 
 God ? It cannot be. I therefore pressed firmly 
 
 upon the mind of Mr. S n the fact of his 
 
 extreme danger, and at the same time told him 
 that his only hope, if it could be called one, 
 was in keeping perfectly quiet. 
 
 20th. — One of the most trying features 
 in the hopelessness of this case, is that he 
 has no friends to nurse him. Money will 
 hire attendance, day and night, but it cannot 
 purchase the tender — anxious — unwearying 
 care of a wife or sister. There is no cool 
 hand upon the brow, no careful smoothing down 
 of the pillow — no noiseless step about tlie room 
 — no eye watching the least motion to be ready 
 to supply each want before it is spoken. Yet 
 it does not seem altogether unfitting, that a life, 
 spent in the sole pursuit of gold, should be 
 dependent upon it for tlie comforts and conso- 
 lations it can purchase in life's last hours. 
 
 I unexpectedly found Mr. S n quite com- 
 fortable in body this morning, but his mind is 
 keenly alive to every trying circumstance con- 
 nected with his situation. He was very much 
 distressed at his lonely condition, and asked, 
 with much concern, why his frinds did not at 
 least call to inquire after him. He has no 
 friends. It is an unmeaning name to him. 
 Gold cannot purchase friendship. It springs 
 up and grows spontaneously in llie hearts that 
 are fitted for it, and flourishes there as a per- 
 ennial flower. But he sacrificed it on the altar 
 of mammon, with all the better and holier feel- 
 ings of man's nature. He denied it a rooting 
 
RETl JBUTION. 
 
 79 
 
 place in his boyhood, and his heart became too 
 barren in his manhood for it to grow there. 
 
 His little improvement has awakened hopes 
 in his mind which I dare not encourage. The 
 least agitation may bring on an instantaneous 
 attack which would be fatal. I converse with 
 him as little as possible, and have forbidden 
 any one to talk with him. 
 
 12 o'clock. — I found him very much excited, 
 and restless. It may be he is a little delirious, 
 though it is hardly possible in his case. He 
 talks much of the desertion of all his acquaint- 
 ance, and seems deeply wounded with it. 
 
 " Doctor," said he as I rose to come away, 
 '■ I shall be well yet — I am not going to die 
 now — I shall recover, and then we will see who 
 are the mockers. I will put my heel upon 
 thera as I would upon a worm. I can do it, 
 sir — oh ! I can do it, and I will. They have 
 respected my wealth as long as it would add to 
 their convenience, and they will do it again. 
 And when once I gather them round rae, I will 
 use every means to fasten them till I am ready, 
 and then" 
 
 His eye burned with the most malignant 
 triumph, and he clenched his fist tiU the nails 
 seemed to cut into tlie flesh. Hypocrite! idiot! 
 fool ! I have never known a man more to be 
 pitied, and yet more consummately contempti- 
 ble. I sit by his bedside, when I know that he is 
 dying, and am filled with the deepest loathing 
 and abhorrence. He seems now to have lost all 
 apprehension of deatli, and to be constantly 
 occupied in perfecting schemes of revenge. 
 
 5 o'clock. — He is certainly more comfortable 
 in spite of all his excitement to-day, and his 
 hopes of life are increased. He is still engaged 
 in planning his means of vengeance. 
 
 " Have you nothing to fear for yourself, Mr. 
 
 S n ?" I inquired. " Are there none who 
 
 may injure you as deeply as yoa meditate 
 injuring them ?" 
 
 The question seemed to startle him, and he 
 asked what I meant. I told him plainly, that 
 there were probably few men of characters so 
 pure, that they could not be spotted, and it 
 might be well for him to consider, before he 
 went farther, whether he were entirely invul- 
 nerable. With this hint I left him. 
 
 •12d. — There has been little change for two 
 
 days in the condition of Mr. S n : no 
 
 change in his mind. The physician, in his 
 round of duty, is often obliged to see much that 
 not only pains, but disgusts, his heart ; and I 
 have to confess that in the case now before 
 
 me, I never enter the house but with feelings 
 of the deepest abhorrence, much as I pity the 
 wretchedness and loneliness of the man. 
 
 I found by his bedside this morning, the 
 
 Rev. Mr. J , a good old man, and full of 
 
 love to all his fellows. He was striving, as 1 
 
 entered, to direct the mind of Mr. S n to a 
 
 better train of feelings, and was evidently in 
 profound sorrow at the state in which he found 
 him. His eyes were filled with tears, and his 
 hands clasped in great earnestness, as he urged 
 upon the dark soul of my patient the mild and 
 refreshing promises, and hopes, and peace of 
 the gospel. It was a wonderful contrast. 
 
 " I am told, Mr. S n," said the minister, 
 
 as I was entering the room — " I am told that 
 yon cannot recover — that your disease is of 
 thfit character that you must sink under it, or 
 that you may, suddenly, at any moment, die in 
 the most horrid agony by suffocation. I speak 
 thus plainly because I would impress upon 
 your mind the importance of preparing your 
 heart to stand before your stern and unrelent- 
 ing Judge. Drop, I beseech you, these vindic- 
 tive thoughts, and" 
 
 The sick man had listened thus far without 
 moving, but now rising to a sitting posture in 
 his bed, and fixing his eye sternly on the min- 
 ister, he said, slowly and calmly : 
 
 " Sir, I do not believe in one word you say. 
 I have been a member of the church -for years, 
 because it was for my interest to be so. Now, 
 unless God will aid me in my revenge, I re- 
 nounce my hypocritical profession forever. I 
 shall get well, sir, and I shall devote the rem- 
 nant of my life to paying the debt of neglect 
 and scorn due to my fellow-men." 
 
 He sunk back in bed, and the minister, with 
 
 eyes and hands raised to heaven, said, " May 
 
 God be merciful to him," and rose and left the 
 
 room. 
 
 The angel of mercy had departed. The last 
 
 appeal had been made, and now what is left ? 
 Would that I never should be under the neces- 
 sity of witnessing such a case again. My 
 very heart is sick, and I almost wish, when I 
 call again, to find him — dead. 
 
 Midnight. — It was not the consequence of 
 my involuntary wish — it was not the doing of 
 man — it was not the direct effect of his disease 
 
 but Mr, S n is — dead. It is relrihution 
 
 not the death, but the manner of it. Though 
 
 summoned in great haste, at ten o'clock, he 
 was dead before I reached him — dead by tlie 
 visitation of Heaven. What follows, I learn 
 
80 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 from one of my students, a young man of 
 great intelligence, who had volunteered to take 
 care of him through the night. 
 
 Shortly after I left the house in the after- 
 noon, there was a loud knock at the door, 
 which the young man himself opened. A wo- 
 man of about tive-and-thirty years, attended 
 by a girl of perhaps sixteen, inquired for Mr. 
 S n. Both were persons of plain appear- 
 ance, though well dressed, and seemed, by 
 their manner, to belong to the higher walks of 
 life. But the elder one, especially, though she 
 had a look of sadness in her countenance, was 
 still a woman of surpassing beauty and grace. 
 She walked directly in, and upon being told 
 
 that Mr. S n was just fallen asleep, and 
 
 might not awake in some time, she said that 
 she wished to see him and would sit till lie 
 awoke. 
 
 " I have learned," she said, " that he is very 
 sick, and there is little probability of his recov- 
 ery." 
 
 " Scarcely any at all," the young man re- 
 plied. " Indeed he may die at any moment." 
 
 " Indeed," said she, " so bad is it ? The 
 more important, then, that we should see him. 
 Be so good, sir, if you please, as to call me the 
 moment he awakes. I have a few words of 
 the utmost importance to say to him." 
 
 The young man left the room. The sick 
 man did nOt wake till nearly seven o'clock, and 
 upon being told that a lady was waiting to see 
 him, he directed her to be admitted. " There 
 is one then," said he, " who has not forgotten 
 me." 
 
 Forgotten him ! oh no. Through all the 
 years of girlhood and womanhood — through 
 all the weary months of de.;ertion and sorrow 
 — ^through all the hot and tear-washed footpaths 
 of lonely and uncheered nursing, and rearing, 
 and watching, and guarding the young years of 
 the young and beautiful girl by her side — in the 
 waste of feeling, and in the midst of the wil- 
 derness that always springs up around despised 
 and forsaken love, s/ie had never forgotten and 
 could never forget him. Who would have be- 
 lieved that the hardened and scared man who 
 now lay sick in that house, and who had never 
 been known to feel sympathy or sorrow for a 
 fellow-mortal, and who was now — with the hand 
 of God upon him, and pressing him down into 
 the very grave's mouth — planning vengeance 
 upon men because they had no sympathy for 
 him — that that man had ever yielded to the 
 power of woman's love. Yet such is woman. 
 
 In our boyhood she weaves about our hearts 
 the chains that never break. Her love twines 
 itself about all our better feelings, and if, in 
 after life, we cast it off and spurn it for the 
 grosser love of sense, be sure the hour will 
 come when it will work its retribution. 
 
 She stood by his bedside — the same she had 
 been sixteen years before — the same in all, but 
 — her love for him. And he looked in her face, 
 and knew her — know for what she came — and, 
 in one moment, an instant, memory and con- 
 science travelled back through those long, and 
 to her, bitter years, and the hardened man cov- 
 ered up his face and groaned aloud, " Mary !" 
 
 " Then you know me, George S n," said 
 
 she, after a moment's pause, as if to collect 
 herself, and keep down any of the tenderness 
 of years ago, that might now be revived at the 
 sight of his distress and sickness. " You 
 know me then. You have not forgotten me. 
 Well, I am not much changed, if I have suf- 
 fered, since I was your ' beautiful Mary.' Do 
 you remember all, George"— — 
 " Oh, I do — I do !" he groaned out, " yon 
 
 need not tell them- I remember" 
 
 " The days when you came to my father's 
 house, a poor young man — poor as the mean- 
 est beggar — cared for by none — and how we 
 received you into the family, and fed and cloth- 
 ed you, and took you to our hearts, and when 
 you began to forget what "ou had been, how 
 you looked up and saw T was beautiful — and 
 Aggy — my elder and dear sister Aggy — poor 
 girl — do you remember her ? I know you do. 
 You shall never forget her, nor me. She Is 
 dead, George— dead— in the cold grave, where 
 you will soon be, if the earth does not cas>. you 
 out, or refuse to receive you ' into its bosom.' " 
 " Dead !" cried the sick man, " dead ! How 
 did she die ? Tell me all. Yet, nc — I cannot 
 hear it." 
 
 " But you must hear it. It is for that, with 
 other things, that I came here to-day. I have 
 
 watched you, George S n, through all the 
 
 years of our separation, and waited patiently 
 for this hour, to tell you all — all you have been 
 to Aggy and to me. She died by her own 
 hand, George, the very nigh* her i,hild was 
 born — ijuur child, the chud of her shame and 
 your treachery. Yes, let it cat into your heart 
 till it cankers there, as it ought, and take it in- 
 to the grave with you. 
 
 " You remember when my father died, after 
 you had been gone from our house more than a 
 year, that with all the confidence of the unsus- 
 
RETRIBUTION. 
 
 81 
 
 pecting heart that raised you to what you were, 
 he left our property in charge to you, to pre- 
 serve it for us. You know how well you did 
 it. Wretch ! you robbed us of our property, 
 and worse — far worse — you robbed my sister of 
 her fair name, while you had made me your dis- 
 honored wife!" 
 
 " It is false !" exclaimed the craven wretch, 
 who was beginning to collect himself, and was 
 now determined to deny the whole — " why do 
 you not take the woman away ? she will kill 
 me." 
 
 But she continued : " It is not false, George 
 
 S n. I have the proof here, though I did 
 
 not come to reclaim the honor of lying by your 
 side. You are now to be married to the grave. 
 I am your wife and I have come to see my 
 husband die. Will it not be good to have me 
 close your eyes, and receive your last breath, 
 and wipe the dew from your forehead, thus" — 
 
 She passed her handkerchief over his brow, 
 but he shrunk away, with a gesture of disgust. 
 She smiled contemptuously and continued : 
 
 " George S n, am I not your wife ? Say 
 
 it yourself, distinctly — am I not your wife ? 
 you dare not thus perjure your soul in this your 
 dying hour, for you are dying, George. The 
 damps are gathering on your brow this mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " Away, fiend of hell !" he exclaimed, start- 
 ing upright, " away — it is a lie — I am not dy- 
 ing. You are all leagued together to kill me. 
 Will no one take her away ?" 
 
 " No, George," she replied, " none will take 
 away the wife from the bedside of her dying 
 husband. Y'ou know me, George — you know 
 that I was your wife, but you do not know all. 
 Von do not know how I loved you when you 
 fled and left me in dishonor, and my sister in 
 lier shame — you do not know, how, for years, 
 I continued to love you, and knew not where to 
 find you — how I nursed my sisters child — your 
 child — resolved when you should return to for- 
 give all, and still love on. And Aggy — the 
 gentle, forgiving girl, she told me the very day 
 she destroyed herself, that she forgave you, 
 and hoped that we might be happy again. 
 
 " But all that is gone by, though I feel like a 
 girl again as I turn back to all these memories 
 — a girl in all save my love for you. The time 
 came when in the very place where we made 
 oiir first vows — in the church where we were 
 married— in the green fields where we used 
 to ramble and be happy— -every where where I 
 liad ever been with you, I taught my soul to hate 
 
 and abhor you, and on my sister's grave I vowed, 
 kneeling by her side, to hate you till death. 
 The sight of all these nursed and fed the new- 
 born hate in my soul, but more — oh, immea- 
 surably more ! — the sight of the fair young girl 
 that grew up by my side, with her mother's 
 face, but your traitor's blood in her veins. And 
 she — I taught her to hate and despise and curse 
 her father." 
 
 The sick man had heard her, thus far, with 
 only an occasional interruption of passion, but 
 now he seemed to feel his weakness and the 
 mastery she had over him, and her words 
 seemed to enter like daggers into his soul. 
 
 " Where is she ?" he exclaimed — " bring her 
 to me — let me see her. I will do all I can to 
 atone for my wrong, and whilst I live, I will 
 use all my wealth in her behalf. Let me see 
 her, and, Mary, by all the memories of the past 
 — forgive me, and speak comfort to me. Do 
 not treat me as the whole world treats me. I 
 am deserted by all — come to me once more." 
 " Yes, I have come to you, but not to be as 
 we have been. That could never be, if you 
 had yet numberless years of life before you. 
 There is between us the boundless gulf of 
 deep and implacable hate and contempt. You 
 are rich — very rich, in money coined from my 
 heart, and sister Aggy's, and oh, of how many 
 others. Your ill-got gold could never make us 
 happy. Yet it is only right, since it cannot be 
 restored, and is that upon which the world 
 places honor, that your child should have the 
 advantage of it. And it is for that, too, I have 
 come to you in your dying hour. I do not ask 
 it for her, because when you are dead it will be 
 mine, and I will give it to her. She is my child 
 now, and as beautiful and loving and gentle as 
 her mother. 
 
 " What wonder that you are deserted — that 
 you are left here to die alone ? The traitor 
 must suffer the traitor's doom. I am with 
 you again — not to smooth your pillow, but to 
 add thorns to your remorse — to bring to your 
 mind, when it is too late to repent, the memory 
 of all your wrongs, and forbid you to think of 
 heaven !" 
 
 It was now that the man was unmanned. 
 The words of his long-deserted wife harrowed 
 up his soul. Memory travelled over all the past, 
 and gathered up stores of anguish. Conscience 
 was now wide awake. Revenge was crushed 
 — every thought of revenge. The fear of deatlr 
 was swallowed up in the agony of his mind. 
 Then followed a flood of confessions of foul 
 
82 
 
 RKTRlliUTION. 
 
 crimes, and cruel wrong, enough to wring the 
 heart of any but his deserted wife. She sat 
 unmoved and heard all. She looked steadily 
 in his eye and saw his utter despair, and spoke 
 no word of hope. He begged her to forgive 
 liim, but she answered not. 
 
 My young student who had been present 
 throughout the whole scene, and had forborne 
 to interfere, on account of his conviction of 
 the truth of the lady's claims, now inter- 
 posed and besought her to retire, lest the man 
 should die at once. But her deed was not yet 
 completed. She stepped to the door and called, 
 "Aggy." 
 
 Whether it was the memory of the past, re- 
 newed with greater poignancy by the mention 
 of that name, or whether the sound of a hasty, 
 hght step on the stairs, in answer to the call, 
 gave him the itlea that his wife had deceived 
 him as to the death of her sister, it is impossi- 
 ble to tell. The truth he never knew himself. 
 He raised himself in bed and looked eagerly 
 towards the door. He saw the very face of 
 her he had wronged and destroyed, just as she 
 had been in her girlhood, more than sixteen 
 years before. He stretched out his hands 
 eagerly and beseechingly to her, and his lips 
 parted as if to speak, but instead of his voice, 
 there issued from his mouth a sudden and 
 copious torrent of blood, and he fell back in 
 
 bed — a corpse. 
 
 * ***** 
 
 When I reached the house shortly after ten 
 o'clock, no one was tfeere, but the young man. 
 He related to me the above scene, and said that 
 the young lady seemed to be greatly affected 
 by the result But the elder one, stepping to 
 the bedside and laying her hand on the fore- 
 head of the corpse, looked upward and said, 
 " TliOU hast avenged her blood and our shame," 
 and taking the other by the hand, left the room 
 and the house. 
 
 I directed the proper persons to be summon- 
 ed, and having left the body in their charge, to 
 be prepared for burial, I went home with a deep 
 sense of the justice of Heaven. 
 
 The funeral took place on the second day 
 following. A few persons assembled at the 
 
 house, more from the habit of attending such 
 scenes, than from any feeling of friendship for 
 the departed. As the little procession moved 
 from the house, preceded by the minister and 
 the hearse, an open carriage, drawn by two 
 beautiful horses, and containing two females, 
 took its position in the plage of the chief 
 mourners. They were the wife of the dead, 
 and his daughter. The latter was closely veil- 
 ed, and exhibited signs of deep sorrow. But 
 the former sat stately and erect, and her dark 
 eye flashed proudly, while her elegant attire 
 and her flaunting plumes spoke plainly the 
 mockery that brought her there. They reach- 
 ed the grave, and as the few followers gather- 
 ed about it, and the sexton was preparing to 
 deposite the coffin in it, a surprise occurred. 
 Suddenly the sides of the excavation fell in, 
 and the grave was filled nearly to its mouth. 
 
 "Ha ! ha ! ha !" scornful and wildly laugh- 
 ed the long-widowed wife, " I told him the 
 earth would refuse him a place in its bosom. 
 Come, Aggy, let us go." 
 
 She led the young lady, unresisting, from the 
 church-yard, and entering the carriage, drove 
 at once to the house of the deceased. She 
 
 then sent for Mr. B , the most eminent 
 
 lawyer in the place, and put into his hands the 
 proofs of her being the lawful wife of George 
 
 S n. They were incontestable, and no will 
 
 being found, she bacame heir to his property. 
 But this was not all. In a few days she set- 
 tled upon the young lady the greater portion of 
 the wealth of her late husband, which was 
 enormous. 
 
 From this time all was changed with her. 
 Satisfied with the retribution of Heaven, and 
 afterwards apparently deeply repenting her own 
 revenge, she erected a plain, but costly stone at 
 the head of her husband's grave, and also 
 caused the remains of her sister to be interred . 
 by his side. With her now full-grown and beau- 
 tiful niece, the care of her first lonely years, and 
 the pride of her maturer years, she is living in 
 contentment and usefulness, devoting the ill- 
 acquired riches of her husband to p\irpo3es of 
 benevolence and charity. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 83 
 
 SI Storj of t|)c Star*. 
 
 BY WILLIAM C. PHIME. 
 
 The foUowio^ poem shows a fine imagination and abounds in beaotifal passages, bnt the writer shonld be more careral of bis 
 rhythms, and stady the rules more. Counting on the figures is not a very elevated employment, bnt it is better than defective 
 measure. — Ed. 
 
 Fading away in the far distant heaven 
 
 Lay tranquil and sweet the last rays of even, 
 
 Slowly, slowly they sank to sleep, 
 
 Then in the blue and marvellous deep 
 
 One by one the magical stars 
 
 Drove up the hills their silvery cars — 
 
 Their cars of light and glory ; 
 
 And then, in the calm of the beautiful night 
 
 One told to the others, in words of light 
 
 And love, a wonderful story ; 
 
 And the others sat silently, each in his car, 
 
 And heard the strange tale of that beautiful star, 
 
 Then pressed their white steeds up the heavenly road, 
 
 And the host sang together the love of their God. 
 
 How it filled the whole heaven ! How clearly it rang 
 
 As the steeds shook their reins and the swift horses sprang 
 
 Right onward and upward in joyful procession. 
 
 And sang as they sang on the mom of creation ! 
 
 '• In a calm and quiet sleep. 
 
 Where the starl)eams seemed to keep 
 
 Silent vigil holily, 
 
 Lay a child in slumber deep : 
 
 Pale was she — 
 Pale and lovely, as the light 
 Fell upon her forehead white. 
 
 " But at midnight she awoke. 
 Smiled a peaceful smile and spoke 
 In a voice so clear and low. 
 That the silence seemed not broke ; 
 
 Faint and slow 
 From her hps fell tones of love. 
 Such as angels use above. 
 
 " Come close to me mother dear. 
 Let me whisper in your ear 
 What Pve seen to-night in dreams — 
 I saw heaven ! So fair and clear 
 
 Now it seems. 
 That my rest is gone and I 
 Must go hence — so let me die. 
 
 " Angels stood there in my sight, 
 In the God-sight full and bright. 
 And above them stood the throne. 
 Ah ! that throne was pure and white. 
 
 How it shone ! 
 From it flowed Life's holy tide — 
 On it sat The Cktjcified. 
 
84 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 " He looked toward me — me, a child — 
 Held his hand to me and smiled ; 
 Smiled a godly smile and spoke. 
 I so joyful grew, and wild, 
 
 That I woke. 
 'Twas a dream-path then I trod, 
 Now I go to be with God. 
 
 " Hush ! No tears, sweet mother now- 
 Press your warm lips on my brow — 
 Hold me in your arms once more ! 
 Closer, closer — now I go 
 
 To the shore 
 Where falls life's last murmuring wave- 
 Lay me gently in the grave." 
 
 I (sang the star) peered into the gloom 
 That was gathering in that lonely room, 
 And fell with a holy caress on the brow 
 Of the sleeping child. She was sleeping now. 
 
 And the stars were weeping ! Yea, bowed their heads, 
 And the reins lay loose on the necks of their steeds, 
 As they heard the tale of the maiden that slept. 
 And remembered the mother that waited and wept. 
 Then bethought them again the love of their God, 
 Of Gethsemane's tear-drops, of Calvary's blood. 
 And their anthem of glory again filled the sky — 
 For the faithful on earth are the blessed on high — 
 And again they pressed onward and upward and far 
 In the depths of the blue, till the voice of a star 
 Rang out in the deep and the host turned to hear. 
 
 " It was this holy night 
 
 A hundred years ago, 
 I saw a mother lying dead. 
 
 Her brow was white as snow. 
 Upon her cold breast lay 
 
 A fair and lovely child, 
 And as I kissed the mother's clay 
 
 The boy looked up and smiled ! 
 
 " I saw that smile again — 
 
 A score of years had gone ; 
 The mother's dust had turned to dust- 
 
 The boy was toiling on. 
 Toiling and sorrowing 
 
 He trod the weary road ; 
 He held a maiden by the hand. 
 
 Their eyes wore raised to God. 
 
 " Another score of years — 
 
 The maiden's grave was deep ! 
 Oh, what a countless host of griefs, 
 
 Old earth, thy turf-mounds keep ! 
 On pressed the strong man still 
 
 His stout heart-strings were riven — 
 But on his lip that smile serene 
 
 Sat like a dream of heaven. 
 
 " The birth-night of the Lord 
 
 Came on with solemn tread ; 
 For fourscore years the man had toiled, 
 
 The good old man lay dead. 
 A smile was on his lip ; 
 
 He rests beneath the sod — 
 But the valiant and the beautiful 
 
 Have met before their God !" 
 
 The stars would have shouted their anthem aloud. 
 
 As they shout when they hear of the mercies of God ; 
 
 But a wail floated out in the depths of the sky. 
 
 And they knelt as if God in his glory passed by» 
 
 'Twas the voice of the beautiful son of the mom, 
 
 Who shone first o'er the place where the Saviour was bom. 
 
THE WALDENSES. 35 
 
 WAILIH^lIf^ISg. 
 
 &«ik M^aitted groond. fiat 
 
 m 
 
 tile i.<e!f«sKaifJ \ wi 
 fur, 
 in J the ruovv iiu u 
 
 'Ki ;' And loTTT r>^.r-- 
 
 -eye view- 
 
 To the t'-'^lit, and 
 
 Rivoli ; whib to the 
 
 ick of Turin, is Pig- 
 
 n. from which pro- 
 
 •to tiw very heart of 
 
 ia I Turin les in circnmference. 
 
 ui, decked 
 
 ;-e capital, let us fjo 
 ncsses of the WiH.';!- 
 remain the people 
 - . the cornir'^'^' -i '■* ■ 
 ;3rvived the chax 
 
 Ki — /- in-^pt- and c' —-' 
 
 ;ig < ©roers:ed pure 
 
 Eur 
 
 m h<ii 111 
 
THE WALDENSES. 
 
 85 
 
 ■fflEIIg W-^ILIDIgM^IgS 
 
 The leader looks upon llie beautiful valley 
 of Piedtnont, the home of the persecuted 
 Waldenses. 
 
 Perhaps there are no people so limited in 
 number, so widely known, and for whom so 
 much sympathy has been expended, as the 
 Waldenses. Surrounded by a corrupt Church ; 
 oppressed by the strong arm of civil power ; 
 tortured, hunted, massacred, and driven forth 
 from their homes, they still have clung to their 
 religion, and remained true to their principles. 
 Now suffering, without a murmur, death and 
 imprisonment ; and now rising in sudden 
 wrath, and falling with resistless force upon 
 their foes ; braving alike the Alpine storm and 
 serried armies ; they fix themselves in our affee- 
 tions, and enlist all our sympathies. So weak, 
 and yet so resolute ; so peeled and scattered, 
 and yet unconquered ; they exhibit all that is 
 noble, and great, and heroic in man. Their 
 very home, amid the Alpine hills — their quiet 
 valleys, nestling in the lap of rugged moun- 
 tains, add to the interest that surrounds them. 
 Who has not thought of the " Vales of the 
 Vaudois" with the deepest emotion, and lin- 
 gered in imagination around their homes by 
 the Alpine stream ? 
 
 Though Piedmont itself is an extensive pro- 
 vince, extending across the Alps to Geneva on 
 the north, and resting on the Apennines around 
 Genoa and the Po on the South, the Walden- 
 ses occupy a tract of country only about twelve 
 miles square, and situated amid the Alps, on 
 the confines of Italy and France. Tlirough this 
 small, but wild region, are scattered several 
 valleys, which look, amid the savage peaks and 
 heaven-piercing cliffs, like Innocence sleeping 
 in the lap of Wrath. In midsummer they are 
 delightful ; being covered with carpets of green, 
 which contrast beautifully with the snow sum- 
 mits and everlasting glaciers that surround 
 them. Here flocks of goats and herds of cows 
 may be seen sprinkling the sweet pasturages ; 
 and the tinkling of bells, the song of the moun- 
 taineer, and the bleating of the flocks, combine 
 
 to render them enchanted ground. But in 
 winter the Alpine storm here lets forth all its 
 fury, roaring through the gorges, and sifting 
 the snow in blinding showers over all things. 
 And long after spring has decked the plains of 
 Piedmont in verdure, snow covers the valleys 
 of the Waldenses. 
 
 Our first engraving gives a bird's-eye view 
 of the whole plain of Piedmont, with the Alps 
 in the distance. Near by is seen the Po, wind- 
 ing through the plain until it is joined by the 
 Stura and Doria. In the centre stands Turin, 
 the capital of Piedmont. To the right, and 
 close under the Alps, lies Rivoli ; while to the 
 left, and almost directly back of Turin, is Pig- 
 nerol, a Waldensian town, from which pro- 
 ceeds the pass of Susa into the very heart of 
 the Waldensian country. 
 
 Turin is about three miles in circumference, 
 and surrounded with pleasant promenades and 
 carriage-roads. It has thirteen squares and 
 eighty-four streets, the latter crossing each 
 other at right angles, like those of Phila- 
 delphia. It has a population of a hundred and 
 ten thousand inhabitants. It abounds in nobles, 
 many of whom are poor in the extreme, and re- 
 ceive their company in their opera-boxes, to 
 save the expense of wax candles at home. 
 The environs of the city are beautiful, decked 
 with picturesque villas and churches. 
 
 Leaving the Piedmontese capital, let us go 
 westward into those fastnesses of the Walden- 
 ses, where still remain the people who have 
 withstood all the corruptions of the Italian 
 church, survived the changes that have rocked 
 Europe and overthrown old dynasties, and 
 emerged pure as gold from the fires of persecu- 
 tion. They are a standing miracle amid the 
 nations of the earth. That a small and rude 
 community, a band of mere peasants, should 
 dare resist the power of the Church, condemn 
 her departure from the truth, and finally sepa- 
 rate from her, and brave the fury of Catholic 
 Europe, is certainly one of the strangest events 
 in human history. The strong empire of the 
 
86 
 
 THE WALDENSES. 
 
 Caesars was dismembered, and northern bar- 
 barians occupied the ancient Roman capital. 
 Italy was overrun and subdued, her republics 
 wiped from existence, and she, throughout her 
 entire extent, made to shake under the victori- 
 ous tread of armies — yet there, in their moun- 
 tain home, the pious Waldenses have lived, the 
 same in manners and religion. 
 
 From the wild waking up of Europe in be- 
 half of the Crusades, when the West precipi- 
 tated itself in boundless enthusiasm on the East 
 to rescue the Holy Sepulchre from the hands of 
 infidels, to the terrible overflow of the French 
 revolution and triumphal march of Napoleon — 
 through all the changes that intervened they 
 have remained the same apostolic church — a 
 pure flame amid surrounding and limitless dark- 
 ness — a true and faithful Christian church amid 
 an apostate world. Clustering around their an- 
 cient religion, sometimes with the lofty resigna- 
 tion of martyrs, and sometimes with the stern- 
 ness and heroism of veteran warriors, they have 
 both suffered and struggled, fallen and con- 
 quered, with unequalled firmness. Now serene 
 and quiet, their prayers and songs have filled the 
 Alpine valleys with joy, and now their shrieks 
 and death-cries loaded the shuddering air with 
 sorrow. To-day, gazing on their smouldering 
 homes and wasted vineyards, and to-morrow 
 standing on an Alpine summit, and like the 
 captives of Zion as they ascended the last hill- 
 top that overlooked Jerusalem, sighing forth 
 their sad farewell to their mountain homes — 
 now fugitives and exiles, fleeing to stranger 
 provinces, and now breaking with their strong 
 war-cry through their ancient defiles, they 
 move before us in light and shade, alternately 
 filling us with joy and sadness, and bringing 
 successive smiles and tears. A God-protected 
 band, the heart of every true man loves them, 
 and the prayer of every Christian rises to 
 Heaven in their behalf. They have indeed 
 been witnesses for the truth. 
 
 Of the origin of the Waldenses little is 
 known, except what doubtful tradition has left 
 
 us. They claim to have been founded by the 
 Apostles, and to have remained the same 
 Church from the first spread of Christianity. 
 But nothing certain, however, can be ascer- 
 tained of them prior to the ninth century. As 
 the Christian Church gradually receded from 
 the truth, and began to adopt the errors which 
 now characterize Romanism, the Waldenses, 
 by their firm resistance to the tide of corrup- 
 tion, and their independent attitude, excited the 
 hostility of both the civil and ecclesiastical 
 power, and those persecutions commenced 
 which have covered their name with glory and 
 the Roman hierarchy with everlasting infamy. 
 During the nine hundred years in which they 
 have withstood all attempts to overthrow their 
 religion, their history has been marked by won- 
 derful events, some of which we design to give, 
 with illustrations. 
 
 We shall describe the successive persecu- 
 tions that deluged their valleys with blood, their 
 manly resistance, their desolate flight and 
 exile, their triumphant return through hosts 
 of enemies, their pastoral life, and their battle- 
 fields. 
 
 The first persecutions against them were 
 carried on by the inquisition, which tortured 
 and slew by detail. This being found insuffi- 
 cient, the soldiery were called in, and the sword 
 of war hewed down men, women, and children 
 indiscriminately. This also failing to exter- 
 minate the heretics, a general expatriation was 
 resorted to. This succeeded only for a while, 
 and the Waldenses still rear their altars in their 
 ancient mountain valleys. We wish to trace 
 them through their changing career and show 
 how religion, 
 
 " Diffused, and fostered thus, the glorious ray. 
 Warmed where it went and ripened into day, 
 'Twas theirs to plant, in tears, the precious shoot ; 
 'Tis ours in peace to reap the promised fruit. 
 By them (he bulwark of our faith was built — 
 Our church cemented by the blood they spilt. 
 In Heaven's high cause they gave all men could 
 
 give. 
 And died its martyrs that the truth might live." 
 
FADING SCENES RECALLED; 
 
 87 
 
 ir^BDHH© sssHiss mig(SAiLiLii]in): 
 
 OR, THE BYGONE DAYS OF HASTINGS. 
 
 BY ESTHER WHITLOCK, 
 
 This is the title of a book written by a lady 
 of Virginia — a person of high literary acquire- 
 ments, and a friend and correspondent of Maria 
 Edgeworth. She has kindly shown us por- 
 tions of the manuscript, which we have read 
 with a great deal of interest. The design of 
 the work is to sketch the manners and customs 
 of our forefathers and of our rural districts. It 
 is not a work of fiction, but of facts. Every 
 thing is described with the minuteness of 
 miniature painting, till we can see the old 
 fence, the old rickety gate, the old fireplace, 
 *nd indeed all that belongs to rustic life. Such 
 iwoks are destined to become popular, for the 
 '•aste for the past and neglected, in our history 
 and customs, is every day increasing. England 
 has her pictorial history ; and the customs, and 
 costumes, and manners of the most remote pro- 
 vinces of Italy and France, and other countries, 
 find their illustrations in vvTiting or in paint- 
 ing; while in this land of newspapers and 
 railroads each State is almost a terra incognita 
 to the other. We cannot pronounce on this 
 book, not having read the whole of it ; bnt 
 give, as a specimen, the following chapter, 
 taken at random. The reader will agree with 
 us that for closeness and faithfulness of deline- 
 ation it can hardly be surpassed. May the fair 
 authoress meet the success she deserves. 
 
 THE FUXERAL- 
 " What a simple burial it had been." — Phof. Wilsos. 
 
 Towards the close of the month of August, 
 Fanny Morris went to spend a few days with 
 a friend who lived six or eight miles from 
 Hastings. It was a pleasant season to be in 
 the country, when the summer fruits were in 
 full perfection, for they had the previous spring 
 escaped the late frost, which in the middle 
 States is so apt to blight them, and had ripened 
 most beautifully. Every tree, large and small, 
 seemed to have brought its blossoms to perfec- 
 tion, particularly the peach trees, whose limbs 
 
 were literally loaded and bent down with their 
 delicious burthen hanging in rich luxuriance 
 and weighing them to the ground. 
 
 The autumnal wild flowers were just begin- 
 ning to come forth in their rich colors, while 
 here and there, some few of the " last roses of 
 summer" were lingering, as if unwilling to 
 fade away. The small yellow brown spotted 
 flag was nearly out of bloom, but Fanny ob- 
 served along tlie road side one or two, yet fresh, 
 among the rich seed pods which surrounded 
 them. A few evenings after her arrival at 
 " Rosewood," one of Mrs. Ellis' servants in- 
 formed her, that he had heard that Mr. Langdon 
 was very ill. He was one of the oldest men in 
 the neighborhood, being upwards of eighty ; 
 yet he felt so much younger that he did not 
 appear conscious of the ravages which lime 
 was imperceptibly making on his naturally 
 vigorous constitution. A day or two before 
 the old man died, his son, who lived a few 
 miles off", rode over to see his father, and com- 
 plained of not feeUng well himself. "Ah," 
 said the old man, throwing his arm on the out- 
 side of the bed as he spoke, " young folks ain't 
 good for much these days. Now, Billy, I'll bet 
 you a barrel of com that I'll outlive you yet." 
 But the old man lost his bet, for early on the 
 following morning when Mr. Oakford, the 
 father of Mrs. EUis, rode over to see him, 
 he found that Mr. Langdon had breathed his 
 last, and Mr. Oakford returned with the tidings, 
 which appeared to effect him, for he was not 
 greatly the junior of old Mr. Langdon, near 
 whom too he had long resided. He also 
 brought notice that the funeral would take 
 place the following morning. Fanny Morris 
 with only one or two of the members of the 
 family attended, a seat in the carriage being 
 reserved for Miss Penny Mirack, tlie house- 
 keeper, for she had been a near neighbor, and 
 old friend of the Langdons, and Mrs. Ellis 
 thought it would be a pity to leave her at 
 home on such an occasion. She was gratified 
 
88 
 
 OR, THE BYGONE DAYS OF HASTINGS. 
 
 by Mrs. Ellis' consideration, and when the 
 carriage was brought to the door, Miss Penny 
 took a seat in with the rest. 
 
 It was a charming morning about the close 
 of August, when the summer and autumn 
 breezes were most delightfully blending, and 
 the atmosphere just beginning to rfeceive that 
 bluish smoky tinge which so beautifully softens 
 the face of nature. 
 
 The small plantation of old Mr. Langdon 
 was only three or four miles from " Rosewood," 
 and the level white gravelly road which led to 
 it, was shaded on both sides by large oak and 
 hickory trees, the nutty fragrance of the latter 
 imparting a pleasant odor to the air, which 
 Fanny remarked at the time ; and she often 
 said, in after years, that she thought the air 
 about Hastings had a peculiar sweetness, nor 
 was it her imagination, but the nut trees that 
 gave it its fragrance. As they rode along. 
 Miss Penny descanted on the merits of the 
 deceased. She said she '■'■reckoned the old 
 place would have to be sold now, so as to 
 divide it among Mr. Langdon's children. He 
 had always lived mighty well in his family, he 
 and his two daughters who had never left him, 
 but he was a mighty plain, and old-fashioned 
 man in his notions, and never would hear of 
 no extravagance. That his son, who was 
 married and settled not far from the old man, 
 had been away to the North, and had things 
 mighty showy about him ; he had a store car- 
 pet, and a mahogany table, and painted chairs 
 like them in Mrs. Ellis' passage, and every 
 thing mighty fine at his house ; but she did not 
 reckon that old Mr. Langdon would have let 
 such things come inside o' his door, if any one 
 had gin urn. to him. He did not go to the 
 stores much, and mighty sj'/dom bought any 
 thing, for he had most every thing made at home. 
 That he was a mighty good-conditioned sort of 
 a man, who went his own way without disturbin' 
 nobody, that her father and mother had lived 
 neighbors-like to old Mr. Langdon ever since 
 she could remember, and though there wornt 
 no dividin' fence between their places, and 
 their creturs used together constant, yet there 
 never had been a cow run, nor so much as a 
 pig crippled, nor no kind of interruption be- 
 tween the families, as she had ever hearn talk of 
 the whole time. As the carriage approached 
 the " plantation," Miss Penny told the driver 
 she " reckoned he had better turn out whar 
 the road forked and drive around the corn-field," 
 in the middle of which, as she said, " the house 
 
 stood." On approaching it in this direction, 
 there was no road, but that made by the carriage 
 for itself, through a small field of broom straw. 
 This was now literally yellow, with the " golden 
 rod" in full bloom, growing among low pines 
 so young and pliant, that they bent readily 
 without breaking under the carriage as it pas- 
 sed over them, and being bruised now and then 
 by the wheels, gave forth a fragrance as they 
 brushed by them, which reminded Fanny of 
 one of Moore's many beautiful similes : 
 
 " The mind of the injured and patient maid. 
 Who smiles at the wrongs of men. 
 B like the bruised and wounded rind 
 Of the cinnamon, sweetest then." 
 
 On one side of this field was tb^ fence of the 
 plantation, and the large gate> wnich was now 
 left wide open for the convenience of the neigh- 
 bors coming to the funeral. Some few walked, 
 but most of them came on horseback, and on 
 dismounting hitched their steeds to the low 
 limbs of a long row of fine young sugar-cherry 
 trees, the fruit of which having long since 
 matured, their yellow leaves now fluttering in 
 every breeze were falling thickly around them. 
 Here and there the women's riding " skeerts^' 
 of large checked copperas and blue homespun, 
 were thrown over the low limbs of the trees, 
 while others were left hanging down from the 
 saddles and still remained on the horses. Mrs. 
 Ellis' driver stopped the carriage at what he 
 considered a respectful distance from the house, 
 there being no yard fence and gate, as usual, 
 to separate it from the field. The ladies 
 alighted and saw on approaching the house 
 the seats which had been prepared for the com- 
 pany. These seats were of such rude sort as 
 the hurry of the present emergency rendered 
 unavoidable. They were formed merely of 
 rough planks, with the bark side turned down- 
 wards, supported by round logs of wood, with 
 the bark still on ; laid parallel to each other on 
 the ground, just at a sufficient distance to admit 
 of a passage between them. Besides these 
 temporary seats, there were a few rush-bottomed 
 chairs of different sizes, and some wooden 
 " crickets" appropriated to the females. All 
 these seats were arranged between the dwell- 
 ing-house and a magnificent old mulberry tree, 
 which stretched its patriarchal brandies in 
 venerable dignity many yards beyond its im- 
 mense trunk. When Fanny Morris and hex 
 party approached this spot, they, following tlie 
 example of other females, took their seats in 
 
FADING SCENES RECALLED: 
 
 89 
 
 chairs under the tree ; and before the people 
 had all arrived, Fanny had ample time to con- 
 template the rural scene which was presented 
 to her pleased and obser\ ing e3'e. The dwell- 
 ing-house in which Mr. Langdon had reared 
 his family, who were now all pretty well ad- 
 vanced in life, was a small wooden building 
 about thirty feet square. The shingles on the 
 roof were patched and " melting" away, and so 
 was the weather boarding, while neither the 
 one, nor the otlier, had ever received the first 
 brush of paint. There were two square holes 
 which might have admitted of four small panes 
 of glass, had there been sashes to receive them, 
 but not only were these wanting, but also 
 hinges for such close wooden shutters as must 
 have been occasionally used, though none ap- 
 peared on the out or inside of the house ; tlie 
 latter however Fanny had not yet seen. A 
 round block of wood, from which the bark had 
 not been stripped, was standing on one of its 
 flat ends, and served for a step to the front 
 door, facing the mulberry tree. At tlie back of 
 the house, and extending a little beyond it on 
 <Mie side, appeared the garden, enclosed by a 
 zigzag or " worm fence," as it is called, such 
 as surrounded the plantation. The little gate 
 to the garden was so very picturesque, that 
 Fanny wished she could have sketched it as it 
 stood. It was hanging all awry from its rude 
 hinges, while the latch which kept it shut ex- 
 tended across, to within one, of the five rough 
 short palings which formed it, and this latch 
 fell ponderously into a great wooden catch 
 quite large enough to receive it. From the 
 view that Fanny had of the garden, it appeared 
 to be well stocked with common vegetables. 
 She saw fine large " collards," and garlick, and 
 onions supporting their rich stalks crowned 
 with large heads in their full dress of purple 
 flowers ; there were also herbs, such as mint, 
 balm, sage and tliyme, as well as those flowers 
 which seem to grow spontaneously in old coun- 
 try gardens, such as coxcombs, bachelor's but- 
 tons, marigolds, sunflowers, and " Love-lies- 
 bleeding ;" while a merry row of red peppers, 
 with their long scarlet pods, seemed to vie with 
 them all in their gay appearance. Immediately 
 outside of the gate and very near it, was a 
 flourishing young apple tree, which appeared 
 to have sprung up there of its own accord, and 
 was now showing to the best advantage its 
 beautiful red-cheeked apples. Not far oS'and 
 shaded by a cedar tree, stood a longish old 
 weather-beaten, stout-legged bench supporting 
 
 with vigor several beehives. Immediately 
 under the mulberry tree and leaning against 
 its trunk, stood a small milk dairy on four high 
 legs, like a safe. The perfect stillness which 
 reigned around was occasionally interrupted by 
 first one servant and then another, going to 
 this dairy and rattling in some domestic prepa- 
 rations the plates and dishes which it now 
 seemed to contain. The servants were all 
 neatly dressed in their Sunday clothes. Some 
 mothers were standing here and there, near the 
 little one-sided log kitchen, which was but a 
 short distance from the dairy, with their infants 
 in their arms, or a little toddling thing clinging 
 to their petticoats, while peeping from behind 
 their folds. Little negroes were lugging on 
 their backs blue-lipped babies almost as large 
 as themselves, looking with all their eyes at 
 what was passing before them; while those 
 advanced in life found seats on the gnarled 
 roots of the old mulberry tree, rising as they 
 did in many places, half a foot above the ground, 
 thus appearing for some yard or two and then 
 burying themselves again. 
 
 Fanny was delighted with this rural scene ; 
 even the low log chimney to the kitchen, with 
 a little sweet-potato house, looking like a kind 
 of a mud pocket stufled full, and sticking out 
 behind it, had its charms for her ; nor did she 
 overlook a number of small water gourds, all 
 nicely cleaned, which seemed to have been 
 hanging since the past season on some plum 
 trees below the kitchen ; the plum nursery as it 
 is called. She observed, too, how nicely the 
 men were dressed who came to the funeral, 
 generally in home-spun and home-made clothes, 
 cut to be sure in all fashions, some waists 
 between the shoulders, others again as much 
 too long, but all perfectly clean, as if the 
 wearere would show their respect for the 
 deceased. One young buck had distinguished 
 himself by a broad plaid ribbon tied round his 
 hat for a band, but he was unique in this piece 
 of foppery. 
 
 As the men on arriving approached the seats 
 prepared for them, they merely gave a nod of 
 recognition to their acquaintances, without 
 speaking so as to be heard, and no sound 
 escaped their lips but the squirting of tobacco 
 juice from them. As the time for tlie sermon 
 ap-r-oached there was a quiet sort of stir among 
 the females towards the house, which they 
 entered, followed by some of the gentlemen, 
 carrying for their accommodation the chairs 
 which they previously occupied. The cofin 
 
90 
 
 OR, THE BYGONE DAYS OF HASTINGS. 
 
 containing the body of the deceased, supported 
 by two rush-bottomed chairs, was standing in 
 the only room below. They were without paint, 
 but scoured as white as the water pail, which 
 stood on a shelf, over a wooden table, on which 
 as many women were sitting as it could 
 accommodate. Two beds in the room were oc- 
 cupied in the same way. The women " were 
 dressed in their Sunday's best" garments, which 
 had evidently long been faithful servants. 
 There was to be seen "the modern antique," 
 some full deep flounces stiffly starched but 
 crushed most piteously by their ride on horse- 
 back, and such comical bonnets as baffle de- 
 scription. Some rosy-cheeked young things 
 looked as if their round faces were packed 
 away in bouquets of old artificial flowers, and 
 one or iwo appeared to have robbed their fly 
 bonnets of the old pasteboards, and tied it 
 round their waists ; the dress over it stuck out 
 in such a queer crumpled-horn manner, that 
 Fanny thought it might be in imitation of Mrs. 
 Grove's hoops. Old and young were now 
 crowding into the room. Some women with 
 their infants in their arms, others closely fol- 
 lowed by their older children, who clung to them 
 as they walked, and stood jamming themselves 
 as near as possible to them when seated, look- 
 ing shy and stealing glances over their shoul- 
 ders from the corners of their eyes, at " the 
 folks" and the coffin in which they had been 
 told ■' old Mr. Langdon was dead and nailed up." 
 This coffin was large enough for the accom- 
 modation of one twice the size of the man 
 which it contained. It was simply a large ob- 
 long box, painted black, and was evidently 
 home-made. A white cotton sheet was thrown 
 over it, while the cords by which it was to be 
 lowered into the grave were as simple as the 
 rest of the appliances ; one being a cotton 
 home-twisted leading line, or plough bridle, the 
 other a stout hempen rope, such as served plan- 
 tation purposes, for which this had evidently 
 ueen used. These ropes were under the coffin 
 on the chairs, with the ends straying about the 
 floor as they chanced to fall. Not long after 
 the females had assembled in the house, several 
 men came in, and moved the coffin quietly out 
 of doors, placing it on chairs in the shade of 
 the great mulberry tree, under which, no doubt, 
 the old man had many a time sat, and while lie 
 rested his body, refreshed his mind, looking 
 with satisfaction on the tobacco field which now 
 presented the plants growing in great luxu- 
 riance, while beyond it was a fine crop of corn 
 
 in full ear. As soon as the coffin was taken 
 out of the house, the "emales followed it, for 
 they now knew that the service was to be per- 
 formed out of doors. Those who had been sit- 
 ting on chairs, took them along, Fanny among 
 the rest, and, in a short time, all were somehow 
 or other seated. Then there was another 
 pause, (waiting perhaps for the arrival of the 
 minister,) during which Fanny saw that Tup 
 Riggin, an idiot man who attended all funerals 
 for ten miles round, had found his way hither. 
 He had seated himself on one end of the plank 
 near the foot of the coffin, while just opposite 
 to him another idiot, a grandson of the de- 
 ceased, had placed himself in a chair. There 
 they both quietly sat, the idiot boy wiping his 
 hands and then twisting the pocket handker- 
 chief into tight knots, as if it were a novelty to 
 him ; and then blinking his eyes as if they had 
 sand in them, and rubbing them with both his 
 fists. Meanwhile there sat Tup, making all 
 kinds of curious grimaces, and, as if to defy 
 him, a little yellow cur dog took his seat on the 
 ground facing him near the head of the coffin. 
 The preacher at last made his appearance, 
 and took his stand with a hymn book in his 
 hand, behind a chair near the coffin. He com- 
 menced by informing the congregation that 
 " both the hymn he was about to give out, and 
 the text on this melancholy occasion, had been 
 long since chosen by the deceased." He then 
 read the hymn, after which he " gave out" a line 
 at a time, which was sung accordingly, and it 
 was pleasing to hear in the open air so many 
 voices united in harmony of feeling, if not of 
 sound. Men and women, white and black, all 
 sang together. One old negro man, whose 
 head was white as cotton, had come " trem- 
 bling through the woods" to the funeral, and 
 rested when he got there, on one of the knotty 
 roots of the old tree, now stood up, and joined 
 in the hymn, while the idiot man — his mouth 
 not yet quite empty — gave forth the most dis- 
 cordant sounds, gabbling with the greatest ra- 
 pidity to the slow measure such gibberish as 
 his mind suggested. Soon after the hymn was 
 sung, and the prayer commenced, tiic clouds 
 which had been for some time gathering, now 
 approached with distant thunder, and in a short 
 time large drops were heard rattling among the 
 foliage, and the freshening breeze passing 
 through the old mulberry tree, shook down 
 some fading leaves moistened with rain drops 
 upon the funeral sheet. For some moments 
 the weather was apparently unheeded ; the 
 
I-ADliNG SCENES RECALLED. 
 
 91 
 
 people all remained stationary, but the shower 
 increased, s-(^that the females, regardless of the 
 service, but with as little noise as possible, rose 
 in a body and ran to the house, while the men 
 hastened to remove once more the remains of 
 the poor old man within its doors. All this 
 was of course very distressing to his daughters, 
 who now wept aloud. 
 
 •' Happy is the corpse that the rain rains on," 
 
 and just enough had fallen on this coffin to sat- 
 isfy the believers of the old saying. 
 
 The preacher who followed after, had a full 
 share of the shower, and as he took off his 
 hat and hung it very deliberately on one of the 
 knobs of the chair which supported the head 
 of the coffin, the water streamed from its broad 
 brim upon the floor. The room was now filled 
 witli women, so that those men who crowded 
 in for the most part stood in the fire-place ! 
 Fanny, who sat near, counted seven, standing 
 there with perfect ease, their heads not touch- 
 ing the upper part of the opening of the fire- 
 place, and seven more could have found a place 
 there without much difficulty. 
 
 Before they entered the house Fanny had 
 been in the act of placing her chair there, but 
 some person advised her against it, lest she 
 might get wet with the rain falling down the 
 chimney ! She could not help observing the 
 various things which were scattered within this 
 ample fire-place, as if it had been a small room. 
 In one corner stood some walking slicks ; a long 
 reed, and a frying-pan handle, in the other. 
 An old wing and a bunch of cotton string were 
 on a sort of a ledge at the back, on which also 
 lay one or two dusty looking ripe peaches, and 
 a pair of old scissors, while on a wooden peg, 
 high np on the inside, was hung an uncom- 
 monly large tin nutmeg grater. Here and 
 there, within the room, answerng the purpose 
 of cloak pins, were stout crotchets, cut to a 
 convenient length, and nailed to the beams and 
 studs. But to return to the funeral. What 
 became of the men under the tree, during the 
 shower, Fanny knew not ; however, it lasted 
 but a short time, and then the clouds partially 
 dispersed, and the sun shone brightly, as well 
 down the chimney as elsewhere. The preach- 
 er now took his stand in the door, for the con- 
 venience of those witliin and without, and pro- 
 ceeded without further interruption, for when 
 the babies cried their mothers found an imme- 
 diate relief for their wants. 
 
 He commenced with the solemn text, " I am 
 
 the resurrection and the life," and proceeded, 
 " Now, my friends, I can't tell you how this is, 
 like as if I was tellin' you how to make one of 
 them tobacco hills," pointing as he spoke to the 
 object close at hand, " nor as if I was showin' 
 you how to make a tobacco hogshead, but I will 
 do the best I can to set forth the meanin' of 
 the text, which, as I have already told you, was 
 the one chosen by our lamented friend for his 
 funeral sermon." The preacher then proceed- 
 ed with his explanation, and, after some time 
 thus occupied, he expressed his regret that the 
 unsettled state of the weather prevented his 
 speaking more fully on the subject. " I see 
 the clouds seem to be athick'nin' again, and it's 
 likely we'll have more rain," observed he, 
 looking out of the door, and stretching his 
 neck up to take a view of the weather, as he 
 spoke ; " yet I must detain you a short time, 
 while I speak a few words about our lamented 
 friend who has gone before us. You all know, 
 my brethren, that Mr Langdon was an honest, 
 upright man, a good father and a peaceable 
 neighbor. He was old-fashioned in his politics, 
 for he had fought in the revolutionary war, and 
 had his own notions about the affairs of his 
 country, but he never was no enthusiast, fair 
 from it, for he was a man of candear, and a 
 good citizen," &c. The concluding hymn was 
 then sung, and the coffin, supported by the 
 friends of the family, was carried to the grave. 
 The old man's daughters wept audibly and found 
 many friends to show them sympathy. All fol- 
 lowed on to the grave, men, women and chil- 
 dren, not in procession, nor by a beaten path, 
 but through an old field towards an orchard ; 
 crashing, as they walked, the straw under their 
 feet, and making their way through weeds and 
 wild flowers. The grave, nearly square, with 
 sides sm.ooth almost to a polish, was situated 
 at the extremity of this little field, and near a 
 beautiful cedar which seemed to be giving to a 
 fine horse-apple tree a sheltering embrace ; the 
 intermingled foliage of the two presenting a 
 variety of beautiful shades. 
 
 " The rain-drops glistened on the trees around. 
 Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred. 
 
 Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground 
 Was shaken by the flight of startled birds ; 
 
 For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
 About the flowers." 
 
 "How peaceful," thought Fanny, "how 
 tranquil, seem old orchard and old garden 
 graves, where trees blossom and drop their 
 
92 
 
 WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL TO HIS OFFICERS. 
 
 ripened fruit noiselessly upon the long grassy 
 covering, and bees hum, while birds sing and 
 build their nests, and teach their young to fly, 
 and soar with them aloft, all undisturbed. The 
 familiarity of such scenes does not create in- 
 difference, for the hand of love will still plant 
 flowers and shrubs, and cultivate the spot 
 cherished by lingering affection. Many a 
 bright summer's day and soft moonlight night 
 will the mocking-bird pour forth its delightful 
 notes, and dance to its own music on the top- 
 most branch of that beautiful cedar, while 
 through its boughs the breeze will waft a sigh 
 over the old man's grave. The sleep of death 
 seems a sweet repose, thus cradled in the lap, 
 and lulled by the voice of Nature." 
 
 While the people were leisurely approaching 
 the grave, the coffin was lowered, and the last 
 hymn was sung as they stood in groups about 
 it. An old negro woman, neatly dressed in a 
 dark " habit," her cotton apron, white as snow, 
 seemed to vie with the deep, full border of her 
 cap, as it was seen even beyond the front of 
 her great old black bonnet. She stood at a 
 
 respectful distance from the head of the grave, 
 leaning with both hands on the head of a stout 
 old smoke-dried stick, which lool^d as if it had 
 been her staff for many a year. She did not 
 appear to see any thing that was passing but 
 the interment of the dead. Not far from the 
 foot of the grave, but apart from every one 
 else, stood a negro man, bent double by either 
 age or infirmity, his body being literally at 
 right angles with his lower limbs. He was 
 too respectful to wear his hat, and as he re- 
 quired both hands to support him, with the aid 
 of a stick, in the only position he could stand, 
 the poor old fellow held his crumpled hat be- 
 tween his knees, and covered his head with a 
 clean white rag to protect it from the damp air. 
 Tup Riggin had taken his stand so close to the 
 brink of the grave as to be in some danger of 
 falling in, and there remained until obliged to 
 move for those who were about to fill it up. 
 The last Fanny saw of him he was seated in 
 the orchard, watching those who were forming 
 the grave mound. 
 
 WASMMi^wM^© iF-amiwim m mm mnmm. 
 
 The hour of parting came, that saddest hour. 
 That Washington, the noblest and the best, 
 The glorious day-star of a nation's hopes. 
 Must part with those who long had shared his 
 
 toils ; 
 Brave hearts and true, who in his darkest hour, 
 When scarce one ray of hope lit up the gloom. 
 Or one bright star illumed the cheerless night, 
 Had borne with him its sufferings and its cares — 
 And there they stood, a noble-hearted band. 
 And thrilling memories of the eventful past, 
 Its toils and conflicts, with its hopes and fears, 
 When side by side they shared the unequal 
 
 strife. 
 Came crowding o'er him, till his mighty heart 
 Was sunk in silent grief. 
 Those lion-hearted men, who mid the din 
 And carnage of the battle-field had seemed 
 As never made for tears, were weeping fast ; 
 
 And voices choked with sorrow could not give 
 An utterance to that mournful word, farewell. 
 Such was the scene, and such its thrilling 
 
 power, 
 When, for a moment gazing on the band, 
 The noble patriot, with a bursting heart. 
 Embraced in turn each loved and honored one; 
 And then, in silent anguish, turned away. 
 While those who saw were melted into tears. 
 
 The scene still lives. 
 While those who shared it long have passed 
 
 away; 
 And it will live; 'tis cherished warm and true 
 Within a nation's heart, and hallowed memo- 
 ries 
 Of high and noble deeds — a birthright won 
 By self-devoted toil and conflict stern. 
 
NOTES ON MY TRAVEI»S 
 
 93 
 
 HdDIPlSS (DH MY ^mA¥llILiiS 
 
 IN EUROPE, ASIA, AFRICA AND AMERICA. 
 
 BZ AN ITALIAN OFFICER. 
 
 I VISITED Florence a few days ago, and went 
 once more to the Italian Pantheon, to see the 
 tombs of our greatest men. In no place in the 
 world is congregated so much of departed 
 genius as in the church of Santa Croce. 
 
 " here repose 
 
 Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his. 
 The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
 Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence ^t 
 rose." 
 
 I knelt before the statue of the Altissimo Poeta, 
 Dante, and I admired it with a kind of worship 
 and grief. 
 
 " Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar;" 
 
 tliou hast exiled the zealous republican poet, 
 burned Savonarola, the people's tribune, the | 
 reformer of morals and religion, and from a 
 free and prosperous republic thou art now an 
 humble slave, an appanage to a foreign prince. 
 In Pisa I saw Galileo's monument in the 
 yard of the same university where two centu- 
 ries ago he taught and pursued his astronomi- 
 cal observations. The great Galileo ! the new 
 creator of science, was condemned to the torture 
 and imprisonment for his discoveries and in- 
 ventions ; yet after his death Rome herself was 
 compelled to admit, and even to teach, his doc- 
 trines ! 
 
 To-morrow I shall give my last farewell to 
 Italy ; to escape the persecutions and rage of 
 our tyrants, I find no other way of salvation 
 than to sail for a foreign country. I asked a 
 passport for America, and my demand has been 
 regarded with suspicion. No more hopes for 
 liberty ; the police has prescribed to me as a 
 favor to take senice in a war-vessel for Egypt. 
 Although of a neutral nation, our vessel is to 
 be at the disposal of Mohamed Ali, and to fight 
 under an Egyptian flag. The captain has 
 received orders by the Tuscan government not 
 to let me land in any port, but if we stop at 
 
 Malta, as it is proposed to do, I shall desert at 
 once, and leave forever my floating prison. 
 
 "And now I'm in the world alone. 
 Upon the wide, wide sea." 
 
 We left Livorno for Alexandria in Egypt 
 It was the first time that I left my native land. 
 Had I heard from my father and my sister, my 
 departing would not have been so sorrowful ; 
 but our letters were intercepted by the Italian 
 government. Before noon we passed between 
 the Tuscan shores and the island of Elba, so 
 famous since the first exile of Napoleon, and 
 in a short time I saw the black island of Monte 
 Cristo, to-day made a terrestrial paradise by 
 Alexander Dumas. 
 
 We arrived at Naples in the morning, and 
 after a few hours of anchorage, continued our 
 course. No coast in the world is more rich 
 with the beauties of Nature than that between 
 Naples and Cape Misene. All that land is 
 classic and full of historical remembrances. 
 Here you see Naples, with Vesuvius ; there 
 you look on beautiful islands, sprinkled over 
 the bay, and on the picturesque hills from 
 Naples to Gaeta. There is Serrento, the native 
 place of Torquato Tasso, the 
 
 " victor unsurpassed in modem song !" 
 
 and Virgilius' ashes repose in the most beauti- 
 ful situation of the Neapolitan gulf. At sun- 
 set we left behind us Sicily, the last Italian 
 promontory. 
 
 ♦' Adieu, adieu, ray native shore !" 
 We remained only one day in Malta, and no 
 one of the crew has been allowed to go on 
 shore. The night before we left, we took on 
 board a quantity of gunpowder and arms for 
 the Pacha of Egypt. 
 
 The second day of our voyage we coasted 
 the island of Candia, where we met the French 
 squadron, composed of fifteen vessels, drawn 
 up in battle array. Had France followed the 
 
94 
 
 IN EUROPE, ASIA, AFRICA AND AMERICA. 
 
 policy of Thiers, there is no doubt that the 
 French commodore, Laland, would have at- 
 tacked and destroyed the English squadron. 
 But the French government had betrayed 
 Mohamed Ali, as it had Italy and Poland in 
 1831. Napier, the English commodore, in a 
 private conversation a few months after, avowed 
 the superiority of the French. 
 
 We met the English squadron at the island 
 of Cypro, en route for St. Jean d'Acre, and 
 our captain, fearing to be discovered, sailed 
 directly for Alexandria. 
 
 Alexandria cannot be discovered until within 
 twenty miles, so low is the shore. When ten 
 miles distant we received on board the pilot. 
 He announced to us the terrible ravages of the 
 oriental plague, the distress of the inhabitants, 
 and the intention of Mohamed Ali to prosecute 
 the war. Before the harbor there were a few 
 English and Austrian vessels, and saluting the 
 Egyptian squadron, we sailed boldly in. The 
 same day, I was sent to tiie Tuscan consul 
 with dispatches, but found it impossible to 
 escape ; besides, I should have been exposed to 
 more evils than to be on board. The hatred 
 of the inhabitants is great against all Uie Euro- 
 peans who have interfered with Ibrahim Pacha 
 in his glorious way to Constantinople. We 
 could not land without being well armed and 
 bearing our flag. Mohamed Ali will not con- 
 clude any treaty with the Ottoman Porte, and 
 he seems resolved to continue the war in Syria. 
 Every day the Turkish squadron is expected 
 here to act against the town. 
 
 I tread at last the soil of Egypt ; but that 
 country, for ages so great and celebrated, has 
 now a palsied arm, and can only weep over its 
 own misfortunes. In vain I sought for any 
 vestiges of old monuments of the great and 
 ancient Alexandria ; there is not a single trace 
 to be found of the philosophical school of the 
 magicians, or of the baths of Cleopatra, or of 
 the royal splendor of Alexander. All has per- 
 ished — all sleep in the silence of ruin ; for 
 every thing that remained of antiquity was de- 
 stroyed by vandal Mahomedanism. The soil 
 itself has changed its appearance. 
 
 The banks of the Nile, which presented beau- 
 tiful grottoes and delightful retreats in the 
 time of Sesostris, are no more inhabited, as 
 then, by a cheerful, hospitable, and industrious 
 population, nor visited any more by vessels of 
 different nations, moving up and down the 
 stream. 
 
 Now the shore is occupied by some thou- 
 
 I sands of poor laborers, who work without rest 
 ■> under the blows of soldiers, as the poor exiled 
 \ Poles in the mines of Siberia. A few kange 
 \ (light boats moved by oars and sails) serve 
 \ for carriages. The boats of the Delta are gen- 
 \ erally larger than those of the Adriatic, for 
 I passengers ply from Rosetta to Cairo with a 
 < crew of from three to thirty men. When the 
 I wind is contrary, and one is going up the Nile, 
 \ the boatmen land, and with a rope round their 
 necks, drag the kange slowly against the 
 \ stream, often without rest, or even food, from 
 ^ morning till evening, when they stop to take 
 [ some beans and doura bread. They then re- 
 ;, sume their cord for the whole nig-ht, and thus 
 ^ they continue their labors for a fortnight. 
 
 I was astonished at the vigor of the Arab 
 race, and at the same time at their patience 
 and kindness of disposition. It is necessary 
 to imagine all the power of habit and religious 
 belief, to understand how so energetic a people 
 can submit to be driven by the blows of a weak 
 and corrupt aristocracy, and so willingly en- 
 dure misery. Nothing can equal the wretch 
 edness of the Fellahs. On approaching then, 
 a spectacle of misery and wretchedness pre- 
 sents itself to the traveller — blind, idiots, 
 and leprous men, women, and children, all ly- 
 ing on the ground, or upon a little old straw, 
 which serves them for a bed. 
 
 Nothing is to be heard but Balshees, Ban. 
 slices ! The cry of money is general, and every 
 where greets the traveller on his arrival and at 
 his departure. The poor Fellahs live on avi 
 elevated piece of ground, opening upon a wide 
 waste that seems never designed as a refuge 
 for men. 
 
 Where are the numerous and magnificent 
 cities of antiquity ? Ah ! ancient Egypt ! Mo- 
 ther of the world ! as thy children call thee in 
 their beautiful and pompous language ; thou 
 who hast given all things to mankind — laws, 
 sciences, arts,findustry ; why hast thou kept 
 nothing for thyself? 
 
 Tho» miscalled Pompey'a Pillar is the only 
 monument which has resisted the assaults of 
 time and disaster. Mohamed Ali has built ar- 
 senals, opened canals, and erected granaries, 
 but has done nothing tomehorate the condition 
 of the miserable people — 
 
 "Cnidelitas unicum fundamentum imperii Tur- 
 cici." 
 
 The Frank quarter is the best part of Alex- 
 andria, the Scala Franco or Frank Square, of- 
 
NOTES OF MY TRAVELS. 
 
 95 
 
 fers a most beautiful appearance, being quite 
 surrounded with trees and with palaces built in 
 handsome Italian style, where the foreign con- 
 suls reside, like petty sovereigns, in the expen- 
 sive and commodious manner of European no- 
 blemen. Not far off is the monastery, re- 
 cently built by the famous architect, Signor 
 Zanetti of Parma, inhabited by monks of all 
 kinds, and colors, some waiting to be sent into 
 the interior, others to remain here, or to return 
 to Europe. Here the reverend fathers enjoy 
 the business of doing nothing. Not being 
 bound to " divine self-tortures," nor subject to 
 strict obser\ances, they indulge in what is 
 strongly prohibited by their canons and vows, 
 and the Jesuits do not fail to have their place 
 among the rest. 
 
 To-day, Jlohamed AH came for the first 
 time to visit our vessel, accompanied by sev- 
 eral Egyptian and European officers. He is a 
 fine old man, with white hair and beard, a 
 commanding and noble countenance, and a 
 look proud and piercing. He seemed pre- 
 occupied by serious thoughts, although the last 
 news from Syria was most satisfactory. He 
 asked our captain what was said of him in 
 Italy ; to which the captain replied that, " in the 
 opinion of the public, the war of Egypt and 
 Syria was just ; that the Ottoman Porte had no 
 right over those countries, and that the glorious 
 army of his majesty would finish by obliging 
 the great Sultan to recognize their indepen- 
 dence." " Yes," said Mohamed Ali, " I have 
 given orders to my son, Ibrahim Pacha, not to 
 stop until he reaches Constantinople, and if 
 he accomplishes this, then Egypt shall give 
 laws to Turkey. But that which perplexes 
 tne is the infamous and unjust inter\'ention of 
 England, of Russia, of Prussia, and of Austria, 
 who will never permit me to reach Byzantium." 
 " But," said the captain, " France seems to 
 have adopted your policy, and to have decided 
 to defend you." "That, indeed, might hap- 
 pen," replied the pacha, " if the minister of 
 foreign afikirs could act as he wishes, but I 
 have no confidence in King Philip. He fears 
 to give the signal of war, and I should not 
 be surprised w^ere he to unite himself to the 
 allied powers." 
 
 He visited and examined every part of the 
 vessel, and pronounced it not only elegant, but 
 well suited to sustain a combat. He was sur- 
 prised that in Italy should be constructed 
 steamers so large and fine. " Had I," said he, 
 "twenty such ships of war as this, I should fear 
 
 neither the allied powers nor any other enemy. 
 By land and sea I would, in a few days, reach 
 Constantinople, raise all Turkey in revolt 
 against the Czar of Russia, and retake the 
 provinces which he has conquered." After a 
 moment of silence, he exclaimed, " Very well, 
 captain ; to-day you will receive the coal arnd 
 provisions which you need, and to-morrow de- 
 part for Beyroot with dispatches and ammuni- 
 tion." The papers were for Ibrahim Pacha, 
 commander-in-chief of the Syrian army. He 
 had orders to reduce all Syria to obedience, 
 and to disarm the Druses, in case these latter 
 refused to lay down their arms, Ibrahim was to 
 march against them with an army of 50,000 
 men, and to exterminate them or drive them to 
 the mountains. We had taken on board 600 
 Arab soldiers, to be left at JaSa, and from 
 thence to follow us to Beyroot. We passed 
 before Aboukir, where Nelson destroyed the 
 fleet of the French republic. One still may 
 see, in times of calm, the wrecks of these 
 famous vessels, which sustained so happily, for 
 a time, the thundering fire of the English fleet. 
 Here we spread our sails for deeper seas, for 
 the coasts of Egypt and of Palestine are very 
 dangerous under cloudy skies. After 36 hours' 
 sail in stormy and horrible weather, we reached 
 Jaffa, landed the soldiers, and sought again the 
 sea. How many associations are awakened 
 by these shores from Dalraatia to Beyroot ! All 
 the facts that sacred and ancient history reveals 
 were present with me. Here were accom- 
 plished the greatest deeds and the sacred mys- 
 teries of the Hebrew religion, and here Chris- 
 tianity originated and triumphed. Then and 
 there too, I thought of those formidable and in- 
 vincible Roman Legions which destroyed 
 Jerusalem and its temple ; then of tlie crusades 
 which desolated this land, in order to conquer 
 the sepulchre and the hallowed ground around 
 it ; of Napoleon, who, in the name of liberty, 
 wislied to subdue Egypt and Syria ; and now 
 again, bloodshed was there, and war was rav- 
 aging these countries, once the home of peace, 
 religion, love and brotherhood. In vain may 
 you now seek, on all these shores, one sitjgle 
 monument of ancient days. All have disap- 
 peared ; all sleep in desolation and in ruin ! 
 
 The night that we lefl Jafia, the sea was 
 boisterous, the north-east wind howled fiercely, 
 the rain and hail fell in torrents, and it seemed 
 as if all nature was on the point of dissolu- 
 tion. It was absolutely necessary to brave the 
 wind and waves in order to avoid the coasts of 
 
96 
 
 THE DRAGON OF VINCENNES. 
 
 Syria. The sea ran mountain high, the bil- 
 lows sometimes carrying us to their utmost 
 height, only to cast us the deeper in their pro- 
 found abysses, while their ebb seemed ready to 
 ingulf us. The heavens were only bright- 
 ened by the lightning's flash, followed by yet 
 greater darkness and terrific thunder, while the 
 sulphuric foam of the waves, in the obscurity, 
 made them appear like vast masses of fire, 
 cast upon the surface of the waters. Happily 
 our vessel was strong, and furnished with so 
 superior an engine, that we were soon some fifty 
 miles from the . coast. Had it not been 
 thus, doubtless I might have served as a break- 
 fast, most rcc/ierchi, to some dainty monster of 
 the deep. Beyroot has no port, but simply a 
 road — dangerous, full of rocks and perils, for 
 the vessels which approach it. The city was 
 in a state of war, well fortified, and furnished 
 with artillery, and there too might have been 
 seen the army prepared for the strife. What 
 enthusiasm in my soul, how much was my im- 
 agination excited, when the pilot pointed out to 
 me, from afar, the whitened crests of Lebanon, 
 and as we neared the shore, more and more pow- 
 erful became the perfume of the verdant cedars, 
 which, in descending, one may see at the bot- 
 tom of the valleys, while each high mountain 
 seems to extend toward the other a hand, and 
 
 form around Syria a single chain, making it u 
 nest of cedar-wood and perfume. Ibrahim 
 Pacha was in the city on our arrival, and re- 
 ceived most gladly our difipatches, and seemed 
 pleased to learn that we had left 600 men at 
 Jaffa. 
 
 The Druses had nearly all laid down their 
 arms, and Syria was almost entirely conquered. 
 Misery and the exorbitant taxes of Ibrahim 
 had begun to ruin the country. The people 
 spoke of him as most cruel and hard-hearted ; 
 a brave soldier, famous warrior ; a man accus- 
 tomed to the life of camps and to privations ; 
 yet as one who drank wine, contrary to the 
 orders of Mohamed, and who lived more like 
 a European than a Mussulman, having with 
 him his wife and children, a few slaves, but no 
 concubines, like the other princes professing 
 the same religion. 
 
 To-morrow we return to Alexandria. The 
 English steamer arrived from Smyrna, tells us 
 of the departure of the Turkish fleet from Con- 
 stantinople, to reduce to obedience Mohamed 
 Ali. 
 
 Ibrahim says he shall go, in a few days, to 
 attack the Turkish army, which wishes to con- 
 quer Syria. 
 
 Adieu, Beyroot ; once more en route for 
 Alexandria, and hastening to a wild battle-scene. 
 
 STtanslatcH from tfte ffvenc\>. 
 
 BY ANNE O. LYNCH. 
 
 If prudery and pretension are displeasing 
 in a woman, ignorance and rudeness are still 
 more revolting. Nature has given to each sex 
 the attributes which belong to it; she has traced 
 the path which it is permitted to each one 
 to take, and marked the limits which tliey 
 cannot transcend. Youth and beauty must be 
 accompanied by gentleness and modesty, and 
 they belong inseparably to the period of maid- 
 enhood. 
 
 M. de Francastel, an officer in the French ser- 
 vice, had returned to his native country, having 
 
 been absent from his family for a period of ten 
 years. lie inhabited a fine country-seat situated 
 near the chateau of Vincennes, wlierc he qui- 
 etly enjoyed a comfortable fortune, the fruits of 
 his long services, and where he endeavored to 
 repair the faults in the education of his only 
 daughter Cornelia, whom he found far from 
 being worthy of the respectable name to which 
 she had been born. Deprived of her mother at 
 the age of four years, she had been confided to 
 the care of an old nurse, the wife of one of the 
 keepers of the chateau of Vincennes. Brought 
 
THE DRAGOX OF VIxNCENNES. 
 
 97 
 
 up from that tender age in the midst of a mili- 
 tarv corps, she was accustomed from infancy 
 to use the most unbecoming expressions, and to 
 indulge in the most unpardonable rudeness of 
 manner. 
 
 M. de Francastel ia vain endeavored to 
 counteract these early impressions and to cor- 
 rect the evil habits into which she had fallen. 
 She was constantly seen carrying heavy bur- 
 dens, disputing with the children of the village, 
 which she would often seize and throw down 
 without scruple, and then with her hair flying 
 loose, her hat torn, and her garments soiled and 
 disordered, would return home. There she would 
 scale the walls and climb the highest trees to 
 gather fruit or to rifle the birds' nests, or descend- 
 ing to the lower court armed with a spade, she 
 would dig and carry earth to the garden, or 
 entering the stables, she would prepare the 
 litter for the animals, winnow the oats, tor- 
 ment the horses,, and finally mounting one 
 without saddle she would gallop through all 
 the environs now shouting and now swearing. 
 Such was her reputation that she every where 
 received the appellation of the Dragon of Vin- 
 cennes. 
 
 Notwithstanding this wildness and extrava- 
 gance of manner, Cornelia possessed some of 
 the finest qualities of the heart. If any dispute 
 arose in the village she immediately put herself 
 on the side of the weakest, and by her boldness 
 and address effected a reconciliation. If some 
 unfortunate man was ill, disabled or unable to 
 work, Cornelia would seek him out, and supply 
 all his necessities ; she had often been known to 
 rake off" her o)vn clothing to cover the rags 
 of indigence or to bind up the wound of some 
 sufferer. If in her excursions — which she 
 always made dressed as an amazon, a fowling- 
 piece in her hand, and a game-bag on her back 
 — she encountered a vehicle made fast in some 
 deep rut, she put her shoulder to the wheel at 
 the risk of covering herself with mud from head 
 to foot, of skinning her hands and dislocating 
 her arms. If some young shepherd had lost 
 a lamb, or a sheep, in the immense forest of 
 Vincennes, she aided him in scouring all the 
 paths of the wood, which she knew better than 
 any one, nor did she return without bringing 
 with her the wanderer whose loss had caused 
 such uneasiness. In a word, she was an indis- 
 cribable mixture of sweetness and rudeness, of 
 patience and courage. 
 
 If her manners and language repulsed at 
 first, her goodness, her devotion, and frankness 
 
 in the end cc«iciliated all hearts. Her features, 
 although brown by the rays of the sun, and the 
 forced marches she made every day, were of 
 remarkable regularity and wore an expression 
 which was irresistibly fascinating. Her figure 
 was rounded and majestic, and her bearing 
 noble and imposing. Her continual exercise 
 in the open air had so augmented her strength 
 and hastened her development, that although 
 scarcely beyond the period of girlhood she 
 appeared almost in the vigor of womanhood. 
 
 M. de Francastel vainly employed all the 
 means imaginable to overcome the strange hab- 
 its of his daughter, so little in accordance with 
 her sex and condition. But no sooner was she 
 placed in the best institutions for education, 
 than she scaled the walls of the garden and 
 returned to Vincennes. If he took to his house 
 some amiable and dignified instructress, Cor- 
 nelia found means of defying her authority and 
 eluding her vigilance. If a servant was sent 
 to follow her, she amused herself by leading him 
 astray in the woods and by such fatiguing routes 
 that he was forced to rest for a moment, when 
 she took the opportunity to escape from his 
 sight. To hunt, to dig, to run, to feed the do- 
 mestic animals, and to follow the calls of bene- 
 volence, such were the peculiar occupations of 
 the Dragon of Vincennes. The exercise of the 
 needle, music, dancing, above all, the least 
 study, were to her an insupportable scourge, to 
 which she had not the least power or inclination 
 to subject herself; and although now on the 
 point of attaining her fifteenth year she was in 
 the most absolute ignorance, not knowing even 
 how to read. 
 
 M. de Francastel, finding all remonstrance 
 vain, and having made every effort to reclaim 
 his daughter that paternal love could inspire, 
 resolved to wait time and reflection. He 
 feigned to leave Cornelia to herself, and to be 
 the first to laugh at the numberless freaks and 
 caprices of her whom he himself called the 
 Dragon of Vincennes. 
 
 Destiny, which often ser\-es us better than 
 the plans we most skillfully project, came to the 
 succor of this tender father, and furnished him 
 the occasion of combating successfully the 
 masculine habits of his daughter. The chateau 
 of Vincennes had been for many months used as 
 a state prison.. Situated in the centre of an 
 immense and fertile plain bordered by a forest 
 surrounded by the richest villages, it offered to 
 those unfortunates, whom the great interests of 
 the state deprived of their liberty, pure air, an 
 
1)3 
 
 THE DRAGON OF VINCENNES. 
 
 extended horizon, a charming view, and in a 
 word all that could diminish the sufferings of 
 their captivity. 
 
 One evening as Cornelia returned from hunt- 
 ing in the forest of Vincennes, she perceived, 
 in passing, at the foot of the great tower of the 
 chateau, a little rush basket which descended 
 from tlie gratings of one of the windows along 
 the wall, by means of several strips of linen 
 tied together. She watched till the basket was 
 within her reach, when she perceived within it 
 a note, which she seized eagerly, saying to 
 herself, " Without doubt some one within re- 
 quires aid, or perhaps wishes to communicate 
 some important intelligence. Morhleu! that I 
 should not know how to read ! and at my age, 
 and the daughter of an old captain ! How do 
 I at this moment curse my idleness, and my 
 stupid liead. And perhaps the unfortunate 
 prisoner who needs my assistance has but a 
 moment, a single moment. Morbleu ! that I 
 should not know how to read !" 
 
 Attracted by the singularity of this adven- 
 ture, and more still by her natural disposition to 
 oblige, Cornelia, reflecting, in spite of her ha- 
 bitual heedlessness, that it would be dangerous, 
 under these circumstances, to commit the least 
 indiscretion, resolved to reveal the secret only 
 to lier father, and to suffer no one else to read 
 the writing. She flew to his side and recount- 
 ed all that had passed. 
 
 M. de Francastel took the note from the 
 hand.s of his daughter, and read as follows : 
 " Can an old officer hope that you will have 
 the courage to render him an important ser- 
 vice ?" 
 
 " Yes, parbleu, I have the courage for it," 
 cried Cornelia. 
 
 " Answer me, I entreat, on the back of this 
 note, and, for a signal, pull slightly the basket, 
 which will bring me your reply." 
 
 " Yes, quick, dearest father, write in my 
 name — Rely on me," 
 
 "Stop a moment, my daughter; to succor 
 the unfortunate is a sacred duty, we know, but 
 to favor a prisoner of state, whom we do not 
 know, whose projects we are unacquainted 
 with" 
 
 " What matters that?" replie(^ Cornelia eager- 
 ly, " he says he has need of my aid in an impr- 
 tant service, and how can I resist that ? and 
 besides, he is an old man. Fancy thyself, 
 my father, to be in the place of tliis veteran, 
 wouidst thou not be afflicted by such a stern 
 refusal ? Do not prevent thy daughter from 
 
 doing a good action. Answer quickly, tliat he 
 may command me. Alas ! that I cannot do it 
 myself — that I can neither read nor write." 
 
 M. de Francastel, affected by the generosilyj 
 of his daughter, and conceiving a project thatf 
 would make an impression upon her, determin- 
 ed to write as she had dictated. Cornelia 
 seized the note and returned with all speed tc 
 the foot of the great tower, following the direc* 
 tions of the prisoner. 
 
 The little basket was immediately drawn upl 
 and soon descended again, containing an un.4 
 sealed packet, which Cornelia took to her fatheri| 
 On the packet were written these words 
 " Read^ and Heaven revjard you /" and or 
 opening it M. de Francastel found that it con- 
 tained the minature of a venerable old man, in] 
 the uniform of a general, and the followingj 
 letter : 
 
 "My dear Daughter — One of our pri^ 
 soners has painted this picture, which I intend-- 
 ed to give thee at our first interview ; but thy| 
 long illness having deprived me of tliat happi- 
 ness until to-day, I have wished that it should 
 reach thee on the anniversary of thy birthJ 
 May I not be disappointed in this hope. The| 
 means I have employed are rather strange i 
 but, however impenetrable may be the fortress| 
 where I am inclosed, there wander near it 
 sometimes protecting angels of the unfortunate,| 
 and it is one of these who bears to thee 
 message. Bless thou this ministering spirit aa 
 I bless it ; kiss a thousand times thy old fathei 
 in this portrait, love him always, take couragej 
 and believe that, under a just monarch, innc 
 cence will triumph sooner or later over calur 
 ny and falsehood. S * *." 
 
 Below was written : " I have no books and 
 I see neither fruits nor flowers." The letteJ 
 
 was addressed to the " Countess de , 1^ 
 
 St. Dominic street." 
 
 " I mount my horse and I fly," exclaimed| 
 Cornelia. 
 
 " Softly, my daughter," said her father, " re* 
 member tint if you commit a single impru- 
 dence vdiir i>nit6g6 is lost, and wc are lostalsoJ 
 I kmi V your recklessness. This countess^ 
 wli(w(> iiiime even we do not know, must be| 
 appnvichcd with caution ; we must consider her 
 ilhiess and her consequent sensibility. It is 
 far belter for you to entrust the messajrc \o me." 
 
 '• I recognize my noble father here," an- 
 swered Cornelia, covering him with kisses. 
 
THE DRAGON OF MNCENNES. 
 
 39 
 
 " Go and give happiness and life to the daugh- 
 ter of my dear old prisoner, and I, in the mean 
 time, will supply him with whatever else he may 
 need." 
 
 Scarcely had M. de Francastel departed 
 alone for Paris than Cornelia hastened to ga- 
 ther the most beautiful flowers, and die finest 
 fruits, to which >he added some books from the 
 library of her father, and thus supplied, she 
 again sought the prison. The little basket de- 
 scended more than once, and the prisoner found \ 
 himself amply provided with all that he could ! 
 wish ; but as the ignorance of the Dragon of ; 
 Vincennei equalled her goodness of heart, the 
 poor recluse found in the books which were 
 offered him to beguile his leisure hours, only a 
 Treatise on Heraldry, a Royal Almanac, and 
 an old book of rendered accounts ; the young 
 hoyden having taken indiscriminately the first 
 volumes she had put her hand upon. The 
 prisoner could not conceal his surprise ; he be- 
 lieved at first that it was some pleasantry, and 
 fear-»d that he had misplaced his confidence, 
 but when he saw the beauty of the fruits, 
 and the choice flowers that accompanied this 
 strange collection, he no longer doubted the 
 zeal and the interest which he had inspired. 
 
 Cornelia, believing that she had fulfilled all 
 the wishes of the prisoner, returned home hap- 
 py in the consciousness of what she had done. 
 M. de Francastel hastened home from Paris to 
 share with his daughter the pleasure he had 
 received in being the bearer of the message, 
 and the benedictions with which he had been 
 overwhelmed. He brought with him a letter 
 for the old general, which Cornelia charged 
 herself with the delivery of the next evening, 
 at the accustomed hour, promising herself to 
 accompany this treasure with a supply of 
 choice fruits and fresh flowers. 
 
 M. de Francastel, who, during his absence 
 had reflected on the project which he had 
 formed for drawing Cornelia from her present 
 life and habits, to those more becoming her sex 
 and station, was now only waiting to put it 
 into execution. Admitted, from his distin- 
 guished po:^ition. to the society of the Governor 
 of Viuconnes, he took occasion, while Cornelia 
 was engaged with thn | risoner at the foot of 
 the gr'«3t tower, to conc-rt his plans with the 
 governor and to entre.it him to second his de- 
 signs. Of what t tforts and what sacrifices is 
 not the heart of a father capable ! 
 
 Cornelia having made her offerings, and 
 placed in the bisket the letter her father had 
 
 given her, returned more joyous and more wild 
 than ever, carrying in her arms five or six vol- 
 umes, which the prisoner had returned to her, 
 and to which was attached a little note, which 
 read thus : 
 
 " I return you the books that you have given 
 me to read. I am too old to be instructed in 
 heraldry, and I have no accounts to render." 
 
 This was soon explained by M. de Fran- 
 cr^tel, who, on examining the volumes that 
 Cornelia had carried in triumph, could not re- 
 strain his laughter, while he explained to her 
 the absurdity of the amusement she had pro- 
 cured for her venerable protegi. 
 
 " What," said Cornelia, reddening with spite 
 and shame, " have I offered to the honorable old 
 man an almanac and an account-book ? He 
 might have thought that I wished to insult his 
 misfortunes. Morbleu .' that I should not 
 know how to read." 
 
 " It is not my fault," said M. de Francastel 
 emphatically ; " I have employed all means that 
 patience and paternal tenderness could suggest, 
 to enlighten thy ignorance, and to draw thee 
 from the darkness into which thou art hope- 
 lessly plunged." 
 
 " Oh, do not distress thyself, my dear father," 
 answered Cornelia ; " every one knows that 
 thou canst not be reproached with the faults ot 
 my education. It is painful for thee and revolt- 
 ing to all the world, and I begin now to per- 
 ceive it myself. Oh, if I could recall my lost 
 time ! If my heart could once command my 
 head !" 
 
 These words, uttered in the enthusiasm of 
 frankness and repentance, were a happy pre- 
 sage for M. de Francastel, and rendered him 
 still more intent to pursue the plan he had 
 devised. 
 
 The next morning, in breakfasting with his 
 daughter, he returned to the conversation of 
 the evening before, and they had already begun 
 to speak of the pleasures of a cultivated mind 
 and taste, and above all, of those qualities most 
 essential in a woman, when the governor of the 
 chateau entered with a grave and mysterious 
 air, and requested to speak with them in pri- 
 vate. 
 
 No sooner were they alone than the gover- 
 nor, expressing the regret with which he com- 
 municated his orders, announced to them the 
 object of his visit. Drawing a paper from his 
 vest, he presented it to M. de Francastel, who 
 troubled and embarrassed, opened it and read 
 as follows : 
 
^ ^. /Sa^Ar^ 
 
 100 
 
 THE DRAGON OF VINCENNES. 
 
 " In consequence of information received of 
 the conduct of M. de Francastel, captain in 
 the service, who, in contempt of orders, com- 
 municates secretly with the prisoners of state 
 confined in the fortress of Vincennes, who has 
 been the bearer of secret letters to Paris, and 
 returned answers by the hand of his daughter, 
 Cornelia do Francastel, who was seen in par- 
 ticular, last evening, depositing many articles 
 in a basket, which was lifted from within to 
 the summit of the great tower — it is ordered to 
 tbe Governor of Vincennes to secure the per- 
 sons of M. and Mdlle. de Francastel, and to con- 
 fine them secretly in the said fortress until fur- 
 ther information be received. 
 
 " By order of the Minister of War." 
 
 " Is it a crime," said Cornelia, with sparkling 
 eyes, " to assist a venerable old man — to pro- 
 tect a victim of calumny ? besides, I only am 
 culpable, and my father should not be punished 
 for what I have done, and what I am ready to 
 do again." 
 
 " It is useless to deny that I am thy accom- 
 plice," said M. de Francastel with resignation, 
 for nothing escapes the vigilant eye of the 
 government. It is but too true that I myself 
 have taken the letter and the portrait to Paris, 
 and as an officer I have committed a fault, the 
 chastisement of which I shall support with 
 courage. Sir, I am ready to follow, you." 
 
 " Thou in prison, my father ! and shall I 
 suffer it ? Ventrebleu .' if I stir an inch !" 
 
 " No violence. Mademoiselle," answered the 
 governor, " or I shall be obliged to employ 
 force, and to make an exposure which I came 
 in this way purposely to avoid." 
 
 " How is that ?" said M. de Francastel. 
 
 The governor replied, " It will be easy for 
 you, under the pretext of a journey which you 
 are ordered to make, to give out that you take 
 Mdlle. de Francastel with you. You will set 
 out, apparently to the people of Vincennes, and 
 stop at Paris, and to-night, at eleven o'clock, 
 you will present yourself at the chateau, where 
 I shall wait you both. Relying on your loyalty, 
 from this moment I consider you my prisoner 
 on parole." 
 
 Pressing the hand of the governor, the cap- 
 tain replied, " Believe that I shall be failliful to 
 my duty, and accept my thanks for the zeal 
 and interest you have shown me on this occa- 
 sion." 
 
 " At eleven, then, precisely," added the 
 governor, in going out, " I shall be at the first 
 
 entrance of the fortress, and shall conduct you 
 privately to the apartments prepared for your 
 reception." 
 
 Cornelia, finding herself alone with her 
 father, abandoned herself to her despair. "Is 
 it thus," she exclaimed, "tiiat I repay thy ten- 
 derness and thy care, by depriving thee of thy 
 liberty, forcing thee from this delightful home 
 and from thy cherished habits, and dragging 
 thee to a slavery that may shorten thy days. I 
 restrained my tears before this cursed gover- 
 nor, to prove to him that, like thee, I am pos- 
 sessed of force and courage ; but my heart is 
 oppressed with grief, and tears of surprise, of 
 remorse and rage escape from my eyes. Oh, 
 my father ! my good father ! I suffer inexpres- 
 sibly." 
 
 "We must submit to the decrees of destiny," 
 answered M. de Francastel, suppressing all 
 that passed in his heart ; " I little expected 
 that after sixty years passed in honorable ser- 
 vice, I should at last be confounded with those 
 who betray their prince and their country. But 
 banish these painful thoughts and let us think 
 only of our departure." 
 
 Cornelia, bathed in tears, hastily made the 
 necessary preparations for their departure. 
 M. de Francastel, on his side, ordered his 
 travelling-carriage and post-horses, and in- 
 formed his people and those of the neigborhood 
 that he was about to travel — as had been agreed 
 between him and the governor — and in the 
 evening, at the appointed hour, he returned to 
 the chateau of Vincennes, with Cornelia. She 
 passed the first night of her captivity in the 
 most cruel agitation, reproaching herself con- 
 stantly for the imprisonment of her father, 
 whom she promised not to leave for an instant. 
 
 The next morning, M. de Francastel ap- 
 proached the bed of his daughter, who had not 
 closed her eyes during the night, and endea- 
 vored to calm her agitation, and quiet the re- 
 morse with which she was overwhelmed. 
 
 " No," she cried, " it is useless ; I shall never 
 be consoled for having deprived my worthy 
 father of his liberty." 
 
 " It belongs to thee, my daughter," he re- 
 plied, " to atone for it amply, and to make me 
 bless my captivity. Let me but enlighten the 
 ignorance in which thou hast until now been 
 plunged — let us employ the time we are to pass 
 in this fortress in study — and I promise tliec 
 that within its thick walls we shall find true en- 
 joyment, and an ample recompense for the fate 
 that has overwhelmed us." 
 
THE DRAGON OF VINCBNN|33. 
 
 101 
 
 " Thou foreseest my dearest wish," answered 
 Cornelia, embracing him a thousand times. 
 "From this day I am thy scholar, submis- 
 sive and obedient. Now I will repair all my 
 errors, become worthy of being tliy daughter, 
 and of rendering thee, even in thy captivity, 
 the happiest of fathers.'' 
 
 Cornelia faithfully fulfilled her promise. 
 The morbleu and venirehleu, and all those low 
 expressions which continually escaped her, no 
 longer soiled her rosy lips. The boy's clothing 
 which she often wore, and all her amazonian 
 costume were replaced by a becoming and la- 
 dy-like apparel. In less than three months she 
 learned to read and write, and she soon after 
 commenced the study of historj', of language 
 and mythology, and her progress was so much 
 the more rapid, since she discovered each 
 day new pleasures of which she had been de- 
 prived. By degrees her bearing became mo- 
 dest and noble, her manners winning, and her 
 voice sweet and insinuating. In short, in the 
 course of six months, her mind had become so 
 developed, and her taste so cultivated, that she 
 felt herself created anew. 
 
 Meantime the governor having announced 
 that his orders were to mitigate as much as 
 possible the imprisonment of Mdlle. and M. de 
 Francastel, procured for them all the diversions 
 in his power. They were permitted to walk in 
 the gardens of the chateau, and admitted to the 
 brilliant reunions in the saloons of the gover- 
 nor, where Cornelia insensibly acquired the 
 habits and manners of polished society. But 
 what pleased her above all, was the happiness 
 she felt in becoming acquainted with the vene- 
 rable prisoner who had been the object of her 
 solicitude, and who, convinced that he was the 
 cause of her imprisonment and that of her 
 father, could not find words to express his cha- 
 grin and his gratitude. What astonished him 
 above all, was, that the sending of a single note, 
 and a miniature, could be construed into such 
 an offence, and tliat the generous impulse of the 
 daughter should be punished even«npon her fa- 
 ther. 
 
 The governor answered to all these com- 
 plaints only by a repressed smile. He left Gen- 
 eral S. free communication with M. and Mdlle. 
 de Francastel, and his profound wisdom and 
 amiable manners, seconded the efforts of M. de 
 Francastel, and contributed greatly to the im- 
 provement of Cornelia, whom the general al- 
 ways called his dear victim, and on whom he 
 constantly lavished every mark of the tenderest 
 
 attachment At the end of some months, the 
 innocence of this officer was recognized, as he 
 had predicted, by the supreme head of the 
 state, and the governor joyfully hastened to 
 announce to him the order he had received to 
 liberate him immediately. 
 
 " Believe me, my kind friends," said the gen- 
 eral to his fellow-prisoners, "the first use I 
 shall make of my liberty and the justice I have 
 received, will be to solicit it for you and to ob- 
 tain yourdeUverance." 
 
 " Your wishes have been anticipated," said 
 the governor, « I have also orders to liberate 
 M. and Mdlle. de Francastel." 
 
 " What do I hear," cried Cornelia, " my good 
 father is no longer deprived of his liberty ?" 
 
 " He was never deprived of it," said the gov- 
 ernor, " it was his tenderness for you that made 
 him my prisoner. Certain that he could never 
 otherwise overcome the vices of your early 
 education, he took advantage of your adven- 
 ture with the general, which served him as a 
 pretext to concert with me an order for his ar- 
 rest, and, renouncing the delights of his home, 
 the intercourse of his friends, and all the plea- 
 sures of his existence, he has had the courage 
 to shut himself in this prison, in order to de- 
 velope your higher qualities and to render you 
 worthy of the name you bear. 
 
 No sooner had the governor made this 
 astonishing revelation, than Cornelia, overcome 
 with emotion, fell into the arms of her father, 
 scarcely breathing, and only able to utter, at 
 intervals, " At thy age to support such a slavery 
 for me ! Oh, my father I my friend ! my guard- 
 ian angel ! what do I not owe thee I" 
 
 " I am repaid for all my sacrifices," said M. de 
 Francastel, embracing her with kisses and with 
 tears. " I have overcome the habits of thy in- 
 fancy; I have led thee back to the virtues 
 which characterize thy sex ; I have developed 
 the qualities which nature bestowed on thee, 
 and now I am proud and happy to be thy father. 
 Believe me, Cornelia, this year of captivity is 
 the happiest of my life." 
 
 General S. joined his congratulations with 
 those of the governor, and with the most tender 
 protestations of friendship he proposed the alli- 
 ance of his only son, already far advanced in 
 the career of arms, with Cornelia, who, each 
 day more affected by the touching proof of her 
 father's love, gave herself to the study of the 
 arts and sciences with all the enthusiasm of 
 gratitude. 
 
IQI? 
 
 VALLEY A^D CHURCH OF BOBI. 
 
 ¥A3LIL]IJY AEW (B lEIW 1 (D IHI ©IF IBdDM. 
 
 A SCENE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WALDENSES. 
 
 BT J. T. HEADLEY. 
 
 The church and valley represented in the 
 plate have borne a distinguished part in the 
 history of the Waldenses. This valley is so 
 shut in by the hills, that its existence cannot 
 be detected by the traveller till it bursts at 
 once in all its richness and beauty upon him. 
 The river Pelice and its tributaries wind 
 through it, lacing its meadows with silver 
 veins, while all around stretches a border of 
 green forest, which constitutes the wealth of 
 the inhabitants. ' Dark chestnuts contrast beau- 
 tifully with the pale willows that run in stripes 
 across the meadows — huge rocks rise along 
 the outskirts, covered with moss, on the top of 
 which the peasant spreads his threshing-floor. 
 Higher up, crag beetles over crag — thunder- 
 riven — here leaning threateningly over their 
 bases, and there towering heavenward like the 
 embattled walls and turrets of some feudal 
 castle. In the upper end of the valley rises one 
 immense rock, a mountain in itself. In some 
 ancient convulsion it spUt at the summit, leav- 
 ing a crack through which the blue sky beyond 
 is seen. By crawling on his hands and knees 
 the adventurous traveller can approach the 
 edge of this enormous crevice, when lo ! all 
 the valley below bursts on his view. There it 
 sleeps in the summer sunlight, with the bright 
 streamlets sparkling and flashing amid the 
 masses of green — men and cattle are seen mov- 
 ing across it — the peasant is laboring in the 
 field — the cart trundling along the highway— and 
 yet not a sound reaches the spectator lying in 
 the shadow of the huge cliff". Far, far below, 
 like pigmies, the inhabitants are toiling in the 
 sun ; but they seem as objects that move through 
 a dream, so noiseless and still are they. Up 
 
 that serene height the murmurs of the valley 
 never come, and the thunder crash and scream 
 of the Alpine eagle around its summit, are the 
 only sounds that disturb its repose. This old 
 rock was once made the chief stronghold of the 
 Vaudois, when they fought their way back to 
 their valleys. The view from the top is wonder- 
 fully beautiful. From the margin of the valley 
 to the Po, the whole expanse is distinctly seen. 
 Snow-capt mountains piercing the heavens 
 with their shining helmets — peaks on peaks 
 rolling in an endless sea of heights along the 
 horizon, combine to render it a scene of inde- 
 scribable interest. But the rock itself is a strik- 
 ing object when viewed from the valley ; espe- 
 cially at evening, when the sun is going to its 
 lordly repose amidst the hills, does its colossal 
 form stand out in bold relief against the cloud- 
 less heavens. Its ragged outline is subdued 
 and softened — its black surface covered with 
 rose tints — and it looks like a glorious pyramid 
 of light and beauty there over the plain slum- 
 bering in deep shadow beneath. Gradually 
 the gorgeous hues disappear ; the stars displace 
 the sun, and the moon rising in the east, makes 
 that stern rock darker than at mid-day. 
 
 The picturesque little church given in the 
 plate, has boane its part in the struggle of the 
 Waldenses. With the rocks around it, and the 
 mountains above, it has rung to the prayer of 
 the persecuted Christian, the war-cry of his 
 murderers, and the clash of arms. Solemn 
 vows have been repeated there, and on its very 
 tiiresliold men and women been butchered with 
 worse than savage barbarity. 
 
 The whole liistory of the Waldenses has 
 been marked by j)er8ecutions carried on in a 
 
t 
 
 1 
 
VALLEY AND CHURCH OF BOBL 
 
 103 
 
 spirit of ferocity and cruelty, and accompanied 
 by outrages so fiendish, as almost to transcend 
 himian belief. 
 
 About the year 1200 the persecutions com- 
 menced, and with greater or less intervals, and 
 more or less cruelty, have continued till this 
 time. The inquisition first slew its victims si- 
 lently, but in 1 488 open force was used, and 
 the soldiery sent against the peasants. From 
 that time on, the sword has been the instru- 
 ment of the persecutor. Whole valleys have 
 been depopulated, and the inhabitants driven 
 into caverns, and there suffocated with smoke. 
 Hundreds of children have been found dead to- 
 gether, some mangled in the most inhuman 
 manner. The young women were ravished 
 in presence of their fathers and brothers, and 
 then brutally murdered. ]\len were hurled 
 from the cliffs, and tortures and violence un- 
 paralleled endured, till these Protestant valleys 
 were soaked in blood, and the hill-sides covered 
 with the bones of thousands of the inhabitants. 
 Decency forbids us to name the enormities 
 practised on this unoffending people, because 
 they chose to worship God according to their 
 own consciences. 
 
 But in the persecution of 1 655, set on foot 
 by tlie Duke of Savoy, Bobi bore a more impor- 
 tant part than in those which preceded. The 
 mere recital of the sanguinary scenes which 
 were enacted would freeze the blood. Horrors 
 unheard of except in the history of the Romish 
 Church were perpetrated in presence of the 
 civilized world, rntil Cromwell, then wielding 
 the power of England, uttered his stern remon- 
 strance, declaring he would put a stop to them 
 if he had to sail his ships over the Alps to ac- 
 complish the object. It began by the invasion 
 of the Waldensian territory with a large French 
 army. Against this powerful array it seemed 
 impossible that the Christians could contend. 
 Nevertheless they bravely rallied, and after 
 kneeling in solemn prayer to God, fell on the 
 enemy with such enthusiasm and terror, that, 
 though outnumbered a hundred to one, they broke 
 their ranks in pieces, and sent them shattered 
 and discomfited back. The Marquis of Pian- 
 nesse seeing that they were not to be overcome 
 by arms, resorted to duplicity, and calling to 
 him deputies from the different valleys, pro- 
 mised them peace and security. The only 
 favor he asked in return was the permission to 
 quarter one regiment of foot, and two troops of 
 horse among them for two or three days, as an 
 evidence of their fidelity. To this the unsus- 
 
 pecting jxiasants joyfully acceded, and Uie army 
 marched in. But no sooner was it in posses- 
 sion of the strongholds than it began the work 
 of massacre. The poor people taken by sur- 
 prise fled to the mountains — those who could — 
 and the rest were slain. Around the church of 
 Bobi the dead lay in heaps. The shouts of in- 
 furiated men, and the shrieks of W'Omen and 
 children, made this sweet valley ring with ter- 
 rific echoes. The ordinary means of torture 
 were not sufficient, and new modes of cruelty 
 were invented. Infants were pulled from the 
 breasts of their mothers, and their brains dash- 
 ed out against the rocks. Mothers and daugh- 
 ters were ravished in each other's presence, 
 and then filled with pebbles. In their mouths 
 and ears powder was crammed, and set fire to, 
 and thus the helpless sufferers were blown up. 
 Sick people were tied with their heads and feet 
 together, and thrown down the precipices. 
 Many of both sexes and all ages were impaled 
 alive, and thus naked and writhing in agony, 
 were planted along the highways. 
 
 Afterwards, however, these persecuted 
 Christians rallied, and, falling on their perse- 
 cutors, routed them with terrible slaughter. 
 In 1686 another persecution commenced, but 
 its history is like that of all the others — it is 
 a record of duplicity, treachery, cruelty, and 
 barbarity too horrible to give. The people of 
 Bobi suffered inboth these persecutions severely; 
 but they had brave hearts, and fought around 
 their ancient altars with a heroism deserving 
 of a better fate. Out of fourteen thousand 
 who were imprisoned during the former per- 
 secution, eleven thousand perished. Still a 
 remnant remained, and, true to their ancient 
 faith, these smitten children of God bore all 
 with the firmness of martyrs. 
 
 At length they were driven from theifhomes 
 and scattered over Protestant Europe. But 
 they still turned their eyes wistfully towards 
 their mountain homes. They were exiles in a 
 strange land, and like the captive children of 
 Israel, they wept when they remembered their 
 quiet churches amid the Alps. The very 
 fact that their altars had been baptized in blood 
 rendered them doubly dear. Their hearts were 
 in their desolate homes, and still clung to the 
 ashes of their fathers, and children, and wives, 
 and brothers, who had fallen nobly for their 
 holy religion. 
 
 At length the exiles started to return, and 
 with the intrepid Amaud, a priest, at their 
 head, fought their way back, inch by inch, to 
 
J04 
 
 TRUST IN GOD. 
 
 their native valleys, and there, despite their per- 
 secutors, gathered once more into their neglect- 
 ed churches, and reared anew their broken 
 down altars. With the sword of war and with 
 prayer together, they entered and maintained 
 their long-deserted homes. 
 
 On the sixteenth day of their march they 
 reached Bodi, and encamped around their little 
 church. The building was in ruins, but the 
 minister, M. Montoux, the colleague of Ar- 
 naud, placed a door from one rock to another, 
 and preached to that toil-worn band, fresh from 
 the field of slaughter, and still stained with the 
 blood of their foes, from these words : " The 
 law and the prophets were until John ; since that 
 time the kingdom of God is preached, and every 
 man presseth into it." The hearts of the exiles 
 were sad as they looked on their desolate val- 
 ley, but the words of the preacher comforted 
 them. After sermon, their cause was commit- 
 ted in solemn prayer to God, and then they 
 adopted certain regulations, by which they 
 were to be governed, and took an oath of fideli- 
 ty to each other. This was the oath taken at 
 Bobi: 
 
 " God, by his divine grace, having happily led us 
 back into the heritage of our forefathers, there to 
 re-establish the pure service of our holy religion, 
 by the completion of that enterprise which the Lord 
 of Hosts has hitherto conducted in our favor: We, 
 the pastors, captains, and other officers, swear, in 
 the presence of Almighty God, and at the peril of 
 our souls, to observe union and order among us ; 
 never willingly to disunite or separate so long as 
 
 God shall grant us life— not although we should be 
 so miserable as to be reduced to three or four — 
 never to temporize or treat with our enemies of 
 France, nor those of Piedmont, without the partici- 
 pation of our whole council of war, and to put to- 
 gether the booty which we have now or may have, 
 to be applied to the wants of our people, or cases of 
 emergency. And we, soldiers, swear this day be- 
 fore God, to obey all the orders of our officers, 
 and vow fidelity to them with all our hearts, even 
 to the last drop of our blood; also, to give up to 
 their care the prisoners and booty, to be disposed 
 of as they shall judge fit. And, in order to more 
 perfect regulation, it is forbidden, under heavy pen- 
 alties, to any officer or soldier to search an enemy, 
 dead, wounded, or a prisoner, during or after bat- 
 tle, but for which office proper persons shall be ap- 
 pointed. The officers are enjoined to take care 
 that the soldiers keep their arms and ammunition 
 in order, and above all, to chastise severely all who 
 shall profanely swear or blaspheme. And, to ren- 
 der union, which is the soul of our affairs, invio- 
 lable among us, we, the officers, swear fidelity 
 to our soldiers, and we soldiers to our offi- 
 cers, solemnly engaging, moreover, to our Lord 
 and Saviour Jesus Christ, to rescue, as far as in us 
 lies, our brethren from the thraldom of the cruel 
 Babylon, and with them to re-establish and main- 
 tain his kingdom unto death, and by this oath we 
 will abide all our lives." 
 
 On Sunday, one September morning, did the 
 brave Waldenses repeat this solemn oath with 
 arms in their hands. The hills of Bobi looked 
 down upon them — God heard the oath and 
 gave them deliverance, and once more they 
 assembled in this secluded church, and wor- 
 shipped God in sincerity and purity of heart. 
 
 " They Uiat sow in tears shall reap m joy." — Psalm* 
 
 Christian, when storms assail thee, 
 
 Bow to the rod ; 
 Ne'er let thy stout heart fail thee. 
 
 Trusting in God. 
 
 Though trials gather round thee, 
 
 His arm can save ; 
 Trust on — though clouds surround thee, 
 
 E'en to the grave. 
 
 There, where no ill can harm thee, 
 
 Thou hast reward ; 
 Oh, then, with patience arm thee, 
 
 Trusting in God. 
 
THE VICTIM OF CONSUMPTION. 
 
 105 
 
 f lEIIg ^IKBO^IIM (DI? ©(DMS:^MIP=3'3(DIf. 
 
 BY W. J. PEIME, M. D. 
 
 PooE Lucy Ashton ! Just one year ago this 
 day she was married — to-day she has died. 
 Such is hfe. Bound up and hid in the will of 
 an unseen and inscrutable Providence, yet one 
 so wise, and far-seeing, and good, that the truly 
 wise man must submit without a murmur. 
 
 Perhaps I should rather have said, poor 
 Henry Ashton. He has lost a priceless trea- 
 sure, while she has gained a crown and a 
 throne. WTiy do we speak mournfully of the 
 dead who die in the glorious hope ? There 
 is no triumph so noble, no victory so truly full 
 of glory, as that of the young and beautiful, in 
 the very bloom and dew of their youth, sur- 
 rounded with all that makes life desirable, and 
 filled with love for every thing in nature, when 
 with unfaltering heart and steadfast eye they 
 meet the entrance into the future. Mourn not 
 for them. 
 
 Sweet girl. I knew her from her childhood. 
 She was an only child of a clergyman in the 
 country, who had lost his wife when Lucy was 
 but an infant. Yet she had never left her 
 father's house, but was brought up under his 
 own eye, and was, at the same time, the pride 
 and the solace of his widowed heart It may 
 have been, it probably was, the fault of his too 
 tender care of his daughter, that her bodily 
 powers were always weak ; and, like a delicate 
 flower, she looked as if the first rude wind 
 would blight and wither her beauty. Still she 
 grew up to womanhood, beautiful and happy, 
 and more than all, with intellectual powers, 
 naturally of a high order, well cultivated, and 
 calculated to shine in the first circles. She 
 was thoroughly accomplished in every thing 
 that was necessary to fit a woman at the pres- 
 ent day to take a high place in society. Her 
 presence carried a charm with it wherever she 
 went, and none knew her but to love her. 
 She has left a memory dear to all hearts that 
 knew her ; and in the few hearts that were 
 
 most familiar with her, death has left a wound 
 that time will be long in heaUng. 
 
 Two years ago this summer, Henry Ashton, 
 the son of a wealthy southern planter, came 
 into this region in search of health. He 
 
 brought a note from my old friend. Dr. S 
 
 of T n, La., introducing him, and com- 
 mending him warmly to my friendship and 
 care, as every way worthy of the former, and 
 probably needing the latter. From the char- 
 acter given him by my friend, I at once invited 
 him to make my house his home till he should 
 be able to find some place that would suit him 
 as a residence for the summer. I soon became 
 warmly attached to him, and it was witli no 
 little reluctance that I parted with him at the 
 end of two months. But he wished to be more 
 in the country, and having been often with me 
 in my rides, he had selected a farm-house about 
 twelve miles distant, and witliin a few steps of 
 the residence of Lucy's father. I accompanied 
 him to his new abode, and, before I left him, 
 introduced him to my friend the minister, and 
 his daughter. 
 
 It could not be otherwise. There are foun- 
 tains in some hearts that flow together, as the 
 springs from the hillsides, and mingle at once 
 and imperceptibly. Be the barriers what thoy 
 may, however insurmountable, they must yield 
 to tlie accumulating tide. But here there 
 were no hindrances. My two young friends 
 met daily, and for months, and when the time 
 came for Henry to go south again, he found 
 himself tied back by a feeling he did not dream 
 of before. When he reached home, he wrote 
 to Lucy and her father, told them all his feel- 
 ings in his noble and manly way, and laid his 
 fortune and his love at the feet of my beautiful 
 young friend. Her father did not speak to her 
 on the subject till he had sent for me. In her 
 presence he put the letter into my hand, and 
 as I read it I felt that he was waiting with in- 
 
106 
 
 THE VICTIM OF CONSUMPTION. 
 
 tense anxiety for my opinion. When I had 
 finished reading it I turned to Lucy, who sat 
 by my side. All was calm and apparently 
 passionless with her, till I asked her if her 
 heart did not say, yes. 
 
 " Oh ! it does — it does," she replied ; " but 
 my dear father — I cannot leave him." 
 
 " God bless you, my darling," said the old 
 man, whose heart had been well nigh bursting 
 with the pent up emotions ; " yet what must be 
 done. I never dreamed that such were Henry's 
 feelings towards my daughter, or hers to him. 
 And I was foolish not to know it, for I learned 
 to love him while he was here, as if he had 
 been my own son, and how could this dear 
 child help it. Now tell us, doctor, what is to 
 be done. I cannot lose Lucy, and I cannot 
 step between them and their happiness by say- 
 ing, ' No.' And I do not know the man in all 
 the world into whose arms I would place my 
 child as willingly as into Henry Ashton's. 
 What is to be done, doctor ?" 
 
 " Let us hear more of Lucy's ideas on the 
 matter," I replied, " for after all she is the one 
 most interested in it." 
 
 " I have little to say," said Lucy ; " I am 
 my father's child, and dear as Henry is to me, to 
 all of us, I cannot forsake my father in his old 
 age, and when he begins most to need a 
 daughter's care, even for him. If Henry would 
 
 come and live here among us" 
 
 " The very thing," said I, " the very thing, 
 and he shall do it, Lucy. I know he will. 
 And though I am a little jealous at the ease 
 with which he has won away our Lucy's love, I 
 will write to him and tel'. him so." 
 
 And so it was arranged, though Lucy was 
 left to write to him also and tell her own story. 
 And 60 it turned out. Early in the following 
 spring came Henry, and chose him a beautiful 
 spot in the very neighborhood of Lucy's father, 
 close by, and it was all altered and arranged, 
 and beautified under the joint superintendence 
 of the two who were to occupy it, till it was as 
 delightful as a little Eden. 
 
 In the first month of summer they were 
 married — the two noblest and gentlest hearts 
 I ever knew made one. But such they were 
 before, ana now, with life belore them, and its 
 patliway bright, why should they not be happy ? 
 They were. I never saw two beings more 
 formed for each other. Talk of love, idolatry, 
 human worship — such is not the affection 
 whicli endures and lasts through all the trials 
 and changes of life. It must be that calm, 
 
 deep-flowing, pervading feeling, which, ever 
 the same, though gentle as a spring flower in 
 prosperity, becomes in adversity the enduring 
 rock on which the sorely tried may lean, and 
 feel security and joy. Such was the feeling 
 which bound these two together. And this 
 day is the first anniversary of their marriage — 
 how changed, how awfully reversed is every 
 thing now to the living — and to the dead, 
 what ? Alas ! for frail humanity. 
 
 The calls of my profession had kept me so 
 constantly occupied through the winter and 
 spring, that I had not found time to visit my 
 young friends. I was thinking of riding over 
 the next day, and was arranging my business 
 so that nothing might interfere to interrupt the 
 delightful visit I was always sure of enjoying 
 at the farm-house, when, sitting in my office, I 
 saw the form and face of Henry's old negro 
 servant pass the window. In a moment he 
 entered the room, and, with his peculiar look 
 of self-satisfied pride, which he always seemed 
 to feel at the confidence and aflection bestowed 
 on him by his master and young mistress, he 
 gave me a letter. I opened it, and, recog- 
 nizing my young friend's hand, read as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " Dear Doctor — I wish you would come 
 out to see us, if possible, as soon as you receive 
 this. Lucy is ill — not very — but I think you 
 ought to see her. She has had a cough 
 for two days, and I am a little apprehensive, 
 with her delicate constitution, lest it may result 
 in something serious. Do not let her know 
 that I have sent for you. You have not been 
 out to see us in a long time, and you can come 
 as if to make us a visit as formerly. Come 
 prepared to stay all night, if you can. She 
 does not know that I am writing to you, nor 
 does she seem to have any idea that siie is sick. 
 I am not alarmed, but — you know me, and 
 how I feel. As ever, yours, 
 
 " Henry. 
 
 "Farm-House, May 15, 1847." 
 
 I thought I discovered in this letter more of 
 alarm and apprehension than he was willing 
 should appear, and, therefore, as soon as possi- 
 ble, I was on the road, and drove rapidly out to 
 his house. He met me as I alighted at the 
 gate, and Lucy was but a moment behind him, 
 as beautiful and with as bright a smile as cho 
 always wore. She took my arm as wo 
 walked up the avenue to the house, and said : 
 
 " I am very glad you have come out once 
 
THE VICTIM OF CONSUMPTION. 
 
 107 
 
 more, doctor. We have talked about you much 
 of late, for you know you have always been 
 one of us, and it has nearly seemed an age 
 since you were here. And then I wanted to 
 see you, because I really believe Henry is sick. 
 He has seemed, for a day or two, to be in very 
 poor spirits, though he tries all he can to make 
 me think he is well. You must talk to him, 
 doctor, and find out what is the matter." 
 
 " And how is it with you, Lucy ?" I inquired, 
 glad to have the subject thus opened at once, 
 and by herself. "Are you quite well this spring ?" 
 " O yes," she said," quite well, I believe. I 
 liave taken cold, perhaps, and had a slight 
 cough for two days past, with a little of that 
 old pain in my side ; but so little that it does 
 not trouble me at all. I feel much more un- 
 easy about Henry than I do about myself. 
 You know my pain has always been of very 
 short duration, and [ shall probably be rid of it 
 in & day or two ; but you must talk to him 
 about his health before you go hack. He con- 
 fines himself so much at home — perhaps a 
 journey might do him good — though the 
 weather is so cold this spring it hardly seems 
 pleasant to leave our own delightful home. 
 How very tardy the season is in opening. My 
 dear, beautiful flowers, some of which ought to 
 be smiling with open blossoms, have not begun 
 to show their first buds yet. But they will 
 come, doctor — they will all come soon, and 
 then how gay we shall look." 
 
 And thus she chatted on till I began to forget 
 what I had come for, or really to believe that 
 Henry was • tlie sick one after all. Indeed, 
 there seemed little cause, if any, for his anxiety, 
 though she had an occasional cough, which did 
 not sound like a mere cold. I took occasion, 
 without giving her any cause for thinking I 
 saw any thing particularly alarming in her 
 case, to question her fully in reference to her 
 health, and became satisfied that there was 
 some ground forat least more than ordinary care. 
 After dinner I walked out with Henry. 
 Although he evidently strove to suppress any 
 appearance of alarm, I coujd see that he was 
 considerably excited. I therefore, to quiet his 
 fears as much as was proper, told him that I 
 saw nothing immediately alarming in her, 
 '.hough in consideration of her delicate consti- 
 tution, it would be well to attack any thing 
 that might lead to trouble, in the verj' onset. 
 
 " But, doctor, she must not suspect that you 
 are here for that purpose, or that we feel any 5 
 anxiety for her." \ 
 
 "By no means," I replied. "She thinks 
 you are sick, and after I have made some 
 trifling prescription for you, I wiL advise her 
 to do something for her cold." 
 
 " Dear girl," said he, " she has noticed my 
 depression of spirits on her account and thinks 
 I am sick. WHiat shall I do, doctor, if she is 
 taken away ?" and he turned away to brush 
 ofFa tear. 
 
 " We must wait, my dear friend, till we see 
 something more alarming, before we indulge 
 any such forebodings. But in any case you 
 must be the man and the Christian that I know 
 you to be. At any rate, we must borrow no 
 trouble, and when it comes, trust in God." 
 
 When we returned to the house, we found 
 Lucy seated at her piano, and after listening a 
 while to her music, I called her to take a seat 
 by my side. 
 
 " Well, Lucy," I said, " I have been prescrib- 
 ing for Henry, though you have very little 
 ground for your fears in his behalf, and now I 
 beUeve I must do something for tliis cough of 
 yours, so you can amuse yourselves by taking 
 care of each other while you are sick." 
 
 " Why, really," she replied, " I do not think 
 there is the least call for medicine in my case, 
 but if you think so, you know I am accus- 
 tomed to implicit obedience to you." 
 
 " Oh ! just a little to check your cough in the 
 outset. You know I am always afraid of slight 
 colds." 
 
 ." Well, so be it then — and Henry and I will 
 find it something new to be each other's nurse, 
 as it is the first time we have been sick since 
 we were married" — and she laughed empha- 
 tically as she pronounced the word sick. 
 
 I felt an unusual weight upon my heart as I 
 rode home in the evening. Was it produced 
 by my conversation with Henry, and his fears ? 
 I am not accustomed to be influenced by others' 
 fears in this way, and I laid it to one of those 
 presentiments which we often feel, but which 
 soon wear off and are never realized. 
 
 May 20lh, 1847. — (I here extract from my 
 journal.) Would that it were all the empty 
 fears and presentiments of overweening affec- 
 tion for our dear Lucy. I was summoned 
 again this morning to visit her, and this time 
 without any disguise on the part of her hus- 
 band. The old negro servant delivered the 
 message in his own words : — 
 
 " Missus Lucy wery sick, and Massa Henry 
 send for Dr. P in great hurr}-." 
 
 There was no smile on his face as usual 
 
108 
 
 THE VICTIM OF CONSUMPTION. 
 
 with him, but a serious look that I believed at 
 once was the reflection of faces at the farm- 
 house. As soon as I received the message I 
 started. 
 
 Lucy is indeed very sick. She has all the 
 symptoms of seated consumption. The poisor 
 has unquestionably been lurking in her system 
 for years, and now we can only wait in quiet 
 patience for the end. There is no hope for 
 life. AF. now points downward — down to the 
 grave. 
 
 O Consumption ! — thou agent of the grave — 
 that plantest a solitary rosebud in the cheek of 
 . the dying, and addest strange beauty to the face 
 of thy victims — thou worse than fiend, that 
 makest the soul treacherously happy in the last 
 hour, and throwest over the future a hope, deep 
 and all-absorbing, but never to be realized — thou 
 tyrant, like thy master, Death, filling the heart 
 with dreams of life up to the very hour the 
 fatal shaft pierces — thou whose only charm is 
 that thou drawest a bright vision of life over 
 the last agony, and interposest a sunlit cloud 
 between our spirits and the grave — whj'^ is it 
 that we fear thee ? 
 
 Lucy sat in her easy chair when I entered, 
 and greeted me with one of her sweetest smiles. 
 I took my seat by her side, and tried to com- 
 pose myself to talk with her ; for the first sight 
 of her pale and thin face, and the sound of her 
 sharp cough, told me a fearful tale. But she — 
 Oh ! she realized nothing of her danger, and 
 began at once to talk of herself. 
 
 " They have at length persuaded me that I 
 ought to have medical advice, doctor, and so 
 we have called you so soon away from your 
 business again. But I believe it is the only 
 way in which we shall be able hereafter to see 
 much of you, for one of us to be sick, and it 
 is better it should be I than any of the others. 
 But I do not know that I should speak thus 
 either. I am not as well as when you were 
 here a few days since. My cough has in- 
 creased, as you no doubt perceive, and I have 
 become very weak and feverish, and I have 
 
 more of the pain in my side" 
 
 And she went on describing all the prominent 
 symptoms of lier formidable disease, till my 
 heart, already too heavy wi-th sadness and fear, 
 sunk down in me like lead. What could I do 7 
 With a strong effort, I summoned all my ener- 
 gies and mastered my feelings, and with all the 
 coolness I should use in examining the most 
 indifferent patient, I questioned the dear girl as 
 to all her eymptoms. I found that the disease 
 
 was already far advanced, and was probably 
 destined to a rapid course and a speedy ter 
 mination. And if to me, her physician and 
 friend only, this sudden trial is so overwhelm- 
 ing, what must it be to her husband and father, 
 when their fears, reasoned against as they of 
 course have been, shall be confirmed ? And '■ 
 there is now no evading nor smoothing away 
 the truth. All must be told, at once and in its 
 full extent 
 
 Her father had recently removed to the farm- 
 house, and was in his study, where he spent 
 the most of his time. To him I determined 
 immediately to unfold the terrible truth, trust- 
 ing to find his firmness greater than that of 
 Henry, whom I had not seen. 
 
 I was not disappoipted. He was walking 
 his room with a firm and slow pace, when I 
 entered at his bidding, and he motioned me to 
 a seat. I took it, and sat a moment in silence, 
 thinking with what words I should break my 
 news to him. He took a few turns across the 
 room, and stopping before me said, with slow 
 and measured words — 
 
 " Doctor, you have come to speak to me 
 about Lucy — my dear, just-blossomed flower." 
 
 " I have, my dear sir — I have much to say, 
 and" 
 
 "I know it all" — he interrupted me — " all — 
 all. Doctor we must give her up. His will 
 be done. I had hoped for many years of life to 
 her, and had my day-dreams as we all have, 
 doctor ; but they all fade, sir, fade. I have 
 done the same before, when she was born, and 
 her sainted mother died. I should have them 
 again if I had another flower left. I know not 
 how these ties break without breaking our 
 hearts, which are wrung so sadly. But He 
 bears us up. If we failed and grew weary 
 with these trials, how should we ' do in the 
 swellings of Jordan ?' Do not think, my dear 
 doctor, that I do not feel this. I shall be sorely 
 bereaved ; but I am a Christian, and should 
 submit." 
 
 I knew, for I saw it, that the good old man*s 
 heart was sorely torn, but he had anticipated 
 my errand, and now all I had to do was to tell 
 him the exact state of the case. This I did in 
 few words, and when I ended, he lifted up his 
 folded hands, and his agony found vent in the 
 words of the Master he loved and followed : 
 " My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass 
 from me : but thy will be done." He then sat 
 down by my side and said : 
 
 " Doctor, how shall we communicate this to 
 
THE VICTIM OF CONSUMPTION. 
 
 109 
 
 Henry ? He fears it all, but has no idea of its 
 reality." 
 
 « That, sir, I think, must be left to you," I 
 replied. 
 
 " Perhaps it is best," he said. " Yet I know 
 not how." 
 
 I know not how he will do it. I was obliged 
 to leave them after having done all for Lucy 
 tliat the hopelessness of such a case permitted. 
 Never was a ride of twelve miles so long be- 
 fore — never before did the inter\ening hours 
 pass so heavily and anxiously, as they pass 
 now, and will pass till I see her again to-mor- 
 row. Poor Henry Ashton ! 
 
 2lst. — Sweet girl. Can it be possible that 
 she is dying, so slowly, yet so surely, with no 
 deeper sense of it than she seems now to feel ? 
 And yet, why wonder at it ? I have seen so 
 many smitten down with this insidious dis- 
 ease — some dying in a few weeks from its 
 apparent attack — others by long and lingering 
 months and years of sickness, and all thus un- 
 conscious of its fatal progress, that it ought to 
 be no marvel that one so suddenly attacked as 
 my fair young friend should not feel the truth. 
 As I took my seat by her to-day, she said : 
 
 " They have communicated to me intelli- 
 gence to-day, doctor, that ought perhaps to 
 alarm me ; yet I cannot realize the fact at all, 
 that I am the victim of a disease which may in 
 a few days lay me by the side of my mother. 
 I am forced to believe it,^and am surprised at 
 tlie calm indifference with which I regard it. 
 My dear father is deeply affected at my condi- 
 tion, but controls his feelings wonderfrll)'-. He 
 has been talking with me to-day about it. But 
 our dear Henry, doctor, he is almost frantic." 
 
 At this moment he entered the room with a 
 bunch of spring flowers he had been gathering 
 for his wife. Neither of us could speak for a 
 moment as we pressed each other's hands. 
 Lucy noticed it, and said : 
 
 " Come here, Henry, and sit by me ; there — 
 
 with you on this side, and our dear Dr. P 
 
 on the other, who has known all our hearts, 
 we may speak of what we could not alone. 
 You must not feel so, my dear husband. You 
 must look upon me now and when I am gone 
 as the same." 
 
 " Lucy, do not talk so," he exclaimed ; " you 
 may recover yet — at least let me hope so." 
 
 "Oh no, Henry! you must hope no such 
 thing. You all know I must die, and although 
 I do not fear it, yet I know it, and would meet 
 it as I ought. You see these sweet flowers ; 
 
 they are fading already, like me. When I am 
 gone, my sweet flowers will all bloom, and all 
 around will be the same — just the same as if I 
 were here. I have been counting very much 
 upon the pleasure I should take in my flower- 
 garden this summer, but it was all because I 
 should have my dear husband to enjoy tliem 
 with me. But they will bloom as they have, 
 and I— there is a beautiful passage in the New 
 Testament, doctor, that was taught me when a 
 little girl — Henry, get me my little Bible, and 
 I will read it." 
 
 The place was marked by a leaf turned 
 down, and she opened to it and read nearly the 
 whole of the 15th chapter of 1st Corinthians. 
 We sat in silence, and her father, who entered 
 just as she began to read, stood behind her, 
 wiping from his eyes the tears that fell fast 
 and freely. 
 
 I can do nothing for her but palliate tlie 
 symptoms, which daily become more and more 
 distressing. Would that I had the power to 
 snatch her from the jaws of remorseless Death. 
 But it is one of the diseases in which all medical 
 skill and science is baffled and set at nought. 
 
 Henry followed me when I left the room, 
 and seemed desirous of saying sometiiing, but 
 his tears choked his utterance. I could only 
 press his hand in silence. I felt myself hke a 
 child in my grief. 
 
 25th. — Lucy continues to decline daily, and 
 the more feeble she becomes, the plainer is de- 
 veloped that peculiar trait of her disease of 
 which I have before spoken — the insensibility 
 to approaching dissolution. She is now en- 
 tirely confined to her bed ; but her mental 
 powers display a wonderful vigor. 
 
 " Doctor," she said to me to-day, " I believe 
 my feelings must be much the same with those 
 of a man upon whom sentence, of death has 
 been passed, and the time not fixed for his exe- 
 cution. You all tell me, and I see it in )'our 
 faces and in your tears, that I am dying. My 
 reason is satisfied of the fact, but I do not feel 
 it. I do not hope for life, because I have no 
 settled and firm impression that I am not yet to 
 spend many years among you. As soon as 
 you are gone, and your sad faces have left me, 
 I find myself constantly making plans for the 
 future, and often I inflict a profound wound 
 upon Henry by talking to him of what we will 
 do when I shall be well again. Alas ! I wish 
 a portion of my insensibility might be commu- 
 nicated to him." 
 What mysteries there are in life — what 
 
110 
 
 THE VICTIM OF CONSUMPTION. 
 
 strangest of mysteries in this, that the blooming 
 and the beautiful, loving and beloved, with 
 hearts attuned to every thing that is noble, and 
 good, and generous, should be thus taken away 
 in early life from those who are bound up in 
 them — and the old, and wayworn, and weary 
 of life, in their decrepitude and solitary misan- 
 thropy, linger on beyond the natural period of 
 man's existence. But thus it is. We see it 
 every day and wonder at the fact. 
 ********* 
 
 • But I will not detail the daily scenes which 
 have taken place at the farm-house. To the 
 mere reader they cannot have the interest 
 which they had to us, who loved too fondly. 
 The profound grief of her husband, as he wit- 
 nessed her increasing weakness from day to 
 day, seemed to threaten his reason with an 
 overthrow. The minister rarely spoke with 
 us in relation to his daughter, but to ask how 
 she was. But the walls of his lonely study, if 
 they could speak, would tell a tale of sleepless 
 nights and tearful days, and agonizing pray- 
 ers — not for the life of his darling child, for he 
 had given her up to die — but for Henry, the 
 poor, heart-broken man, and for himself, that 
 they might have help from on high in the pres- 
 ent, and in the approaching hour of trial. And 
 for himself, his wrestlings were not vain. He 
 always appeared calm, though it was evidently 
 by a miglity effort. He would sit, often for 
 hours, by the bedside of his dying child, and, 
 indirectly, without referring to her present con- 
 dition, lead her mind to the contemplation of 
 the future world. He was a man of fine ima- 
 gination, joined to his strong powers of mind, 
 and he loved to talk of the " better country " 
 whither liis wife had gone, and to which the 
 footsteps of his daughter were fast tending. 
 It was on one of these occasions that she in- 
 terrupted him with the question — 
 
 " Father, do you think that the friends who 
 have loved each other, as we all do, will know 
 each other and continue their sweet companion- 
 ship there ?" 
 
 " I do not know, my dear child,*' he replied. 
 
 " Well," she said, " I have oflen thought of it, 
 and if my mother would recognize her little 
 daughter. For though I have never seen her 
 since an infant, yet I have learned to know her 
 and love her, from hearing you talk of her. 
 And how pleasant it must be to meet those we 
 have loved and lost !" 
 
 I was by her bedside this morning by nine 
 o'clock, and found her sitting up, supported by 
 
 pillows. Henry was there, and his face wore 
 an air of much less distress. 
 
 "I am better this morning, doctor," said 
 Lucy, " much better. I feel stronger, and free 
 from pain, and would have sat up in my easy 
 chair if Henry would have permitted me : but 
 he said we must wait till you came. I want to 
 sit by the window and breathe the fresh air, 
 and look out upon the beautiful world once 
 more. You do not think it will hurt me, do 
 you, doctor ?" 
 
 I of course cheerfully consented, and her 
 husband lifted her, already emaciated to a very 
 great degree, from her bed, and having placed 
 her in her easy chair, she wa« gently rolled to 
 the window. It was open, and looked out 
 upon the fine lawn and pleasure-grounds in 
 front. They are laid out with great taste, and 
 spotted here and there with flowers and orna- 
 mental shrubs. 
 
 " How delightful," she said, as her eye 
 wandered over the view, " after one has been 
 shut up so long, to look out upon the world 
 again. Since 1 have been sick all the trees 
 have taken on their green leaves, and the grass 
 has sprung up, and all is changed. And my 
 beautiful flowers are all out as gay as if I had 
 taken care of them myself. I wish I could 
 walk out among them. Perhaps I shall in a 
 few days now, if I continue to improve. You 
 have been making a change in the avenue. 
 Henry, I perceive. That new turn is very 
 graceful, and looks pleasant, winding through 
 that shade. We must have a seat there, just 
 in that spot," 
 
 " You must not fatigue yourself, Lucy, with 
 talking," said I. 
 
 " No, I will not," she replied ; " but every thing 
 looks so delightful, and fresh, and joyous with- 
 out, and I feel so much more as I used to feel, 
 that I love to talk to you all. But I will stop 
 and rest. Perhaps I might sleep a little in my 
 chair, if the back were let down a little. 
 There — that will do. Here, Henry, take this 
 hand, and, doctor, this. How pleasant this is, 
 even to be sick, with such dear ones to sit be- 
 side us and watch us. I shall dream now of 
 the green fields and sweet flowers. We shall 
 soon be among them again, I hope, dear Henry, 
 and with happier hearts. And here comes my 
 dear, good old father. Kiss me, father — I am 
 much better this morning — and there, sit down 
 by us and talk while I go to sleep.*' 
 
 There were ploasanter faces about her then 
 than there had been in many previous days. 
 
KENILWORTH CASTLE. 
 
 HI 
 
 It was not exactly from renewed hope, but her 
 ease, and apparent improvement this morning, 
 produced a sort of forgetfulness of our past 
 anxieties and cares. Directly she spoke again : 
 " It is just a year ago, this very time, that 
 we sat thus — the day we were married, Henry 
 — do you remember it ? How soon and how 
 pleasantly the time has gone by. And will not 
 the future years of our life be as joyful ? It 
 seems to me we ought to have some trials, to 
 make us feel properly thankful for such unin- 
 terrupted bliss. But I forget myself— I must 
 sleep. WTien I die, I hope it may be thus, 
 with my loved ones by my side." 
 
 \ She slept nearly an hour, while we sat and 
 watched her breathing, which was free and 
 gentle as an infant's, and the smile on her face 
 seemed to tell of her bright and happy dreams. 
 Then there was a gentle pressure of the hand, 
 and she murmured : " Henr}- — father." A mo- 
 ment more, and she opened her eyes, and, look- 
 ing upwards, said in an audible and distinct 
 voice : 
 
 " Mother, dear mother, I come !" 
 The eyes closed again, and a sweet smile 
 lingered on her lips, which has not departed. 
 She is dead. 
 Poor Henry Ashton I — poor old father ! 
 
 lEISIfiriLW(DiaTII ®AS=!?3LIg. 
 
 AND THEREABOUTS. 
 
 BY J. T. HEADLET. 
 
 I WILL not speak of Woodstock, which Scott 
 has made immortal; for tJie village of that 
 name is merely a collection of dirty-looking 
 hovels, arranged along the street in blocks, like 
 houses. 
 
 Guy's Cliff is distinguished as the home of the 
 stern old Sir Guy, renowned in the feudal wars. 
 A mile farther on are Warwick and Warwick 
 Castle. The village itself looks like a frag- 
 ment of antiquity, though the streets were 
 somewhat enlivened the day I passed through 
 them, by multitudes of men, women, children, 
 cows, horses, and sheep, to say nothing of 
 vegetables and saleables of all kinds and quality. 
 One of those fairs so common in England, and 
 so characteristic of the people, was being held, 
 and I had a good view of the peasantry. The 
 yeomanry collected at one of our cattle-shows 
 are gentlemen compared to them. 
 
 I will not describe the castle, with its mas- 
 sive walls and ancient look, for the impression 
 such things make does not result from this or 
 that striking object, but from the whole com- 
 bined. The walls may be thick, the moat 
 deep, the turrets high and hoary, and the rusty 
 
 armor within massy and dinted — it is not eitiier 
 of these that arrests your footsteps and makes 
 you stand and dream, but the historj' they all to- 
 gether unroll, and the images your own imagi- 
 nation calls up from the past. 
 
 The rusty sword of this strong-limbed old 
 earl is five feet long, and weighs twenty 
 pounds. His shield weighs thirty pounds, 
 breastplate alone fifty-six pounds, and helmet 
 seven pounds, to say nothing of his massive 
 coat of mail. It was no baby hand which 
 wielded that sword or held that shield. A 
 strong heart beat under that breastplate of 
 fifty-six pounds in weight ; an'l wlicn mounted 
 on his gigantic war-hor.«e, clad also in steel 
 from head to foot, he spurred into the battle, 
 the strongest knights went down in his path, 
 and his muffled shout was like the trumpet of 
 victory. 
 
 Thence we proceeded to Kenil worth Castle, 
 a mere ruin, standing solitary and broken amid 
 the green fields. Gone are its beautiful lake, 
 draw-bridge, portcullis, and moat — its strong 
 turrets have crumbled, while over the decayed 
 and decaying walls the ivy creeps unchecked. 
 
1J2 
 
 KENIL WORTH CASTLE. 
 
 It is one of the most picturesque ruins I have 
 ever seen. Here and there a portion remains 
 almost entire, while in otiier places a heap of 
 ruhbish alone tells where a maj^nificent apart- 
 ment once rung to the shout of wassailers. 
 The bow-window in which sat the flattered 
 earl of Leicester and the proud Elizabeth, and 
 looked down on the grand tournament, is still 
 entire. As I stood here and gazed below on 
 the green sward, now spreading where tlie 
 gay and noble once trod in pride, and around 
 on the ruin whose battlements once ghttered 
 with decorations in honor of the haughty 
 queen, and before mo, through the gateway, 
 where the gorgeous procession passed, the 
 pageantry of life seemed a dream. There 
 chargers had careered, and trumpets rung, and 
 helmets bowed in homage, and there now 
 swung an old gate, kept by a solitary old porter. 
 The snake and lizard occupy the proud halls of 
 Leicester, and of all the beautiful and brave 
 who once thronged these courts, not one 
 remains. The old walls and crumbling stones 
 have outlasted them all, and serve only as a 
 tombstone to what has been. What wild 
 heart-throbbings, and dizzy hopes, and bitter 
 griefs, have been within these ruined enclo- 
 sures. But now all is still and deserted — the 
 banners flutter no more from the battlements, 
 the armed knight spurs no more over the clat- 
 tering draw-bridge, lord and vassal have disap- 
 peared. Time has outwatched each warder, 
 and hung his mouldering hatchment over all 
 who have lived and struggled hero. As I be- 
 hold in imagination the stern, severe Elizabeth, 
 pissing beneath yonder arch on her gallant 
 steed, and princes and nobles of every degree 
 pressing on her steps, and then turn to the de- 
 serted ruin, I involuntarily exclaim, " ghosts 
 are we all." 
 
 Ah, proud Leicester ! what deeds of thine 
 could these dumb walls, had they a tongue, tell! 
 What records are registered in their moulder- 
 ing forms against thee ! Kenilworth, thy Ken- 
 ilworth, is apparently deserted, but around it 
 still linger, mcthiuks, the spirits of those thou 
 hast wronged, nay, perchance murdered. 
 
 It was with strange feelings I turned away 
 from this beautiful ruin. The heavens were 
 gatiiering blackness, and now and then a big 
 drop came dancing to the earth, and all be- 
 tokened a storm at hand. Had the fading sun- 
 light gilded its dilapidated turrets as I passed 
 Irom under its silent arches, it would not have 
 seemed so mournful ; but amid this suspense of 
 
 the elements .tnd increasing gloom, its irregu- 
 lar form had a sad aspect, and left a sad im- 
 pression. 
 
 When I first approached the castle, ^ was 
 struck with the curious English usea dj- a girl, 
 perhaps thirteen years of age, who had attle 
 pamphlets, describing the ruin and giving its 
 history, to sell. As she advanced to meet me, 
 holding the book in her hand, she exclaimed : 
 " A shilling, sir, for the book, or a sixpence for 
 the lend." " A sixpence for the lend," I replied, 
 " what do you mean by that ?" On inquiry, I 
 discovered that the pnce of the book was a 
 shilling, but that she would lend it to me to go 
 over the castle with for half price. Thinks I 
 to myself, you might travel the lengtli and 
 breadth of the Atlantic States, and not hear 
 such an uncouth English sentence as that. 
 
 Coventry is on the railroad that connects 
 Liverpool and London. It has a quaint old 
 church, and a quaint look about it altogether. 
 As I strolled through the grave-yard, I seemed 
 to be among the fragments of a past world — 
 the very tombstones looked as if they had with- 
 stood the deluge. As I wandered about, 
 dreaming rather than thinking, strains of music 
 stole out from the antiquated structure, sooth- 
 ing my feelings, and filling my heart with a 
 pleasure composed iialf of sadness. 
 
 One of the greatest curiosities of this place, 
 it is well known, is " Peeping Tom." The 
 story of Lady Godiva has been woven into 
 poetry as well as prose, and is known the 
 world over. Her husband. Earl Leofric, was 
 captain-general of all the forces under King 
 Canute, and exercised his power in laying 
 heavy taxes on his subjects. Those of Coven- 
 try were ground to the earth by his oppression , 
 and though their sufferings could not move his 
 iron heart, they filled the soul of the gentle 
 Godiva with the deepest sorrow. Impelled by 
 her sympathies, she constantly, but in vain, 
 besought her lord to lessen the burdens of the 
 people. But once, being received after a long 
 absence with cntliusiastic affection, he in his 
 sudden joy asked her to make any request, and 
 he would grant it. Taking advantage of his 
 kindness, she petitioned for his subjects. The 
 stern old earl was fairly caught, but hoped to 
 extricate himself by imposing a condition as 
 brutil as it was cruel. Knowing tlie modesty 
 of Ilia lovely wife, he promised to grant her 
 request, provided she would ride naked through 
 the streets of Coventry. " Any thing," she 
 replied, " for my suffering people." Ho was 
 
KENILWORTH CASTLE. 
 
 113 
 
 astonished, but thinking she would fail in the 
 hour of trial, promised to fulfill his part of 
 the contract. Godiva appointed a day, and 
 Leofric, finding she was determined, ordered 
 the people to darken the fronts of their houses 
 and shut themselves up, while the Lady Godiva 
 was passing. They joyfully obeyed, and the 
 blushing, frightened benefactress, with her 
 long tresses streaming over her form, rode 
 unclad through the streets. All was silent and 
 deserted ; but one man, a tailor, could not 
 restrain his curiosity, and peeped forth from an 
 upper window to get sight of her. In a mo- 
 ment, Godiva's charger stopped and neighed. 
 The fair rider, being startled, turned her face 
 and saw the unfortunate tailor. Instantly the 
 poor fellow's eyes dropped out of his head, in 
 punishment of his meanness. 
 
 So runs the tradition, and so it has run from 
 time immemorial. In the time of Richard II., 
 a painting was placed in Trinity Church, re- 
 presenting the earl and his wife — the former 
 holding in his hand a charter, on which was 
 inscribed, 
 
 " I, Leofric, for the love of thee. 
 Doe make Coventrie tol-free." 
 
 I had heard of " Peeping Tom," and went in 
 search of him. I hajl forgotten, however, that 
 he occupied the upper stor)' of a house, and 
 went the whole length of the street in which I 
 was informed he was placed, without finding 
 him. I expected to see a statue standing in 
 some comer upon the ground, and hence was 
 compelled to inquire more particularly of his 
 whereabouts. When at length I caught a 
 glimpse of him, with his cocked hat on, peeping 
 from an aperture in the corner of a house 
 standing at the intersection of two streets, I 
 had a long and hearty laugh. His appearance 
 was comical in the extreme, as it stood looking 
 down on the throng of promenaders. The 
 man who owns the house receives an annual 
 stipend for allowing it to remain there, and 
 every two years it is clad in a new suit, made 
 
 after the fashion of the tenth century. On 
 these occasions, the shops are closed as on 
 Sundays, and a procession of the citizens, with 
 the mayor at their head, passes through the 
 principal streets of the place, accompanied by 
 a woman dressed in white or flesh-colored 
 tights, on horseback. When they come oppo- 
 site "Tom "the procession halts, the high 
 sheriff invests the efligy in its new suit, and 
 the imposing ceremonies are ended. This was 
 the year for the procession, but I arrived too 
 late to witness it. A woman of rather easy 
 virtue, clad in a flesh-colored suit, fitting tight 
 to her skin, was placed on a horse, and, with a 
 quantity of false hair falling around her form, 
 represented the lovely Godiva. I could not but 
 think how such a procession, with such comical 
 ceremonies, would appear in New York, and 
 what the good people of that practical city 
 would do on such an occasion. 
 
 As I was strolling about I came upon three 
 or four hardy weather-beaten men, one of whom 
 came up to me and said : " Sir. I am not in 
 the habit of begging, but my master in Staflford 
 has broke, and I am left without work. I 
 came here with my family to find work, but 
 cannot, and have sold my last bed and blanket 
 to buy provisions. If you could give me some- 
 thing, I should be much obliged to you." 
 This was said in a manly tone — so unlike the 
 whining accents of a continental beggar, that 
 I was struck with it. " Why," said I, " this is 
 very strange — here you are, a strong man, 
 with two good arms, and a pair of stout hands 
 at the end of them, and yet are starving in the 
 richest kingdom of the world. This is very 
 strange — what is it all coming to ?" He turned 
 his eye upon me with the look of a tiger and 
 exclaimed : " What is it all coming to ? Why 
 it is coming to this, one of these days ;" and he 
 struck his brawny fists together with a report 
 like that of a pistol. I need not say that I 
 gave him money. 
 
 A strong man, willing to work for his daily 
 bread, and yet denied the privilege, is the sad- 
 dest sight under the sun. 
 
114 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 IPISni IPA©!?, 
 
 BY REV. O. H. A. B0LKLEY. 
 
 The past ! the past ! the aged past ! 
 
 What varied forms it takes, 
 What light and shade are o'er it cast, 
 
 What myriad thoughts it wakes ! 
 Who that has buried in its grave 
 
 The corpses of its years, 
 Hath not beheld, with heart less brave. 
 
 Its ghost-like hopes and fears ? 
 
 The past ! the past ! the changeful past, 
 
 How like a form of love ! 
 It seemeth now mid skies o'ercast, 
 
 In flight a heaven-born dove ; 
 How oft from Life's lone ark it flees, 
 
 And to us comes again. 
 To bring the olive-leaf of peace 
 
 That notes the end of rain. 
 
 Oft like some high cathedral's walls 
 
 In solemn gloom it towers. 
 While through the stained glass window falls 
 
 The light of chequered hours. 
 And through its dim aisles human forms 
 
 Move darkly to and fro, 
 Escaped from all the wildering storms 
 
 In outer courts that blow. 
 
 The past ! it blooms with many a flower 
 
 Of joyous life once found ; 
 It stands in gardens bright a bower. 
 
 With roses all around. 
 Oft in its shade our spirits rest. 
 
 Fanned by the airs of heaven, 
 And dreams that seem to us the best. 
 
 Live with us till life's even. 
 
 Forth from its lofty pulpit come . 
 
 The holy sounds of truth, 
 With stories of the immortal home, 
 
 Where wells the font of youth ; 
 Or through its echoing arches roll 
 
 The requiems of the dead, 
 Whose organ tones wake in the soul 
 
 Emotions ever dread. 
 
 The past ! a palace wide 'tis now, 
 
 Where royal thoughts abide. 
 Where courtier-words in homage bow. 
 
 And subjects gaze in pride ; 
 Where princely retinues move round 
 
 In music's robes arrayed. 
 While in their midst the mind unbound 
 
 Stands with its shining blade. 
 
 The past, 'tis changed ! a sepulchre, 
 
 A charnel-house it is. 
 Where lie the bones of those that were 
 
 Like us the heirs of bliss ; 
 Alas ! what heaps of fleshless forms 
 
 Are piled up on its shelves. 
 And on them feed what reptile worms, 
 
 Where death, the miser, delves. 
 
 How fast its silent walls are filled 
 
 With all the heart's dear hopes ; 
 I low by its damps the soul is chilled 
 
 When mid its gloom she gropes ; 
 And ah ! what noxious vapors crowd 
 
 Within its poisoned air ; 
 What rotten shapes beneath each shroud 
 
 Its clicerless mansions share. 
 
 Yet oh, the past ! 'tis always sad, 
 
 Whatever forms it takes ; 
 For ne'er its images, though glad. 
 
 To real being wakes ; 
 But oft the loving memory keeps 
 
 Lone vigils o'er its dead, 
 And seeks amid Time's slaughtered heaps 
 
 The jewelled hearts that bled. 
 
 A sea-struck mariner it stands 
 
 Upon life's stormy shore. 
 And views, disparted on the sands. 
 
 The fond heart's only store. 
 Sadly and solemnly it toils 
 
 To gather up again 
 The relics of the wave-cast spoils. 
 
 Strewn o'er the dcscrt-main. 
 
GOLD THREADS. 
 
 115 
 
 But never may they live to cheer 
 
 Our bosoms with their light ; 
 For quenched is every ray that here 
 
 Shone on us in delight 
 We have no god-like power to call 
 
 Their being back to earth ; 
 We cannot build their crumbled wall ; 
 
 We cannot give new birth. 
 
 Then scorn the past, a changeful thing, 
 
 A trustless guide it is ; 
 Pierce not its gloom, 'twill only bring 
 
 The skeletons of bliss ; 
 
 Seek not its light, 'twill only lead 
 
 Down to the wards of death. 
 Or into fields where beauties bleed 
 
 And wither at a breath. 
 
 But grasp the present, wield its axe, 
 
 The future's shapes to hew ; 
 Dig in its heart, its full strength tax, 
 
 And form life's hopes anew. 
 Oh ! if thy soul shall chain each hour 
 
 A servant to thy will, 
 How high towards heaven thy home shall tower, 
 
 And thou be conqueror still ! 
 
 ©(DIEj® f lErmig aids 
 
 By ANNE C LYNCH. 
 
 A GREAT writer benefits us in two ways — 
 by revealing to us the mysteries of our own 
 souls, and the wonders of the external world. 
 
 Taste should be educated, not by contem- 
 plation of the tolerable good, but of the truly 
 excellent. When you have thoroughly appre- 
 hended the best, you will have a standard, and 
 know how to value inferior performances. 
 
 Poetesses. — These beings have been unfor- 
 tunate in love, and they seek compensation in 
 intellectual pursuits. 
 
 Humanity is the sum of all men taken to- 
 gether, and each is only so far worthy of esteem 
 as he knows how to appreciate all. 
 
 He from whom we would learn must be 
 congenial with our own nature. 
 
 We are not obliged to utter our highest 
 maxims, except when they can benefit the 
 world. Let us keep them within ourselves \ 
 when they are not likely to do good without, < 
 and they will diffuse over our actions the mild ^ 
 radiance of a hidden sun. \ 
 
 The poet deserves not the name when he < 
 only speaks out those few feelings that are his \ 
 as an individual ; only when he can appropri- 
 ate and tell the story of the world is he a poet. 
 
 The poets write as if they were all sick and 
 the world a lazaretto. This is a sad abuse of 
 poetry, which was given ns to smooth away 
 the rough places of life, and make man sr.tisficd 
 with the world and his situation. 
 
 Passions and emotions may be made popular, 
 but reason remains the property of the elect 
 few. 
 
 Man needs sympathy and suggestion to do 
 any thing well. 
 
 The picture of Peter sinking is a beautiful 
 history. It expresses the noble doctrine, that 
 through faith and courage man may come off 
 victor in the most dangerous enterprises, while 
 he may be ruined by a momentary paroxysm of 
 doubt. 
 
 Hate injures no one ; it is contempt that casts 
 men headlong. 
 
 The native land of the poet is the good, the 
 noble, the beautiful ; confined to no province or 
 country. 
 
 The PanegjTists of Richter have named 
 him, " I am Paul the only." 
 
 Reason has two modes of activity ; one spon- 
 taneous, and the other reflective. The sponta- 
 neous, universally developed, furnishes the 
 beliefs of all men, and is called common sense. 
 The reflective reason gives philosophy, and is 
 awakened in but a small part of mankind ; 
 hence there are few philosophers. 
 
 Fichte says there is a divine idea pervading 
 the universe. The universe is but its symbol, 
 having in itself no meaning, or even existence, 
 independent of it. To the mass of men this 
 divine idea is hidden ; yet to discern it, and to 
 live wholly in it, is the condition of all virtue, 
 
116 
 
 GOLD THREADS. 
 
 knowledge, and freedom. Literary men are 
 the appointed interpreters of this idea. 
 
 Carlyle says of Wilhelm Meister : " The 
 problem stated in Werter with despair of its 
 solution, is here solved. The lofty enthusiasm 
 that wandered wildly over the universe, has 
 here reached its appointed home. This peace 
 has not been attained by any compact with 
 necessity or delusion, not the peace that years 
 and dispiritment will bring, for this is like the 
 Romans, who made a solitude, and called it 
 peace." 
 
 Manhood begins when we have surrendered 
 to necessity, but it begins joyfully and hope- 
 fully only when we have reconciled ourselves 
 to necessity, and thus in reality triumphed over 
 it, and felt that in necessity we are free. 
 
 The great defect in Burns' character was a 
 want of true religious principle — of morals, 
 (in comparison with Milton and others.) They 
 had constantly before them a high, heroic 
 idea of religion, patriotism, and heavenly wis- 
 dom. The golden calf of self-love was not 
 their deity, but they worshipped the Invisible 
 Goodness. 
 
 There is a condescending patronage, there 
 are oblique hints, nice and fine distinctions, in 
 polished circles, which divide one rank from 
 another, and which allow you to be galled 
 without the pleasure of feeling justified in the 
 offence. 
 
 One is never sure of a man's wisdom, until he 
 has been really and vainly in love. 
 
 The drops that trickle within the cavern 
 harden, yet brighten with spars as they indu- 
 rate. Nothing is more cold, nothing more 
 polished, than that wisdom which is the work 
 of former tears and of former passions, and is 
 formed within a musing and solitary mind. 
 
 There is in some persons a feeling which 
 teaches them when to forego the forms of pro- 
 priety for the essence of it. 
 
 It is the business of poetry, and indeed of all 
 works of the imagination, to exhibit the species 
 through the individual. 
 
 The vices are never so well employed as in 
 combating one another. Tyranny and servility 
 are to be dealt with after their own fashion, or 
 they will triumph over those who spare them. 
 
 lago is an amateur of tragedy in real life; 
 and instead of exercising his ingenuity on 
 imaginary characters or long-forgotten inci- 
 dents, he takes the bolder and more dcapcrato 
 course of getting up his plot at home ; casts 
 the principal parts among his nearest friends 
 
 and connections, and rehearses in downright 
 earnest with steady nerves and unabated resolu- 
 tion. His moral constitution digests only poisons. 
 The most wonderful thing in Shakspeare's 
 faculties is their excessive sociability, and how 
 they gossipped and compared notes together. 
 
 Vulgarity is not natural but conventional 
 coarseness, learned from others without an 
 entire conformity of natural power and dispo- 
 sition, as fashion is the commonplace affecta- 
 tion of what is elegant and refined, and without 
 any feeling of the essence of it. 
 
 The language of poetry is superior to the 
 language of painting, because the strongest of 
 our recollections relate to feelings, not to faces. 
 
 Homer appears the most original of all 
 writers, probably for no other reason than that 
 we can trace the plagiarism no farther. 
 
 Every thing is true by which thou art made 
 better. 
 
 Poets are sometimes the echoes of words of 
 which they know not the povt^er — the trumpet 
 that sounds to battle and feels not what it 
 inspires. 
 
 Poetry is the apotheosis of sentiment. 
 
 Genius has not the privilege of being tried 
 by its peers. 
 
 One misfortune of extraordinary geniuses is 
 that their very friends are more apt to admire 
 than to love them. 
 
 What is passing in the heart of another 
 rarely escapes the observation of one who is a 
 strict anatomist of his own. 
 
 Madame Roland says : " I thought mamage 
 an austere union, in which the woman usually 
 burdens herself with the happiness of two indi- 
 viduals." 
 
 Robespierre said : " If God did not exist, it 
 would behoove man to invent him." 
 
 To inform people of their rights before in- 
 structing them, and making them familiar with 
 their duties, leads naturally to the abuse of 
 liberty and the usurpation of individuals. It is 
 like opening a passage for the torrent before a 
 channel has been prepared to receive it, or 
 banks to direct its course. 
 
 An empty human heart ! an abyss earth's 
 depths cannot match. 
 
 Cultivation of mind is the gift of luxury ; 
 strength of mind is the gift of misfortune. 
 
 We are contented because we are happy, 
 and not happy because we are contented. 
 
 Those who have failed as painters, turn 
 picture-cleaners, and those who have failed as 
 writers turn reviewers. 
 
FAITH. 
 
 U7 
 
 IF* AHf is^ 
 
 In the blessings of this world God has given 
 man no boon dearer than his confidence in his 
 fellows. That implicit trust in all around him 
 which every man who studies the autobiogra- 
 phy written on his own heart, can remember to 
 have once possessed, is ever the surest index 
 of a purity which has known no evil, and a 
 happiness which has felt no chill. 
 
 What heart that has groaned under the '/ 
 weight of maturity has not longed for the light- \ 
 ness of youth ? And yet it is but in this all- < 
 trusting confidence that youth is better than 
 maturity; for the cares of manhood are but 
 food for its strength. And so it is that this 
 trusting is to be desired for its own sake, for 
 ,th8 very present joy it gives the heart from 
 which it springs. Confidence asks and receives 
 nothing from the world external. Nay, it 
 teaches rather that it is more blessed to give 
 than to receive. Like love, of which it is so 
 essential a part, " it gives itself, but is not 
 bought." It pours itself out to the world like 
 springing water upon a thirsty desert, which 
 drains the fount that would gladden it, turns 
 the bright gift to nought but pestilential vapor, 
 and leaves but the scorched channel and the 
 exhausted fountain to tell the wasted blessing. 
 It is the plant whose leaves soonest shrink from 
 the eager grasp of selfishness; the flower 
 whose petals first close under the sky of burn- 
 ing ingratitude. It is the first, the purest, and 
 the brightest jewel which the soul parts with 
 to buy a wisdom which causes disquiet, and a 
 knowledge which brings contamination. 
 
 This confidence, when elevated from the 
 erring to the perfect, from the finite to the in- 
 finite, from man to God, becomes faith ; and 
 with the change attributes are added, and quali- 
 ties are made inherent in it, which become the 
 purity, the perfection, and the power, on which 
 it is placed. It offers its hand for all eternity, 
 and from eternity comes forth an almighty 
 hand whose pressure is that of boundless love, 
 whose grasp there is no fear to relax, no self- 
 interest to slacken. This faith is as essential 
 to our spiritual, as our confidence is to our 
 temporal happiness. Nay more, for its exer- 
 cise is the increase of that happiness, while 
 
 our keenest earthly sorrow is inflicted by vio- 
 lated confidence. Every act of faith is but a 
 stepping-stone to firmer faithfulness ; the more 
 we trust our God, the more we long to trust 
 him ; while many a confiding act towards our 
 fellows is but one step towards the depths of 
 uncharitable misanthropy, or the dead level of 
 selfish indifference. 
 
 God's goodness then, as well as his omnis- 
 cience, is shown in leaving much to be to us 
 matter of faith, and not of knowledge. His 
 far-seeing love spreads the dark veil on which 
 his almighty will writes, ".Thus far and 
 no farther." Here man's justly-boasted reason 
 stops. Here stands the mighty in intellect 
 with the feeble ; the man-Christian with the 
 babe in Christ. And who but he who drew 
 the veil, can say, if it were lifted, and the eyes 
 which seek to pierce its mysterious folds were 
 allowed to rest on what it hides, whether the 
 hidden might not be the incomprehensible ; 
 and the incomprehensible is ever a greater 
 stumbling-block than the unrevealed. Then 
 would the mighty be confounded in his strength, 
 and the feeble overwhelmed in his weakness, 
 the old bewildered in his experience, and the 
 babe lost in its ignorance. Then on the sea 
 of their doubts, and in the tempest of their con- 
 fusion, would all be lost, because not firmly 
 stayed on the anchor which is within the veil — 
 the faith which is the evidence of things not 
 seen. 
 
 But real faith forbids Its possessor to seek 
 what God has denied. As the confidence 
 which asks proof is no longer confidence, so 
 the faith which seeks knowledge is no longer 
 faith. - Faith must, from its nature, ever be 
 perfect, for trust which is not perfect implies 
 suspicion. Like a solitary column unsupported 
 save by its own base, if strong, it may resist 
 the shock of the earthquake ; but while erect it 
 points as duly heavenward in feebleness as in 
 strength, and if it fall from the pride of its 
 strength, it will but sink deeper in the dust 
 which the winds of scepticism have gathered 
 at its base. 
 
 And if Faith never realize her belief she is 
 yet to be much sought for the happiness she 
 
118 
 
 SHADOW.— BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 yields, where else would be dark doubt and 
 troubled suspicion. If she gain us nothing, 
 she loses us nothing ; and surely he who en- 
 joys by anticipation is better than he who enjoys 
 not at all. He who gazes on a star and fondly 
 believes it will be the bright home of himself 
 and those he loves, may win laughter at his 
 self-credulity ; but is he not happier than the 
 blind, who has no star to look upon ? 
 
 There are three which are inseparable — 
 Faith, Hope, and I^ove — but first comes Love, 
 and afterwards Hope, and then Faith is born of 
 these two. And if she have the trust of Love, 
 but be denied his ardor, so she is given the 
 anticipation of Hope without her uncer- 
 tainty. 
 
 SE AUD© w 
 
 Baseless vision ! well-a-day. 
 
 Life's a shadow all the way ! 
 
 If you doubt me, listen now. 
 
 Let me tell you why and how. 
 
 Shadow, infant, shadow, man ; 
 
 Show me substance if you can ! 
 
 Turn and turn it as you may, 
 
 Life's a shadow all the way ! 
 
 Infancy assumes a smile, 
 
 Only shadow all the while ; 
 
 While we ask if it be truth, 
 
 Childhood verges into youth ! 
 
 Youth, the time of books and school, 
 
 Dreadful shadow, dreading fool ! 
 
 Horrid lessons, hard to say, 
 
 Horrid shadows in the way. 
 
 Swift we come to man's estate ; 
 
 Would its shadow then but wait ! 
 
 But it hasteth on to see 
 
 Our meridian degree, 
 
 O'er the dial of our day 
 
 Pass like morning mist away ; 
 
 All the shadows of life's sun 
 
 Gone, before they seemed begun ! 
 
 Cupid slyly slips a dart. 
 
 Shoots us through and through the heart ; 
 
 Ah, how dismal ! ah, how drear ! 
 
 What emotions lurking here ; 
 
 Cannot come, nor stay, nor go. 
 Some sweet shadow haunting so ! 
 Stern as winter, mild as May, 
 Neither scared nor coaxed away. 
 Shadow oft the wedded life ; 
 Every boy must have a wife : 
 Every maiden will be wed. 
 Hits the nail upon the head. 
 Sure of happiness complete ; 
 What a shadow ! what deceit ! 
 When the nuptial link is tied. 
 Shadow, husband ! shadow, bride ! 
 Folly urges, fashion drives, 
 Mortals all their mortal lives ; 
 E'er so gay, or e'er so grand, 
 Shadow, and a rope of sand ! 
 Unsubstantial at the best, 
 Cannot bear affection's test ; 
 Turn and turn it as we may, 
 Life's a shadow all the way ! 
 Yet, be happy. Age, or Youth, 
 We have still the Word of Truth. 
 No delusive shadow here. 
 Firm, consoling, and sincere. 
 If you doubt me, listen now, 
 Let me tell you why and how. 
 Comes it glorious from above, 
 Word of Truth, and Life, and Love. 
 
 IBIgMIg¥(DILIgH(BIgo 
 
 From the German, by Mrs. St. Simon 
 
 On a summer's day Theophron went upon a 
 short journey on foot with his son. Their way 
 let! through various avenues planted with 
 fruit-trees, which bore abundantly this year. 
 
 But Theophron's son had oftentimes been 
 harsh and unkind towards the poor and needy, 
 and they had to implore him long before ho 
 would give them the most trilling alms. 
 
 The father had observed tliis, and he neg- 
 lected no opportunity to correct this fault. 
 
 " If man but resembled one of these fruit- 
 trees !" exclaimed Theophron. 
 
 " How do you mean, father ?" asked Selmar, 
 for this was the name of the boy. 
 
 " Consider over these trees," said Theophron, 
 " how, blessed with ripo fruit, they bend Uieir 
 
THE BLOSSOMING VINE. 
 
 119 
 
 branches to the wa}-farer ; of themselves they 
 pour forth of their abundance, and do not wait 
 for man to implore it from them." 
 
 Selmar felt confused, and his father con- 
 tinued: "Behold, Nature teaches us in a 
 thousand ways, if we would but listen to our 
 instructress !" 
 
 At the foot of a hill at a short distance from 
 the road, some laborers were busy at work in 
 a mine, removing the golden ore. The two 
 travellers turned their steps thitherward, and 
 the father said to the son : " Behold how this 
 mine puts the hard-hearted man to shame !" 
 
 " How so ?" asked Selmar. 
 
 " It gives its costly treasures more readily 
 than he," replied the father. 
 
 Selmar was silent. 
 
 But the father spake much on this subject 
 nntil they reached the end of their journey. 
 They passed the day at a kinsman's, and to- 
 
 wards evening returned to their own dwell- 
 ing. 
 
 When they liad nearly reached their home, 
 the clouds shed their refreshing rain, and 
 watered the thirsty fields. 
 
 "The heavens seem to have purposed to 
 give us a lesson to^ay," said Theophron to 
 his son, " to display the virtue of benevolence 
 in the clearest light, for I feel as if these cor- 
 dial drops called out : ' Imiiate us ! We 
 descend willingly ichen the dauds are fraught 
 with the refreshing blessing, and do not wait for 
 the complaints of the parched earth.* Did I not 
 tell you that we had a wise instructress in 
 Nature ?" 
 
 And Selmar took his father's words to heart, 
 and henceforth he anticipated the wants of the 
 poor and wretched ; and as he grew older, he 
 became like a fruitful tree to the hungry, and 
 to the thirsty a fountain of running water. 
 
 I'rasn tiw Gcnnan of TT'iH'iimw^Tmrj |^ Bbs. St. Smon. 
 
 SAJnxEi,, the judge and ruler in Israel, one 
 day visited the school of the prophets, which 
 be had himself established, at Naioth, and he 
 rejoiced at the progress of the young men in 
 manifold wisdom, and in the art of playing 
 upon stringed instruments, and in song. 
 
 Among them was a youth named Adonija, 
 the son of Milcha. And Samuel found plea- 
 sure in the boy. For his face was brown and 
 beautiful, and the sound of his voice was sweet 
 and strong. But his soul was puffed up with 
 pride and \-ain conceit, because he excelled the 
 others in knowledge and in skill. He esteemed 
 himself wiser than seven wise men, and be- 
 haved presumj^usly towards his teachers, and 
 his mouth was full of lofty words and idle 
 imaginations. 
 
 The judge of Israel grieved over the boy 
 Adonija, for he loved him more than all the 
 others, because he was comely 'and wise be- 
 yond his years. Therefore Samuel said: 
 " The Spirit of the Lord has chosen the boy to 
 b3 a prophet ia Israel, but he strives against it 
 and seeks to set it at nought." 
 
 And he led the young man into the moun- 
 tains to a vineyard, which lieth towards Ramah. 
 And lo, it was the season when the vine was 
 in blossom. 
 
 Then Samuel lifted np his voice and said 
 " Adonija, what see'st thou ?" 
 
 And Adonija answered : "I see a vineyard, 
 and the sweet smell of the vine-blossom fills 
 the air round about me." 
 
 Then Samuel said : " Draw nearer, and look 
 at the blossom of the vine." 
 
 And the youth drew near, and considered it, 
 and said : " It is a delicate flower, unsightly in 
 colour, and humble in form." 
 
 Then Samuel answered, and said : " And 
 still it bringeth forth a divine fruit, to rejoice 
 the heart of man, and to renovate his form that 
 it shine with beauty. Such, Adonija, is the 
 noble growth of the vine at the time of its 
 blossoming, before it brings forth its pleasant 
 firuiL Remember the vine, then, in the days 
 of the blossoming of thy youth !" 
 
 And Adonija, the son of Milcha, look all 
 these words of Samuel to heart, and thence- 
 forward grew mild and soft in spirit. 
 
 Then all those who knew Adonija loved 
 him, and said : " The Spirit of God has fallen 
 upon the young man !" 
 
 But Adonija grew in wisdom and in grace, 
 and became a man like the shepherd of Tekoa, 
 ; and like Isaiah the son of Amoz, and his name 
 > was honored in all Israel. 
 
120 
 
 THE BATTLE OF SALABERTRANN. 
 
 insrig iAf^EjH ©IP SAiLiAiMfmiiMKr, 
 
 BY J. T. HEADLET. 
 
 During the return of the exiles to their native 
 land, mentioned in our last article, occurred the 
 battle represented in the plate. Like the chil- 
 dren of Isreal in their march to Canaan, the 
 Waldenses were compelled to fight their way- 
 back to their ancient altars and possessions. 
 Their journey occupied thirty-one days, and 
 was marked by trials, sufferings, heroisms, al- 
 most miraculous escapes, such as are seldom 
 found in the history of any people. 
 
 Having been compelled to leave Germany, 
 the exiles, after a while, found themselves 
 scattered amid the cantons of Switzerland, close 
 on the confines of their native land. They had 
 made two attempts to return, but had failed in 
 both. Still, however, they boldly resolved on 
 a third. The hostility existing between Eng- 
 land and France, and the known sentiments 
 of the Prince of Orange, just ascended the 
 English throne, together with the repoits of 
 spies, that the French king had withdrawn his 
 troops from the farther side of the mountains, 
 encouraged them to make one more effort to 
 regain their land. As stated in the preceding 
 article, M. Arnaud, a clergyman, headed the 
 expedition. Having assembled in the forest of 
 Nyon, they waited for the arrival of their breth- 
 ren from the Grisons and Wurtemberg. These 
 latter, to the number of a hundred and twenty- 
 two, had agreed to join them; but soon after 
 setting out, they were all taken prisoners, and 
 marched over the Alps to Turin, and thrown 
 into prison. Finding at length that it was 
 growing dangerous to wait longer, Arnaud, at 
 the head of his gallant band, resolved to proceed 
 without delay. It had been whispered about 
 that the exiles were plotting some new expedi- 
 tion, which caused many strangers to seek the 
 forest of Nyon, Iwrdering on Lake Geneva. 
 Of the unexpected supply of boats furnished by 
 
 them, Arnaud immediately tooK advantage, 
 and, pressing them into temporary service, com- 
 menced the passage of the lake. When all was 
 ready, Arnaud, who had assumed the name of 
 M. de la Tour, stepped into the midst of his 
 followers, and uncovering his head, knelt on the 
 ground, and offered up a fervent prayer that 
 God would smile on their endeavors. Having 
 thus committed their cause to Heaven, the 
 Waldenses shoved their boats from the shore. 
 It was a warm August night, and a little be- 
 fore midnight, that frail fleet might have been, 
 seen gliding over the blue waters of Lake Ge- 
 neva. No sooner did they step ashore than they 
 formed in order of battle — in one column, com- 
 posed of nineteen companies in all, they started 
 on their perilous march. Of their difiiculties^ 
 by the way, danger from treachery, deceit, and' 
 open hostility, we can mention but a moiety. 
 In a solid phalanx, with their scouts thrown 
 out on every side, and their arms in their hands, 
 and shut out from all reinforcements, they bold- 
 ly entered the heart of a hostile country, deter- 
 mined to cut their way through it, and driving 
 out the occupants of their homes, take and 
 maintain possession of them. Every village 
 rung its alarm-bells at their approach, and 
 armed bands of peasants prepared to dispute 
 tiicir passage ; but the firm order and presence 
 of the Waldenses awed them into respect, and 
 forced them to supply provisions and guides. 
 Now and then £f skirmish took place, and a few 
 were killed ; but the bold Waldenses' kept on 
 their way for a long time without any serious 
 obstacles, except what the Alps presented. 
 Through gloomy gorges, where twenty brave 
 men could liave withstood a hundred, and over 
 snow-covered heights, they passed on until they 
 at length reached the base of the " Hauto 
 Luce." 
 
.* * 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALABERTRANN. 
 
 121 
 
 This mountain was covered with snow and 
 enveloped in fog ; yet up its steep sides pressed 
 the wanderers. The guides endeavored to 
 lead them astray into the ravines that intersect 
 it, where they might wander around until the 
 Savoyards could arrive, and cut their throats. 
 , But Arnaud, detecting the foul play, threatened 
 'to hang them if they did not conduct his band 
 safely, and thus frightened them out of their 
 treachery. Up steps cut in the rocks, they 
 mounted in single file, and, at lengtli, reached 
 ' the summit. Thence, sliding down, one after 
 ;: another, on their backs, guided only by the 
 white snow, they reached, late at night, a few 
 .shepherds' huts, at the base, which they un- 
 roofed to provide themselves with fuel. A 
 cold and drenching rain, which lasted till morn- 
 ing, chilled their frames, and they arose be- 
 numbed, yet still resolute, to commence the 
 fourth day's march. In soft snow, a foot deep, 
 and pelted by an Alpine storm, they began the 
 ascent of the Col de Bonne Homme. Along 
 this pass of 7500 feet high, forts had been erect- 
 ed by the enemy, and the Waldenses expected 
 every moment a sanguinary conflict ; but their 
 prayers had been heard, and silence and solitude 
 reigned over the entrenchments. Now hanging 
 above an Alpine cliff, at midnight — now kin- 
 ling their camp fires in some quiet meadow — 
 now swallowed up in a fearful gorge, and now 
 threading a quiet valley, they slowly but steadily 
 approached their former home. At length they 
 reached the foot of Mount Cenis, where, it was 
 reported, troops were waiting to receive them. 
 Nothing daunted, and, trusting in that God 
 whose protection they had invoked, they began 
 the ascent. No language can describe the 
 horrors of this passage. The exiles lost their 
 way, and stumbled about in frightful gorges. 
 Several men were lost and taken prisoners, and 
 gloom began to gather over the path of the ex- 
 iles. At the foot of the Touliers they sounded 
 their trumpets a long time to recall the fugi- 
 tives who had lost their way, and then marched 
 on. Upon the summit they saw, through the 
 thick fog that crowned the height, a band of 
 two hundred armed men, advancing with beat- 
 ing drums to the charge. The latter, however, 
 gave way, and the exiles kept on until they 
 ^ came within three miles of the village of Sal- 
 ? bertrann. Tliis was the eighth day of their 
 march, and, weary and hungry, they inquired 
 of a peasant if they could obtain provisions at 
 the village. " Go on," he replied, " and they 
 will give you all that you desire, and are now 
 
 preparing a warm supper for you." The Wal- 
 denses understood the hint, but kept on until 
 within a mile and a half of a bridge that 
 crossed the Doria, when they descried in the 
 depth of the valley nearly forty camp fires 
 burning. The Christians were in need of rest 
 and food, but before they could obtain either, a 
 fierce and unequal battle must be fought. 
 They kept on, however, until the vanguard fell 
 into an ambuscade, and a sharp firing of mus- 
 ketry awoke the echoes of the Alps. The in- 
 trepid Arnaud saw that a crisis had indeed 
 come. Before him was a well-appointed 
 French army, two thousand five hundred strong, 
 and commanding a narrow bridge. Halting 
 his tired column, he ordered them all to kneel, 
 and there, in the still evening, he offered up 
 prayer to the God of battles, that he would 
 save them from the destruction that seemed in- 
 evitable. Scarcely had the solemn prayer 
 died away upon the evening air, before the rat- 
 tUng of arms was heard, and, in one dense 
 column, the exiles pressed straight for the 
 bridge. 
 
 As they approached, the sentinels on the 
 farther side cried out, " Qui vive !" to which 
 the Waldenses replied, "Friends, if they are 
 suffered to pass on !" Instantly the shout, 
 " Kill them ! kill them !" rang through the 
 darkness, and then the order " fire !" was heard 
 along the ranks. In a moment, more than two 
 thousand muskets opened on the bridge, and it 
 rained a leaden storm its whole length and 
 breadth.' They expected, and rightly, that 
 under such a well-directed fire, the little band 
 of exiles would be annihilated ; and so they 
 would have been but for the prudence and fore- 
 sight of their pastor and leader, Arnaud. Ex- 
 pecting such a reception, he had given orders 
 that his followers, the moment they heard the 
 word ^' fire" from the enemy, should fall flat 
 on tiieir faces. They obeyed him, and that 
 fiery sleet went drifting wildly over their heads. 
 For a quarter of an hour did these heavy vol- 
 leys continue, enveloping that bridge in flame; 
 yet during the whole time but one Waldensian 
 was wounded. At length, however, a firing 
 was heard in the rear : the troops that had let 
 them pass on the mountain in the morning, 
 had followed after, on purpose to prevent their 
 escape from the snare that had been set for 
 them. Crushed between two powerful bodies 
 of soldiers, with two thousand muskets blazing 
 in their faces, and a narrow bridge before- 
 them, the case of the wanderers seemed hope- 
 
VJ2 
 
 SONNET TO THE FIRMAMENT. 
 
 less. Seeing that the final hour had come, 
 Arnaud ordered his followers to rise and storm 
 the bridge. Then occurred one of those fear- 
 ,ful exhibitions sometimes witnessed on a battle- 
 field. With one wild and thrilling shout, that 
 little band precipitated itself forward. Through 
 the devouring fire, over the rattling, groaning 
 bridge, up to the entrenchments, and up to the 
 points of the bayonets, they went in one re- 
 sistless wave. Their deafening shouts drown- 
 ed the roar of musketry, and, borne up by that 
 lofty enthusiasm which has made the hero in 
 every age, they forgot the danger before them. 
 On the solid ranks they fell with such terror 
 and suddenness, that they had not time even to 
 flee. The enraged Waldenses seized them by 
 the hail*, and trampled them under foot ; and 
 with their heavy sabres cleaved them to the 
 earth. The terrified French undertook to 
 defend themselves with their muskets, and as 
 they interposed them between tlieir bodies and 
 the foe, the Waldensian sabres struck fire on 
 the barrels till the sparks flew in every direc- 
 tion. The Marquis of Larry strove for a while 
 to bear up against this overpowering onset, but 
 finding all was lost, he cried out, " Is it possible 
 I have lost the battle and my honor ?" and then 
 exclaiming " Sauve qui peuV ! turned and fled. 
 That army of two thousand five hundred men 
 then became a herd of fugitives in the darkness, 
 mowed down at every step by the sword of the 
 Waldensian. The slaughter was terrible, and 
 the victory complete; all the baggage and 
 stores were taken ; and at length, when the 
 bright moon rose over the Alps, flooding the 
 
 strange scene with light, Arnaud called his 
 little band from the pursuit. Having supplied 
 themselves with all the powder they wished, 
 they gathered the rest together, and set fire to 
 it. A sudden blaze revealed every peak and 
 crag, and the entire field of death, with the 
 brightness of noonday — followed by an explo- 
 sion like the bursting of a hundred cannon, 
 and which was heard nearly thirty miles in the 
 mountains. A deep silence succeeded this 
 strange uproar, and then Arnaud ordered all 
 the trumpets to sound, when every man threw 
 his hat into the air, and shouted, " Thanks to 
 the Eternal of Armies, who hath given us the 
 victory over our enemies !" That glorious 
 shout was taken up and prolonged till the flee- 
 ing foemen heard it in tne far mountain gorges. 
 
 The entire loss of the Waldenses in this 
 bloody engagement did not reach thirty men, 
 while the ground was cumbered with the dead 
 bodies of the French. The latter had refused 
 to destroy the bridge, and thus eflTectually arrest 
 the progress of the exiles, because they wished 
 to destroy them. But God had given them the 
 victory, and their shout recalled to n:!ind the 
 ancient shout of Judah in battle. 
 
 That night the tired Waldenses slept upon 
 their arms on the bloody field they had won ; 
 and when the morning sun arose, there lay the 
 wrecks of the fight on every side. In the 
 midst of the trampled plain, they lifted their 
 morning prayer and voice of renewed thanks- 
 giving to Him who carried them in the hollow 
 of his hand ; and again took up the line of 
 march. 
 
 SdDHMlf IT© fmi I^'HrnmAMlMf 
 
 BY HORACE DRESSER. 
 
 Vast Concave ! what deep mysteries are tliine ! — 
 Canst tell us wherefore into being came, 
 And how upheld in azure depths yon frame, 
 
 AH set with beauteous gems, that far outshine 
 
 The costly treasures of Golconda's mine ? 
 
 Art thou the scat of gods, as ancient Fame 
 
 Reports — thou course of spheres and comet's flame ? 
 
 What beings dwell in tliose far worlds that beam 
 
 Throughout the wide expanse of endless space ? 
 Are they Divinities, or, like our race, 
 
 Weak men, whose lives appear but as a dream ? 
 
 Blue Canopy ! immeasurable seem 
 
 Thy bounds to us who view thy fulgent face — 
 Not BO to Him who gave each star its place ! 
 
i 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY 
 
 123 
 
 ONE DOCTOR'S PICTUEE OF ANOTHER. 
 
 My old and time-honored and respected friend 
 
 and counsellor, Doctor Charles M'G n, who 
 
 rarely misses a day, that he does not sit an 
 hour or two in my office, whether I am there or 
 not ; having long since retired from the cares 
 of his professional career, and who has read my 
 reminiscences as they have appeared monthly, 
 in this Magazine ; albeit, he was not in my 
 confidence as to the authorship, took occasion 
 on the appearance of the Number for July, to 
 turn critic. He has been, and is still, an enthu- 
 siast in his art, not only in the detail and 
 drudgery of its practice, but also in the obser- 
 vation of character and endurance, as developed 
 under suffering, and as a matter of course, has 
 always a warm and active sympathy with all 
 the feelings of the patient. He is sixty years 
 old, and unmarried. 
 
 When he had finished reading the history of 
 the last hours of the Usurer, as detailed in No. 
 3, of this series, he laid down the paper, and 
 said very deliberately : 
 
 " It is all very well. They are capital inci- 
 dents, and such as do not occur in every man's 
 practice. A nd they are very well told. He is 
 a capital fellow, I know, that ^\Tites them, and 
 I should like to know him. He sinks the trade, 
 and leaves out all the treatment and symptoms, 
 and all that, and brings out the incidents very 
 well. He's no egotist — I like that. And this 
 piece is well carried out — interest all the way 
 through to the end. Bad fellow that usurer. I 
 would like to know the writer ; I know we 
 should like each other. But there is one thing 
 I think he is making too much of. He makes 
 a vein of love run through all his pieces. A 
 little too much of it in my opinion." 
 
 " You must consider, my dear sir," said I, 
 wilUng to defend the author, and at the same 
 time desirous of hearing his strictures, '• vou 
 must consider that he is \\'riting for the popular 
 eye, and a certain portion of this passion seems 
 necessary — " 
 
 " Pshaw !" said he, interrupting me ;" its all 
 twattle — trash— too much of it, Dr. P , too 
 
 : much of it. Now, if you or I had written them, 
 we should have made them a different thing." 
 
 " I don't know tliat exactly, sir," I replied. 
 " You might perhaps, but I think I should be 
 satisfied to have written them just as they are. 
 Besides, you have seen too much of human na- 
 ture, not to have perceived the control this same 
 passion has over the hearts of all classes and 
 conditions of onr race. From our boyhood up 
 we all feel it, and, as the writer of these sketch- 
 es says, woman winds her toils round and round 
 our better feelings. It may be a subtle Delilah 
 or a gentle, and fond, and loving Ruth — some 
 one of them finds a chain to^veave about us, and 
 then subdues us. You will pardon me, my 
 dear friend, if our long and close intimacy gives 
 me the boldness to say, that I have found no 
 other way to account for your celibacy but by 
 supposing that your heart was once filled with 
 one of these idols, and your devotion has been 
 more lasting than that of many others." 
 
 " While I spoke thus, the face of my friend 
 became deeply solemn and thoughtful, and 
 finally expressive of great emotion. I saw at 
 once that I had touched upon even more tender 
 ground than I had supposed, but he inquired : 
 
 " What has led you to form such an opinion ?" 
 
 " The general fact," I replied, " that we have 
 often met at the bedside of sick females, and 
 whether high or low, your kindness, and atten- 
 tion, and sympathy, has uniformly been of the 
 warmest kind." 
 
 " We owe it to them as the weaker sex," 
 said he. " But no more of this. I think I 
 could help the author of these sketches to many 
 facts which he could weave in, in his way, with 
 great effect." 
 
 " Indeed," said I, " I am greatly obliged to 
 you." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " Yes, I." 
 
 " For what ?" 
 
 " Why, my dear friend, I must admit you into 
 my confidence in this matter. I am the author 
 of them, and they are all veritable characters." 
 
124 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORy. 
 
 « Then I must beg i)ardoii for my strictures." 
 
 " Not at all. The same thing I had been 
 conscious of, and have filled out from my notes, 
 a sketch for tlie September Number, which is 
 entirely free from the faults you condemn." 
 
 He sat some time in silence, and his brow 
 was clouded. At length he said : 
 ■ " I was too severe, and I will offer you some 
 atono:nont. I have the notes of a case, which 
 you sliall have. I will possess you of all the 
 incidents, and you shall fill them out yourself, 
 and then, if ihey suit you, give them a place in 
 your series. I laughed at the love of your cha- 
 racters ; I will do so no more. I am sixty years 
 old, and a lover yet. But more of that hereaf- 
 ter. The notes which I shall give you, are of 
 my own case and another individual." 
 
 The following day he fulfilled his promise. 
 From his notes I liave written out the first part 
 of the narrative as if his own. Part second, is 
 in his own words. I thought it necessary to 
 develop as much at large as proper the history 
 of his feelings. I give them in the first part, in 
 order that tlie reader may be fully prepared for 
 tlie deeply interesting events of the second. If 
 I have been tedious in my writing, the Doctor's 
 own history and diary will fully compensate the 
 reader. 
 
 THE doctor's love. — PART I. 
 
 I am sixty years old, and a lover yet. I love 
 a dream — a vision — a phantom. It was once a 
 reality, but for years has ceased to be aught 
 else but one of the ideals which we make to 
 ourselves, and clothe with human forms of 
 beauty and loveliness, and then bow down to 
 and worship, till they fade away — the form, 
 but not Uie vision. I'hat is here yet, by me in 
 my day-dreams — beside me in the silent night 
 — with me at all times, and in all places — a 
 dream of most surpassing loveliness. For al- 
 most forty years, it has lingered about me, and 
 shut out many of the realities of life, to make 
 me sometimes happy and sometimes — wretched. 
 
 It was in the early part of my practice, tliat I 
 was called to visit the daiighter of a gentleman 
 in the place where I had settled. Unlike many 
 young men who enter our profession, and toil 
 on for years through discouragement, and heart- 
 breaking penury, l)efore they meet even a com- 
 fortable support, I had succeeded at once in 
 business, and that which I did was of the most 
 respectable families in the place. But from 
 
 Mr, E 1, the fatlier of the young lady I 
 
 have just mcnti ined as being called to, 1 had 
 
 received no attentions, and when his daughter 
 was first taken sick, he called in another phy- 
 sician, older to be sure, and of great e.vperience, 
 but a man of intemperate habits and dissolute 
 manners. The patient was neglected, and the 
 disease, which at first was mild, and could have 
 been easily controlled, became alanningly se- 
 vere. During a paroxysm of acute pain I was 
 sent for, and attended her through the remain- 
 der of her sickness, from which she gradually 
 recovered. 
 
 She was a beautiful girl, tall and graceful, 
 with fair hair, and large and laughter-loving 
 blue eyes, and during her convalesence, I spent 
 many happy hours by her side. Then began 
 the dream from which I have not yet waked — 
 from which I shall not wake while I live. Old 
 as I am, I live^in it yet, and hnger about its 
 visions as I did at that early and passionate 
 period of my life. I then began to love — to 
 love her — and, beautiful as slie was, not her 
 person nor her charms, but the bright ideal that 
 my fondness made her, for I clothed her witli 
 charms that were not her own, and worshipped 
 her with a bold idolatry. It may be thus with 
 all men — I am inclined to believe, from my ob- 
 servation of human Ufe, that it is, and that when 
 in man-led life the ideal fades and becomes so- 
 ber reality, both parties often find themselves 
 mistaken. 
 
 I was sitting one day by the side of Ellen, 
 when she had nearly recovered her health, when 
 she asked me, for the first time, if I tliought 
 she had been dangerously ill ; and then, without 
 waiting for a reply, she continued : 
 
 " I do not like to think of death. I know we 
 must all die, but then I cannot think of it, it is 
 so terrible. Life is so dear — so sweet." 
 
 " But what is there," said I, " to make life so 
 sweet ?" 
 
 '• O ! much — very much," she replied. " But 
 I do not fear dcatli for itself, but for tlie associa- 
 tions connected with it — the lonely and earth- 
 cold grave — the vile worm that must feed on us 
 — but more than all, the idea that I may be 
 buried alive terrifies me, and makes me shud- 
 der." 
 
 " But you have not told me yet, what there is 
 to make life desirable. These causes of your 
 fear may all be avoided by proper precautions, 
 and you may lie embalmed in state, so tlmt your 
 body may never perish. Yet why is it that 
 we all, old and young, in sickness and sorrow, 
 and constant trial, desire Ufe, and cherish it so 
 fondly ?" 
 
THt: DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 125 
 
 " O ! as I said before, there is very much to 
 live for — friends, and the fond hearts we gather 
 around us in our days of happiness." 
 
 " They may change, and become estranged 
 from us, and leave us as lonely as if in the 
 grave. Is that all ?" 
 
 " Love, then — ^love — the passion that sways 
 all our hopes, and fears, and desires." 
 
 " Yes," said I ;" " if indeed, we could ever 
 find the ever faithful and fond heart, that would 
 never know change, nor grow cold. How often 
 in my boyhood have I had such dreams ? And 
 they do not leave me now that my manhood is 
 growing upon me. It must be happiness to be 
 loved truly and fondly." 
 
 " And have you never been ?" she a^sked 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Never," I replied, and thus the conversation 
 ended. 
 
 I will not describe the dawning and progress 
 of my love. Let it suffice to say, that as she 
 recovered, I found myself drawn to her side ir- 
 resistibly, and felt more and more every day 
 that she was becoming dearer and dearer to me. 
 She recovered, and then I told her my love, and 
 was happy in the assurance that it was re- 
 turned. 
 
 How vividly present to me at this day, are 
 the hours I spent by her side, happy in her 
 smiles, and sad in her tears ! As I became more 
 acquainted \vith her, I discovered a sort of way- 
 wardness in her disposition, a hatred of re- 
 straint, but she was an only child, and had long 
 been indulged with the fulfillment of every 
 wish and desire, and I therefore made every 
 allowance for this trait in her character. It was 
 the cause of her ruin and my misery. Yet I 
 loved on, and my fondness for her made me find 
 an easy excuse for every failing. 
 
 Let me linger on these memories. Let me 
 recall her as she then seemed to me, the vision 
 of an earthly paradise. But she was not what 
 she seemed — the time was not far distant when 
 all her love and all her professions were to fade 
 away, and leave me a miserable wretch. What 
 plans I laid for the future — what hopes I built, 
 never to be realized ! I had not taught myself 
 then the mastery of my own heart, a lesson in- 
 deed I have not yet learned. 
 
 About two months after Ellen had recovered 
 her health, her father died suddenly, and her 
 mother survived the shock but a few days. It 
 was then that she became, if possible, more 
 dear to me. I was to supply the place of those 
 she had lost , and O ! how fondly did I cherish 
 
 her, and how ardently did I strive to make her 
 forget in my affection the loved ones who were 
 gone ! And I succeeded. She arose from the 
 shock, and with all the trust and confidence of 
 her passionate soul, she seemed gratefully to 
 repose in my sympathy and affection. But 
 why do I dwell upon these recollections ? She 
 was alone in the world, and I urged her to ap- 
 point an early day on which I could assume a 
 nearer title to protect and love her. The day 
 was fixed upon, and that, as soon as a proper 
 respect for the customs of society in such cases 
 would permit. In the mean time she was to 
 visit some of her friends in Boston, where she 
 would remain till our marriage. 
 
 These were my Elysian days — ^the happiest 
 hours of my life. I lived in a continual bliss- 
 ful dream of the future — of the time when, 
 bound to each other by indissoluble ties, we 
 would make our life one unvar}'ing scene of 
 joy. I saw nothing — I could see nothing to 
 mar it I would have despised and hated the 
 man who could speak a word to make me 
 doubt or suspect that Ellen could ever change, 
 or that tlie common crosses of life could ever 
 come between us and our perfect happiness. 
 It was all a wild and distempered vision, and 
 that portion of it has long since gone. I have 
 waked. 
 
 It was necessary that I should have passed 
 through all this, and wake as I did, that I might 
 know the insecurity of such air-built structures 
 as I had erected. The mind makes its own 
 ideal — the truth, the li\-ing and unchanging 
 real, is around us, not within. We should live 
 in the present alone, if we would be securely 
 happy ; I mean of course in things of the pres- 
 ent hfe. Thrice happy he who lives only in 
 the hope of the world beyond. 
 
 Ellen had been absent only a few weeks, 
 when I thought her letters grew colder ; but I 
 tried to make myself believe that it was only 
 caused by my own imagination, and I replied 
 with all the warmth of my full heart. But at 
 length I received one, the contents of which fell 
 upon my heart like molten lead. A portion of 
 it and the close read thus : — 
 
 " , I have been mistaken — do not call 
 
 it fickleness — for I feel now that I do not love 
 you. I know not what it was — the feeling that 
 I had — it might have been only respect and a 
 high estimation of your character, that I retain 
 still, and must ever retain. But let the past be 
 forgotten. Do not think me heartless in thus 
 withdrawing the vows I made. It will be for 
 
126 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 your happiness and for mine. Yours I cannot 
 b3. I sliould bs false to my own heart, and 
 make your life bitter, were I to conceal my real 
 feelings, and marry you, when I feel that I do 
 not love you as you wish to be loved. Forget 
 me then, and seek some more kindred heart to 
 make you happy." 
 
 My heart was crushed in an instant. Every 
 thought and hope had for months had but one 
 object to cling around, and for that one object I 
 had been ready to sacrifice every prospect of 
 life. I could have been willing with her to 
 have lived in the desert — alone with her, and 
 left society to linger on in its cold forms and 
 heartless friendships, while we, by ourselves, 
 would make a wilderness a paradise. If ambi- 
 tion witli its pride and promises ever presented 
 allurements to my mind, they were only accept- 
 ed and acted on that I might win laurels for her 
 to wear — that I might be the more worthy of 
 her love. Is there idolatry in this world now 
 equivalent to tliat in olden times ? Oh ! deny it 
 not, ye who, like me, have knelt and worshipped 
 at so unworthy an altar ! But the idol is bro- 
 ken. Henceforth, what to me was life — the 
 world — the countless objects that men struggle 
 and strive and coin their hearts for ? What 
 was ambition ? 
 
 In our youth we build such palaces, to see 
 them crushed and broken and ploughed down in 
 maturer age. Then we become wiser, and mock 
 at the very passions and feelings that we yield- 
 ed to and bowed down under before. The 
 causes of one man's sorrow may appear light to 
 another. Such is the constitution of our minds. 
 But none of us suffer alone. All have their 
 own allotment, and bear it ; some in silence, 
 smothering and stifling down sorrows under 
 which others quail and cry out in agony, or 
 yield and die — die by their own hand — mean 
 and cowardly in spirit, under tlie mask and garb 
 of proud manliness. " The heart knoweth its 
 own bitterness ;" and that is a silly egotism 
 which thinks its own grief the most severe. 
 
 I was a young man yet, scarcely thirty years 
 old ; but now I felt that my head had grown 
 gray immeasurably faster than the flight of 
 years, in a single hour. I found that years are 
 not always the measure of a man's life, but ex- 
 perience and suffering and pain. Some are old 
 in their very youth, and lie down, wayworn and 
 weary, and die— die of old age. The lifetime 
 of such is one of epochs, measured by each new 
 access of agony, and the consequent increased 
 gnyness of heart. A single hour of heart- 
 
 rending disappointment has made me almost 
 one of these. I could not work ; I could not 
 study ; I felt disposed to fly far and immediately 
 from the sight of man. But Ellen — my loved, 
 but heartless Ellen — ^when after a short time the 
 tliought of her returned, and the hopes and 
 promises I had made to myself of life with her, 
 I partially recovered from my shock. I would 
 see her — I would tell her that she did not know 
 the love she was casting away, and the misera- 
 ble wreck she was making. Perhaps it was 
 but a momentary thing, and by this time she 
 had repented and would return. I might yet be 
 happy. It did not seem possible that I could 
 have been thus deserted, and by her. 
 
 Almost unconsciously, I found myself on the 
 road to Boston. I could not travel fast enough. 
 I saw her — saw her in all her beauty, as she 
 was before she left home — the same in all but 
 her love. Now she did not offer me any hope ; 
 nay, when I urged my claim, and talked of the 
 past, with a cold and unfeeling smile she turned 
 away and left me. But I learned all from^a 
 faithful and sympathizing friend. She had be- 
 come gay, and mingled in the circles of the 
 proud and fashionable, and such a life, to her 
 unknown before, had weaned her away from 
 Nature, and the scenes and affections of her 
 former home. She had received attentions from 
 a man of fashion and enormous wealth, and 
 flattery had turned her young brain. O ! how 
 my heart told me then that in the coming days 
 she would turn back in the midst of folly and 
 neglect, to the scenes she had banished from hfer 
 mind, as she thought for ever, and sigh for the 
 true heart she had thrust from her and 
 crushed. 
 
 « * ~ * :fc * * 
 
 Say that I was an idiot, a fool ; tell me that 
 my manhood should have risen against my 
 folly, and borne down the agony of disappoint- 
 ment from a cause that is coupled, on the 
 tongue of the illiterate peasant and the learned 
 sage, witli ridicule and contempt ; tell me all 
 that the world has ever said with a sneer about 
 love and broken hearts. But I knew it all ; and 
 I write this to prove my folly, and that I was a 
 fool with my eyes open. Yet was I broken 
 down with the same burden that has bowed 
 down the spirits of thousands of prouder intel- 
 lects than mine. I know not why men make 
 this passion the object of their mirth. I know 
 not why I myself have spoken in scorn of being 
 under its influence. It is the passion which 
 subdues and conquers all our grosser propensi- 
 
THE DOCTOR'S STORY 
 
 127 
 
 ties, and ennobles every attribute of the soul. 
 But it sliould ever be held under the rule of 
 reason, or it becomes the lava in the volcano's 
 bosom, to burst forth in time a torrent of un- 
 controllable flame, to devastate the whole pow- 
 ers of the man in whose breast it reigns. 
 
 I do not claim to be superior to other men in 
 my power of enduring, and I bowed to the very 
 dust under the trial. I renounced my profes- 
 sion. Why should I follow it longer ? I had 
 sufficient wealth for my own uses, and hence- 
 forth I was to be alone. 1 had no one to live 
 for but myself — nothing. I am wniting now 
 the feelings I had at that time ; and although 
 they oflen cause me no little shame, they are 
 necessary in the narative, and to prepare the 
 way for coming events. I found aftenvards 
 that man is not so weak in such cases as he 
 thinks he is — that the mind has powers by 
 which it can rise above such strokes as that 
 which had fallen on me — that the wounds 
 which love makes in our hearts in our early 
 uianhood, are not mortal, and that, if not cher- 
 ished and kept open by constant thought of the 
 one trouble, as if life consisted all in one event, 
 and that one past, it were necessary to succumb 
 and die, the wound will become callous and 
 endurable, if it do not heal. But this was an 
 experience I was slow in acquiring. 
 
 I became a wanderer. Desolate in heart — 
 desiring no communion with man — suspicious 
 alike of love and friendship — tortured with my 
 own thoughts, and yet not desiring to be free 
 from them, I felt as if the world and I were 
 sworn enemies. Yet, doomed to live among 
 men, and unwilling to form new attachments 
 while I felt that I loved not, I sought relief in 
 change of place. I roved for months among 
 the sublime scenes of our own country. I 
 •ailed on her majestic rivers and the magnifi- 
 cent lakes of the west. My mind became 
 filled with all that was grand and beautiful in 
 nature — filled to satiety. Yet, mingling with 
 every scene, came the painful memory of the 
 past, and I often found myself thinking upon 
 the en'oyment I should feel if Ellen were by 
 my side to drink in with me the rich and varied 
 scenery through which I passed. Then I woke 
 from my dream, and in the anguish of my soul 
 hurried on— on, in search of relief. At length 
 I bega'.i to feel less reluctance to join with my 
 fellow-travellers in their admiration and re- 
 marks. I felt the need of some communion 
 with others. I looked into ray own heart, and 
 saw that I was fostering the very pain from 
 
 which I was seeking to flee, and then I resolved 
 to be a man — to trample down and crush the 
 feelings that gnawed at my heart — to be no 
 longer the fool I had been. Did I succeed ? 
 
 It needed another lesson to show me how 
 weak I was, and that lesson I was soon to learn. 
 With a large company of fellow-travellers, I 
 was returning, by the way of the lakes, from 
 the distant west. We stopped at Niagara, 
 where I had often been before, and each time 
 had found new matters for admiration and 
 pleasure. I stood again there — alone — for it is 
 no place for the communion of man with man, 
 where the Almighty speaks to the heart as he 
 does in the awful voice of the cataract. My 
 whole soul was filled, as it had often been be- 
 fore, with the immense grandeur of the place. 
 How profane would have sounded to my ear 
 the voice of mirth ! Yet such a voice was 
 there ; and as I started at the gay laughter of 
 an approaching party, I turned, and saw, lean- 
 ing on the arm of a proud and noble-looking 
 man, Ellen E 1. 
 
 O ! how there rushed forth upon my heart all 
 the torturing throng of memories I had just 
 began to teach myself to forget. Was it in 
 vain that I sought to avoid them, and must they 
 cling to me for ever ! Again was my foolish 
 heart bowed down in anguish and despair. 
 
 FA.RT n. 
 I spent two years in Europe in the hospitals 
 and schools of medicine, and returned an alter- 
 ed man. The honors of my former profession 
 rose up before my mind, and in the city of New 
 York I resolved to seek the fickle goddess. 
 Fame. My spirit had recovered its tone, and I 
 felt myself a man again. I hired a large house 
 in a fashionable part of the city, and furnished 
 it luxuriantly, for success here depended no 
 little upon external show. Business rapidly 
 accumulated, and my reputation rose rapidly, 
 both among the members of the profession and 
 in society at large. 1 had made up my mind to 
 live only for ambition — to be eminent as a phy- 
 sician, and I looked forward to the future as a 
 course where I was to find a sort of negative 
 happiness, only in incessant toil. I did not seek 
 wealth, for it was already mine by inheritance. 
 Still, my business now became a lucrative one, 
 and I added largely to my riches. I mingled 
 in society, because it was necessary in order to 
 win tiie esteem of men, and not because it had 
 any charms for me. In the active duties of my 
 profession and in my leisure hours, in intense 
 
128 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 application to study I found forgetfulness. But 
 I was unhappy. 
 
 I had been one evening to a brilliant party, 
 
 given by the fashionable Mrs. R 1, who at 
 
 5iat time was one of the leaders in the gay 
 world, and returning, was accompanying to her 
 
 house a lady, Mrs. L y, who lived a few 
 
 blocks out of my way, and who had dismissed 
 her carriage that she might walk home. The 
 night was very fine, and the full moon, then 
 nearly overhead, poured down a flood of soft 
 light through the streets, rendering every object 
 distinctly visible. We were talking of tlie 
 gayety of the evening party as we reached her 
 dwelling, when we discovered upon the steps 
 one of those miserable women who niglitly walk 
 the streets — the victim of vice and shame. My 
 companion accosted her sharply, and would 
 have driven her away, but she was evidently 
 unable to move, and groaned as if in pain. I 
 spoke' to her kindly, when the lady laughed at 
 my sympathy for the " wretch," and turning 
 away with a glance of contempt and self-ap- 
 proving pride, she entered the house. O ! how I 
 despised her I — how in my deepest soul I loath- 
 ed tlie creature who would thus turn away her 
 heart from the wretchedness and suffering and 
 woe of a fellow-mortal, and especially one of 
 her own sex ! 
 
 But it was fitting I should be left alone in this 
 errand of mercy. It was right that none other 
 should share with me the horrible scene througli 
 which I then passed. Yes — it was fortunate 
 tliat tlie proud and inunaculate wcanan, who left 
 me at die door, should thus have left me, and 
 not have been an eye-witness of the humiliating 
 event which there occurred. O 1 God, I thank 
 thee that I alone was there to do Uie errand of 
 tliy compassion — to lift up from the filth and 
 dust of her shame that forsaken and broken- 
 hearted one — that no eye saw me, and no otlier 
 cat but her's heard those words of kindness that 
 I spoke to her ! It was fitting,! say again, that 
 it should be so. And I did it — in the solitude 
 and silence of a midnight city. But I would 
 have done the same to her, if Uic broad and 
 bright glare of the sun had been shining as the 
 pale moon then shone, and the mid-day crowds 
 had stopped to look and laugh and point the 
 finger, and then passion — ay, if the whole living 
 world had stood by to scorn me, I would liave 
 carried her in my arms, as I did that night, to 
 my own home, and laid her upon my own bed, 
 that when hIic awoke from her dream of misery, 
 her eye might rest upon such objects as she 
 
 was accustomed to see when a sinless child. It 
 was most strange tliat all should have occurred 
 thus, and yet it ought not to have been other- 
 wise. 
 
 With what inexpressible agony and wretch- 
 edness of mind did I bow down that night, and 
 many an after night for years, through all whose 
 tedious and toilsome days and nights tlie mem- 
 ory of that one hour clung to me like a curse. 
 Tears, bitter and burning tears, did not quench 
 the flame ; and now, old as I am, there are times 
 when, alone and apart from all men, I pace the 
 floor of my own room for hours, and my uncon- 
 trollable mind gathers to itself the misery and 
 pain of that one bitter hour, and refuses to lie 
 comforted. 
 
 When the proud woman, whose s(5lf-ap- 
 proving virtue made her turn away in contempt 
 from her fallen sister, had entered her house, I 
 turned to the miserable object upon the door- 
 stone. She made no reply when 1 spoke to her, 
 and I took her hand to try and arouse her. The 
 hand was hot and dry and burning as I held it 
 in mine. She was evidently consuming with 
 fever and in great pain. I should have said 
 that her dress was squalid and filtliy in the ex- 
 treme, and too scanty to protect her against the 
 piercing cold of the night, and a wretched 
 hood covered her head and face, which, as 
 she sat, was buried between her knees. With 
 all the kindness of voice I could use, I tried to 
 arouse her, and at length she raised her head, 
 and looked in my face with a vacant stare. She 
 evidently did not comprehend a word I was say- 
 ing. The moon shone full upon her face, and 
 with horrible distinctness, that made my brain 
 giddy as I gazed, through all the filth and an- 
 guish and "enormous woe" that were traced in 
 deep lines upon every faded and guilt-worn fea- 
 ture, I recognized the countenance of my once 
 beautiful and too fondly loved Ellen E 1. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the wretched- 
 ness of my heart at the discovery. I raised 
 her from tlic stone — threw my cloak around her, 
 and with tlie strengtli of a giant I bore her 
 through the streets, nor did I stop to breatlie till 
 I had reached my own house, and laid her upon 
 my own bed. 
 
 Late as it was, I aroused Mrs. A., my house- 
 keeper, and bade her call another servant, and 
 come to my room. They were soon tlicre, and 
 the former, who is a woman of rare qualities 
 and virtues, entered at once into my sympatliies 
 with the case, though entirely ignorant of my 
 painful reasons. 
 
THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 129 
 
 I directed her to prepare the warm-bath in 
 the bathing-room, and place the suffering girl 
 in it, and afterwards to furnish her from her 
 own wardrobe such clothing as was necessaiy 
 for the night, and place her in my bed, while 
 
 one was prepared for me in another room. I 
 then retired to my library, while my orders 
 were being carried into effect, to enter in my 
 diaiy the following thoughts and history of 
 this to me painful case. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Life! what a mystery and problem is it! 
 What wonderful and unexpected reverses — 
 what strange and deeply mysterious changes 
 happen to us ! Why is it that, just at this mo- 
 ment, when I had shaken off the fetters of my 
 misery and despair, which for four years has 
 almost unfitted me to live, and was again be- 
 coming assimilated to my fellows, and looking 
 up and forward to the world and the future — why 
 is it now that this strange event has occurred to 
 revive the almost forgotten past, and harrow up 
 my soul with forgotten memories ? Why is it? 
 I cannot tell — I cannot foresee. Ellen was 
 mine — mine in her unsullied purity, in her first 
 womanhood — my pride and my hope. She is 
 now mine again — mine in all her guilt and 
 shame, and wretchedness and ruin ; my — what? 
 Alas ! the impassable bar to hope and love ! for 
 Oh ! how deeply I love still the Ellen I loved 
 before ; and now she is here, in my own house, 
 the poor, forsaken, homeless and friendless 
 thing, where she might have been the loved and 
 cherished mistress. No; not homeless nor 
 friendless ; for, fallen as she is, here is her home, 
 and a friend she shall never need while I live. 
 
 Yet for what is she here ? Why has the lot 
 of her redemption, if she may be saved, fallen 
 upon me ? Is it that my soul may again be 
 crushed, and life become the desert it has once 
 been before ? Or is it not rather to teach me, 
 what I have been so slow and unwilling to 
 learn, to look higher than earth for happiness, 
 and to feel that there is more — much more to 
 live for, than these selfish considerations, which 
 have thus far ruled my aims ? Let me then re- 
 ceive the admonition. 
 
 Oh ! what memories — what crowding mem- 
 ories ! How they form upon my brain ! The 
 past— how fearfully distinct are gathering about 
 me, at this moment, the buried joys and hopes 
 and promises of years gone by, with all the 
 vivid realities of their ruin. But they must be 
 banished. I must not suffer myself to be over- 
 
 come by them as I was once. I know my 
 strength, and can resist. Back, then, all ye tor- 
 turing remembrances ! The present only shall 
 be mine, and the future as it comes. 
 
 3 o'clock. — Mrs. A. came to inform me that 
 she had placed the patient in bed, and that I could 
 now see her. As I approached her door, my 
 heart beat as it did in former years, when in 
 her innocence I visited her at her father's 
 house, to talk of the future — alas ! how differ- 
 ent from its reality. 
 
 The care of Mrs. A. has produced a great 
 change in the personal appearance of Ellen. 
 She looks more like herself, but not the same — 
 oh ! no, not the same. She is delirious, and 
 talks incoherently ; and her eye, restless and 
 wandering, burns with a wild and dazzling 
 brightness. I was rejoiced that she did not 
 recognise me. And why should she ? Changed 
 as she is, she is not changed as I am ; and were 
 her senses clear, and her perception unclouded, 
 she could scarcely recognise me as the one she 
 had loved years ago. I knew before that my 
 appearance had altered much ; but 1 feel it more 
 now, as I sit by her bedside, and my too faithful 
 memory paints the living truth as I was — then. 
 I have tried to blot it out heretofore ; now I 
 cling to it, and love it as I did of old. What 
 conflicting thoughts trouble me ! But if she 
 hve, the time will come when she will know 
 me, and what will be its effects upon her ! 
 Anxious as I am to know, I must put off the 
 day as far as possible. 
 
 Kind Mrs. A. has urged me to retire to rest, 
 while she watches by the bedside of Ellen. But 
 I cannot sleep to night — I cannot leave her. I 
 have administered her medicines with my own 
 hand, as I did the first time I saw her. It is 
 another link to the past, which I cannot for- 
 get. 
 
 I have communicated to Mrs. A. the circum- 
 stances in which I found her, and that I had 
 recognised her as the daughter of an old friend. 
 
130 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 I cannot tell her all. That is only for me to 
 know, till Ellen wakes, and knows it too — 
 knows it as I feel she will, with deep remorse 
 and shame. I have also charged Mrs. A. not 
 to mention my name in her presence. 
 
 Friday morning. — We have spent the night 
 by Ellen's bedside, listening to her wild ravings, 
 and striving, sometimes even by force, to pre- 
 vent her doing injury to herself. Several 
 times when she was quiet, and talking, too, as if 
 in sleep, I thought I distinguished my name ; 
 and once I thought the house-keeper looked 
 at me with an inquiring eye ; but it passed in- 
 stantly away, and I do not think she noticed 
 anything. I may have been niistaken myself. I 
 have proposed to Mrs. A. this morning, that 
 she should go out after a nurse for the sick 
 girl, but she insists upon doing all herself, in 
 addition to her other duties. 1 am better satis- 
 fied with this arrangement, because I feel that 
 she will give all those sympathies to the sick 
 girl, with which her heart is so full, and which 
 money cannot purchase, and because all curi- 
 osity will thus be shut out. How many of 
 these lost children of vice might be saved, to live 
 in honor and usefulness ! or, if not saved to live, 
 might at least die with peace in their hearts 
 and heaven in their eye, if there were more such 
 women as Mrs. A. Ye forget, ye indignant 
 fair ones, who pride yourselves in your unspot- 
 ted virtue, and call yourselves Christians, that 
 Jesus did not turn away her who was more 
 abandoned than the miserable wretch ye spurn 
 from your door-stone, but 'spoke to her even 
 words of pardon and hope. I thank God that, 
 wronged as I have been, he has left abiding in 
 ray lieart that feeling for tliis girl which fills me, 
 lost and humbled as she is, with this earnest 
 desire lo sec her again restored to life and vir- 
 tue. Yet it seems like hoping when there is 
 no ho\)c., to look for her recovery under such 
 circumstances. She must have perished in the 
 street last night but for my opportune discovery 
 of her. Her disease is the result of lior life of 
 indulgence ajid dissipation, and is fearfully ag- 
 gravated by exposure and insufficient clotliing. 
 IIovv much she must have suffered of late ! And 
 last night, perhaps, she was driven out by 
 human fiends from her last miserable refuge — 
 to die. My mind follows her through all her 
 life of shame, and I sliudder. Why do I not 
 loathe and Bpum her as others do — I, to whom 
 bHo han been the cause of so much suffering ! 
 But I do not. No mother ever rejoiced over 
 the recovered child she had lost with more in- 
 
 tense joy than I now feel, that Ellen is once 
 more found, and that she is here. God only 
 grant, if she die, that her reason may return 
 first, so that she may look up to Him in her last 
 hour. 
 
 Evening. — When I had completed my round 
 of morning calls, as hastily as possible, I returned 
 home, and dispatched Mrs. A. to procure such 
 articles as Ellen was in need of. The disorder 
 still reigns in all its intensity, except that the 
 dehrium has somewhat abated in violence, and 
 is only manifested by a low muttering which 
 she makes incessantly. I tried to catch tlie 
 sound of her words, but they w'ere so inarticu- 
 late, as to render it for some time impossible. 
 But I did at length catch one distinctly — one 
 that sent a thrill down every nerve, and made 
 every pulse leap tumultuously. It was my 
 own name. T was not mistaken before when I 
 thought I heard her call it. She is living now 
 in the scenes of days gone by, when she was 
 innocent and pure ; and it is, pleasant to know 
 that even in delirium it is so, and that her visions 
 are unmingled with the sins of later years. 
 Oh! if they might be blotted out from her 
 memory for ever, as they seem to be now ! 
 
 A singular incident has occurred in my house- 
 hold tliis afternoon. The chambermaid, who 
 is a pretty young girl, and withal somewhat 
 vain of her personal charms, has given me 
 notice through Mrs. A. that she must leave 
 me. She assigns, as the reason, that " she is a 
 virtuous girl, and has always lived with people 
 who respected themselves ; and she always 
 thought Doctor M'G. was a better man than 
 to take such creatures into las house as the one 
 he brought home last night. There are places 
 enough to send them to, without bringing them 
 into the house with decent women ; and she 
 can't stay where such things are done." 
 
 There are men, and women too, who will 
 smile at the extreme scrupulousness of this girl 
 in humble life, as if such feelings were not just 
 the thing in her that they are in the higher 
 walks. But it is the morality of the world — 
 of all classes — of the proud woman who last 
 night scornfully spurned from her door-step my 
 poor and erring Ellen — the same proud and 
 contemptible morality, aped by this silly girl, 
 whose very pride and vanity may be the 
 cause, before a twelvemonth, of her falling just 
 a.' low. It is the outside morality that serves 
 to cover many a vice. 
 
 . I have just been in to see her again. 
 
 She still remains comparatively quiet, and takes 
 
■Itlt. DUU'lOK'b yrOKV. 
 
 131 
 
 her medicines without opposition. When I 
 came out, Mrs. A. followed me to the door, and 
 ?aid, in a whisper : 
 
 " I think she must have recognised you, 
 Doctor, for she mentions your name frequently, 
 and often seems to be talking with you, when 
 she calls yon by your first name." 
 
 " It may be possible" said I ; " but yet, we 
 cannot toll. At al! events, do not mention it 
 before her ; for if her reason should return, and 
 she wake to find herself in the house of an old 
 friend, under such circumstances, the sudden 
 discovery might bring on a fatal relapse. It is 
 more probable, however, that her mind is wan- 
 dering back to tlie time when I used to attend 
 her in her sickness at her father's house. Noth- 
 ing, you know, Mrs. A. would be more likely." 
 
 I said this to guard against any suspicions 
 that might arise in her mind as to the true state 
 of the case. It may become necessary for me 
 to tell her all ; but not now, nor till it shall be 
 unavoidable. If the world knew the secret of 
 my interest in Ellen, they would say that I was 
 guilty of her ruin, and my kindness was the re- 
 sult of my remorse. From my house-keeper I 
 do not fear such suspicions. Still, I would not 
 have her know it, for I feel a strange gratiiica- 
 tion in having it all to myself. 
 
 * :ti * * * lie * 
 
 I pass over more than a week, in which I 
 find in my diary only a record of my own feel- 
 ings from day to day. Through all tliis time 
 my patient continued much the same, exhibiting 
 no change for the better. She was less raging 
 in her delirium, but she did not sleep for a mo- 
 ment, while she seemed to be living over tlie 
 days of her girlhood again, and often would 
 smile and make some sudden exclamation which 
 brought her to my mind most forcibly, as slie 
 was when I first knew her. I tried to recollect 
 how her own chamber was furnished when I 
 saw her in her sickness at home, and I have 
 caused the room she now occupies to be fur- 
 nished, as near as I can remember, in tlie same 
 way, even to the most trifling articles ; so that 
 when she comes to herself, she may find every 
 thing aroimd her calculated to awaken the as- 
 Bociations of the past, and diminish the vividness 
 with which more recent scenes might crowd 
 upon her mind. I became, daily, more anxious 
 to see that crisis in her disease take place, 
 when, if only for a moment before she sank in 
 death, her dethroned reason would be restored, 
 and she would perhaps recognise the tokens of 
 her early life — perhaps, remember me. 
 
 Sunday evenivg. — This morning, seeing no 
 indications of improvement in my patient, I 
 
 called upon Drs. M and S s, men of 
 
 high standing in the profession, and who have 
 shown me many acts of regard since I have 
 been in the city, both of whom I have frequently 
 met at the bed of the sick, and requested them 
 to call at my residence, and give me the aid of 
 their skill in the treatment of a sick girl. They 
 were at the house precisely at ten o'clock. I 
 gave them a full history of the case, from tlie 
 hour in which she was brought home, and then 
 introduced them to the sick room. I felt a 
 momentary relief— an increased hope, as I 
 closed the door upon them, and retired to the 
 parlor to wait for the result of their delibera- 
 tions. This was soon known, and they pro- 
 nounced the case almost hopeless — coincided 
 with me entirely in my treatment, and advised 
 a perseverance in it. Dr. M left imme- 
 diately. S s remained a few moments, and 
 
 when he heard the sound of M 's carriage 
 
 departing, he seated himself in front of me, and 
 said: 
 
 " M'G , you are more interested in the 
 
 event of this girl's sickness than you wish to 
 have us know." 
 
 I knew that he was not the man to pry into 
 anotlier's secret thoughts merely from curiosity, 
 and I answered him candidly, that I felt a very 
 deep interest in it. 
 " And who is she ?" he inquired. 
 " The daughter of an old acquaintance," I 
 replied, with as much calmness as I could as- 
 sume. 
 
 " But the name, my dear sir ; will you not 
 tell me the name ?" 
 
 " His name was E 1, a resident of the 
 
 place where I first commenced practice." 
 
 " My suspicions told me as much," he re- 
 plied, as he rose, and with a face indicative of 
 deep feeling, walked across the room. 
 
 I was surprised, less at his manner than at 
 his words. But he did not give me time to ask 
 him if he knew liim, before he continued : 
 
 " You must suffer me henceforth to share 
 with you in the anxiety and care of your pa- 
 tient. I feel a strong interest in her. Her 
 mother was my sister, separated from her fam- 
 ily by circumstances which I cannot now re- 
 late ; and for her child I should, at least, feel 
 some of the affection which was unfortunately 
 estranged from the mother. I know the whole 
 history of your connection with her, and I re- 
 joice to find her here." 
 
i32 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 While we were discussing her condition, 
 and devising the best course to be followed in 
 the treaUnent of her disease, Mrs. A. came in 
 to announce that a change had taken place in 
 the appearance of her charge. We hastened 
 to her bedside, and were surjmsed to find her 
 sunk into a quiet sleep, while a gentle moisture 
 was perceptible on her forehead. I felt of her 
 pulse, and found that the fever had left her : 
 iier iiand was soft and moist. We looked at 
 one another with mutual congratulation, and, 
 with silent footsteps, left the apartment. My 
 
 heart was full, and S s saw it, and said, as 
 
 he pressed my hand at parting : 
 
 " You know she must be kept perfectly quiet 
 now — no emotion — let the nurse attend her till 
 I come again. I will be here at three o'clock." 
 
 The hour came, and with it my friend and 
 counsellor. In the mean time no change had 
 taken place. She still slept as peacefully as an • 
 infant, only now and then a shade, as if the 
 token of some painful dream, would cross her 
 face. We sat by her bedside more than two 
 hours, watching anxiously and somewhat fear- 
 fully for her to awake. The last rays of the 
 sun lingered in the room as she opened her 
 eyes, and looked around on those who stood by 
 her. They were all strangers — even me ehe 
 did not recognise, though her eye often turned 
 to my face with an appearance as if endeavor- 
 ing to rgcall something to her memoiy. She 
 opened her lips, as if to speak ; but my friend 
 enjoined silence upon her. 
 
 " You are among your friends," said he, 
 " and you will be well and anxiously cared for ; 
 but you must not speak till you are stronger. 
 Be satif-ficd that everjlhing will be done for 
 you, and trust us." 
 
 What was left undone by her former life has 
 been effectually done by her sickness ; and she 
 is now not even a shadow of her former self. 
 I could not have known her, if I had not seen 
 her till this time ; she is so faded and wasted 
 away by fever. Oh ! that the guilt and shame 
 of past years could be lost for ever, and its con- 
 Hequences to her and to me ! 
 
 Monday morning. — Ellen is considerably 
 revived this morning. I did not dare to see 
 
 her before the arrival of Doctor S s. We 
 
 entered the room together. Mrs. A. had spent 
 the night with her, and had strictly enforced 
 the BJlcnce iinponed, so that she was yet ignor- 
 ant an to the friends she wa.s with. As S s 
 
 approached her, and tenderly inquired how she 
 WM, »ho inquired, in a feeble voice : 
 
 " Where am I, Doctor ? What new friends 
 have taken up such a wretch as 1 ? This is too 
 much." 
 
 S s again assured her she was among 
 
 those who would take good care of her, but she 
 must be content to wait till she had recovered 
 more strength before she learned more. Mrs. 
 A. is worn out with watching and anxiety, and 
 a now nurse has been obtained to assist her. 
 God grant that our hopes may not be crushed 
 again ! 
 
 Evening. — A new incident has occurred to- 
 day, in connection with this case. I was called 
 
 in great haste, about noon, to see Mrs. L y, 
 
 the lady at whose door I had found Ellen on 
 that memorable night. W^hen I reached the 
 house, her husband was walking in the parlor, 
 apparently in great agitation, and could not, or 
 would not, answer my questions as to the 
 illness of his wife. On being shown to her 
 room, I found her laboring under a violent hys- 
 teric convulsion, through a constant succession 
 of which, the nurse informed me, she had been 
 passing all the morning ; but her husband 
 would not suffer tliem to summon any aid till 
 then. There was an air of mystery in all I 
 saw ; but, without waiting to satisfy my curios- 
 ity, I attended to my patient, and left the house. 
 
 I had hardly done so before the mystery was 
 solved. It was in the mouth of every acquaint- 
 ance I met. The lady had been detected, this 
 morning, in a long course of intrigue, in which 
 her name was coupled with some of the most 
 respectable men in tlie city. This afternoon it 
 is in the papers — without her name, of course ; 
 but the thing is so well known, tliat any one 
 can supply the omission. How irresistibly my 
 mind is carried back to the night on which she 
 spurned from her door an object more to be 
 pitied than herself ! How is her pride humbled 
 now ! how deeper her degradation, falling, as 
 she does, from the height on which she has 
 stood, with the world looking on to jeer at her 
 shame, and to be scorned and despised as she 
 scorned and despised Ellen ! And is such, 
 indeed, the world's morality ? Is virtue cover- 
 ed under a vail so thin and so easily blown 
 aside ? God forbid that I should believe it ! 1 
 know there is true virtue and truth in woman 
 — that the hearts that loved us and tended us 
 through all the helpless years of childhood, and 
 bore witii us in all our waywardness — that the 
 gentle and kind sisters who grew up by our 
 side, and made us, by their holier Impulses, the 
 better men that wo became in after years — I 
 
THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 133 
 
 know that they are true and good, and the 
 memory of their early love and their later truth 
 clings to us in our maturer years ; and, abiding 
 ever in our hearts, blots out the unholy sus- 
 picions tliat would creep into our minds, and 
 poison our thoughts, when the proud and unre- 
 strained passions of others give them over to 
 guilt and shame. We are all bad enough to 
 feel some pity, at least, for the errors of others. 
 
 When I returned from my visit to Mrs. L y, 
 
 I found Doctor S s waiting for me. He 
 
 smiled as I entered, arid his words startled me 
 at first. By a singular oversight, I had neg- 
 lected to tell the new nurse that Ellen must be 
 kept ignorant as to whose house she was in ; 
 and she had discovered the truth, and now was 
 in extreme agitation, insisting upon seeing me 
 
 immediately. S s had informed her that I 
 
 was absent, but that I would see her as soon 
 as I returned. I dreaded the inter\'iew ; for, 
 with all my anxiety for her recovery, I had 
 formed no definite views as to the future, nor 
 what my feelings would be when she should 
 see me and know me again. But, cominced 
 that now the discovery had been made, her agi- 
 tation, in anticipation of a meeting, would do 
 her more injury than the feelings produced by 
 the meeting itself, I did not hesitate. 
 
 The nurse left the room as I entered it. We 
 were alone together again ; but, Oh ! how dif- 
 ferent our meeting now from what it had been 
 years before ! I stood by her bedside, and 
 looked at her pale and sunken face, while, with 
 hands clasped and extended, she gazed at me 
 with tearful eyes, as if to find, in the altered 
 man who stood by her, something to remind her 
 of what I had once been. For a little while, 
 neither uttered a word. At length, with all 
 the calmness I could assume, I pronounced her 
 name : 
 
 " Ellen, I am here." 
 
 " Oh, Charles !" she exclaimed, with a voice 
 of indescribable anguish ; " Charles, this is 
 you then ?" and she covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 " Yes, Ellen, it is I. But you must be calm. 
 
 Compose yourself, and " 
 
 " No, no ; I must speak now, if it causes my 
 death. I am in your house, and you do not 
 curse me." 
 
 " Curse you ? Oh, no, no ; never could I 
 curse her who has been for years in my mem- 
 ory — ^the vision of a day of happiness, though 
 long since wrecked and gone." 
 " Yes, wrecked by me, who deserve all your 
 
 hate and contempt, instead of this kindness. I 
 cannot bear this. This is no place for me. I 
 pollute your house while I stay. You do not 
 know the WTetch you have saved from death. 
 Better had you left me to die in my misery and 
 shame, ignorant of each other, than to bring 
 me back to life, to feel how lost I am, and how 
 very \\Tetched I have made you. But I must 
 tell you all while 1 have strength " 
 
 " No, Ellen," I interrupted her, " you need 
 tell me nothing. I have guessed all, since you 
 have been here ; and all I ask now is, that you 
 will be calm till you are better, and then we 
 can talk of it." 
 
 " I caimot be calm while I feel how I have 
 wronged you, and your undesened return. 
 And can it be that, after all I did, you have not 
 forgotten me, and do not hate me ?" 
 
 It was only by the utmost self-control, that I 
 could subdue my feelings, and, for a moment, I 
 could not reply. 
 
 " Oh ! it is so," she continued. " It could 
 not be otherwi.se. You do despise and hate 
 me." 
 
 I could restrain myself no longer. That 
 look and tone of utter heart-abandonment and 
 despair went to my soul. I told her the whole 
 history of my life since she deserted me — how, 
 for years, I had been a homeless wanderer, 
 without object or aim in life ; and yet, how, 
 through all the darkness and despair of those 
 years, our love had been the only dream of my 
 memory, and formed the one bright spot in the 
 past, to which I could turn and be refreshed — 
 how it was my dream yet, that would not de- 
 part. I told her how I had first found her, an 
 outcast and downtrodden one, and how I knew 
 her and rescued her ; but I did not tell her' how 
 that same love of former times burned in my 
 heart yet, though hopeless, as if buried in the 
 deep grave. That she saw and knew, and felt 
 it in her heart of hearts ; for now was come to 
 her the hour of penitence and remorse and 
 deep humiliation, and she loathed herself. 
 
 The scene was too much for her, and she 
 fainted. I rang the bell, and was answered by 
 Doctor S 3, who, apprehensive of the result 
 of our interview, had not left the house. By 
 the aid of powerful restoratives, she was 
 revived, and left in the care of the nurse, with 
 directions not to suffer any conversation, nor 
 any thing to agitate the patient. An hour 
 afterward, I called at the door, and she had 
 just sunk into a quiet sleep. 
 
134 
 
 THE POET'S HEART. 
 
 Let me relate the sequel, as I remember it 
 now, after many years of my solitary life. On 
 tlie day following my last date, I had another 
 interview with Ellen, in the presence of my 
 
 friend S s, whom I had made known to her 
 
 us her relation. Filled with deep humiliation 
 and shame for the past, and hearty gratitude for 
 our care, she told us the history of her life, 
 since she became lost to me. It was one of 
 foul treachery and desertion, on the part of the 
 man whose wiles had deceived her young and 
 inexperienced heart, till she woke to find her- 
 self forsaken and cast off by liim. She then 
 learned, from her own bitter experience, how 
 she liad forfeited a love that would have glo- 
 ried in her, for the shame she now felt. She 
 turned again to the memory of her first love, 
 and then found how she had deceived herself, 
 when she told me that she had never loved me. 
 She did ; but she felt now that there was no 
 hope ; that I would despise and spurn her, if 
 she came to me ; yet she did write to me, and 
 confessed all she suffered and deserved to 
 snffer. That letter I never received. Hope- 
 less and in despair, she had then plunged deeper 
 in shame and sin, till she became what I found 
 her. With what tears of penitence did she tell 
 her btory, and mingle her self-contempt with 
 her gratitude to us ! 
 
 She continued slowly to recover, after this ; 
 and, as she was able, Mrs. A. directed her 
 mind to the hopes of religion, and pointed her 
 to those holy and pure principles of life, which 
 are found only in the Bible, and which, faith- 
 fully received, cheer and elevate and purify the 
 soul. Under this influence, the darkness of 
 was removed from her mind, and, 
 
 though she stil! fel*. herself to be an outcast on 
 earth, yet she learned to hope for the world be- 
 yond. As soon as she was able, she was re- 
 moved to the house of her uncle, Dcclor 
 
 S s, where she was received with the 
 
 greatest kindness by his family. Here, too, I 
 often saw her— often talked with her, for hours, 
 of the past, which we learned to look upon with 
 a calm regret. Yet how often did I return to 
 my solitary chamber, to pass sleepless nights in 
 tears and agony on my desolation ! Was I 
 weak and foolish ? Be it so. Yet such I was ; 
 clinging, with all my heart, to the one affectioji. 
 blighted and ruined as it was. 
 
 Spring opened ; and, when the green leaves 
 first began to burst out from their young buds, 
 and Nature to put on her. smiles, Ellen wished 
 to go into the country. It was another indica- 
 tion of a return of her heart to its former purity. 
 A pleasant spot on the bank of the Hudson 
 was chosen, and there she went. It became 
 her home, and in that peaceful retreat she lived 
 for years, making an occasional visit to her 
 friends in the city. But, once in every month, 
 I went to see her, and continued to do so till 
 last year. With the fall of the leaves she died 
 — died peacefully. I was with her through tlie 
 short illness which terminated her hfe, and I 
 closed her eyes for her last long sleep, and saw 
 her laid in the village church-yard. 
 
 My story is done. Through all these years 
 have I walked in this lonely dream. Bound to 
 a dear ideal, from which it has been impossible 
 to separate myself, yet happy in tliis, that, lost 
 as Ellen was, and miserable as my life has 
 been, it was my lot to restore her to virtue, and 
 to see her die in peace. 
 
 771 
 J. 
 
 H! IP(DIilf^S ElEAiaf 
 
 Abk never for the poet's lot, 
 
 Ask never for liid heart. 
 Unless, bereft of sympathy, 
 
 Thou'dst walk tlie earth apart. 
 
 Among tlie woods, beside the streams, 
 
 In bliss he thinks aloud ; 
 But wearily, oh wearily 
 
 He sitH among the crowd. 
 
 The look of scorn, the look of pride, 
 That other men heed not, 
 
 Falls on the poet's heart a blow 
 For ever un forgot. 
 
 Alone among the loving birds. 
 Beneath the ancient tree. 
 
 Among the dumb, delicious flowers, 
 A blessed man is he. 
 
 But in the jostle of the crowd, 
 
 In pain he stands apart ; 
 If thou must live on sympathy, 
 
 Ask not the poet's heart. 
 
CONVERSION OF ST. PAUL. 
 
 135 
 
 (B(DKr¥]gmSI[(DH ©IP Sf, IPAWHi, 
 
 The evening twilight was fast melting into 
 darkness. " Pharphar, the golden stream," the 
 river of Damascus, which had glowed as it re- 
 flected the crimson sky from which the sun 
 had lately disappeared, now presented to the 
 eye only the cold leaden hue which night gives 
 to its clear blue waters. Even the rich foliage 
 of the beautiful forest trees, which bordered 
 the long wide street, called Straight, seemed to 
 have lost its freshness ; and the low moaning 
 caused by the wind as it swept through their 
 boughs, had nothing of hope in its sad voice. 
 The streets of Damascus were by no means 
 deserted. Men were hurrj'ing to and fro ; 
 women, whose faces were carefully shaded by 
 the long vails which they wore, swept tlie 
 ground with their garments ; and youth of va- 
 rious sizes passed gayly along, talking, as they 
 walked, of the exciting news which they had 
 lately learned. Yet it was evident, even to a 
 stranger, that all were not elated by the com- 
 munication which had excited such general in- 
 terest. Bold men appeared very sad ; and one 
 covered his face with the comer of his robe. 
 Women wept, as they passed silently along ; 
 and young children cried aloud from sympa- 
 thy, though they knew not the cause of their 
 distress. 
 
 A stranger, who had entered Damascus at 
 midday, had brought the intelligence that three 
 horsemen were approaching the city, of one of 
 whom fame had spoken loudly. Learned in all 
 the wisdom of the Jewish doctors, full of cour- 
 - age and zeal, he stood forth to the whole na- 
 tion as the defender of the religion of his 
 fathers, the avenger of the ancient faith, and 
 the cruel persecutor of all who had forsaken it. 
 There could be no doubt as to his object in 
 visiting Damascus ; for the stranger had said 
 that he was armed with authority, from the 
 priests, to seize both men and women, and 
 commit them to prison. Nor was it certain 
 that he would stop at this; for it was well 
 known that he had lately assisted in stoning to 
 death a youth who had boldly declared to his 
 
 fellow-countrymen that Jesus was their Mes- 
 siah. 
 
 Morning came ; the sun had not yet risen ; 
 and the mists of night still lay heavily on hill 
 and river. All was silent in Damascus, as if 
 life had become extinct ; not a footstep was 
 heard treading that deserted street, which had 
 only a few hours before been so thronged. 
 The reveller in his brother's misery, the 
 thoughtless youth, who, without malice, was 
 yet willing to see others suffer, because he 
 loved excitement, and the cruel bigot still slum- 
 bered. 
 
 The Christian wept before his God in his 
 secluded chamber, and strove to pray, tliough 
 prayer rose from a heart bowed in hopeless 
 agony. So certain seemed his fate tliat faith 
 could find nothing to lay hold upon, and the 
 most trusting pra}'ed only for strengtli to die 
 — for grace to leave his fatherless children to 
 God. 
 
 But who are these, walking so slowly and 
 carefully, in the cool of the morning, along the 
 still deserted street ? Their garments are soiled 
 with dust, and they have the seeming of wea- 
 ried travellers : one is evidently blind, for his 
 companions are leading him. Can this be the 
 bold man, whose coming has been regarded 
 with so much dread ? What power hath 
 transformed this man of blood into a httle 
 child ; for his mien no longer expresses pride, 
 and his eagle eye is dimmed ? What hatli so 
 changed him ? It is the touch of the Almighty, 
 that hath transformed the lion into a lamb. As 
 the sun burst in splendor on the gladdened 
 earth, the Christians of Damascus had gazed on 
 him as upon a friend whom they might see no 
 more. But when that familiar friend had, like 
 a giant, run his race, and sunk again beneath 
 the waters, their remorseless enemy had not 
 yet appeared. 
 
 Strange rumors were afloat : some said that 
 he had come within the city gates ; others that 
 he had fallen sick upon the road, and others still 
 declared that he had only lingered to make bis 
 
136 
 
 CONVERSION" OF ST. PAUL. 
 
 cruel work more eure, while others averred 
 that the a.xe was held suspended only that the 
 blow might prove more fatal. Thus passed 
 three days, and yet the truth could not be 
 fully learned. Christians felt that God had 
 protected them, but yet they had not gained 
 the power to pray with faith. Hope glim- 
 mered in the breasts of some, fear prepon- 
 derated in tlie hearts of others, and all still 
 dreaded their terrible enemy. They had not 
 many days before received letters from the 
 bretliren in Jerusalem, giving them an account 
 of the awful, yet glorious death of the martyr 
 Stephen, while it painted in glowing colors the 
 malice of their cruel persecutor Saul. 
 
 Damascus, though regarded at this time with 
 little favor by the emperors of Rome, still re- 
 tained its ancient beauty. Its golden river 
 Pharphar, watered the great plain, known for 
 many centuries as the " orchard of Damascus," 
 and rolled as proudly towards the sea, as when 
 a Syrian monarch swayed his sceptre over the 
 greatest kingdom of the world. The haughty 
 Assyrian, and the no less haughty Jew, lived 
 in peace together, held in subjection by a 
 mightier power, for they were now the meek 
 vassals of Rome. The fires of jealousy which 
 had so long burned in the heart of each, had 
 been quenched in a sea of blood. The lofty 
 fane of Diana* stood with its ever -open door, to 
 invite the passing stranger to step aside and 
 worship, while by its side rose the modest house 
 of prayer, sacred to Jehovah. All were tolerated 
 by the liberal indifference of their masters. 
 
 But what hatli drawn these crowds to tlie 
 synagogue ? Strange tidings have reached the 
 ears of those who frequent that holy place. Saul 
 the persecutor entered the house of prayer be- 
 fore the day had dawned, and in tones of elo- : 
 quence, such as hath seldom sounded in mortal i 
 ear, is proving that Jesus is their long-expected i 
 king. I 
 
 O, how these tidings have melted the hearts ' 
 of those faithless Christians, those who had not i 
 
 ♦Heathen temples were usually left open during ' 
 the whole day, that strangers might enter, or bow ; 
 to the god as they paued. 
 
 strength enough to pray for deliverance, and 
 whose tongues faltered at the thought of ask- 
 ing for the conversion of their dreaded persecu- 
 tor ! God, who hath ever granted larger favors 
 to his fainting Church than she hath dared to 
 ask, has turned their pitiless enemy into an 
 apostle of truth. He who had come to Damas- 
 cus with authority to apprehend all who were 
 called by this name, has listened meekly to him 
 who was sent to tell how great things he must 
 suffer for the sake of Christ. The Christians 
 who have entered that house of prayer, while 
 they drink in the glorious truths which are fall- 
 ing from his lips, almost fear to raise their eyes, 
 and look upon the murderer of Stephen. While 
 the Jews, who had ran thither to behold the man 
 of blood, were confounded when they listened 
 to his words, and heard him proving that this is 
 the very Christ. So appalled were the Jews 
 to hear, from the lips of him who destroyed 
 those which called on this name in Jerusalem, 
 the wonderful narration of what had befallen 
 him, that many have been persuaded that Jesus 
 is the Christ, and of the others for many days 
 not a dag durst lift his tongue. 
 
 At length their minds became familiarized to 
 the strange history ; they had heard how Jesus 
 had appeared to him in the way, and put to 
 him the thrilling question : " Why persecutest 
 tliou me ?" They had seen that he who perse- 
 cuted in times past, now preached the faith 
 which he once destroyed ; but they were no 
 longer affected by it, for the most awful mani- 
 festations of grace or terror, are soon effaced 
 from the unregenerate heart. Paul had proved 
 tliat Jesus was the very Christ, and those who 
 could not reply to his arguments, were wearied 
 with listening to his appeals. The Jews took 
 counsel to kill him. They wutched day and 
 night at those gates, which had opened so 
 readily to admit the persecutor, that they might 
 cut short the course of this bold defender of 
 the faith, even as he had that of tlie martyr 
 Stephen. But those who had once feared to 
 look upon him, now strove to protect him. 
 
ENGLISH CITIES. 
 
 137 
 
 irf(iILI[gIEI (BH^IEIIS 
 
 BY J. T. HEADLEY, 
 
 It is only eigliteen miles from Coventry to 
 Birmingham, and by the great London and Liver- 
 pool railway the distance is made in forty min- 
 utes. So, just at evening, myself and friend 
 jumped in the cars, and soon found ourselves 
 amid the tall chimnies of this great manufactur- 
 ing city of England. It is useless to repeat the ; 
 story of factory life, or describe over again for ; 
 the fortieth time,the sickly children and girls who 
 spend their days (few enough) at the looms and 
 in the unhealthy apartments of those immense 
 cotton-mills. Money is coined out of human 
 life ; and degradation, and want, and misery are 
 the price this great kingdom pays for its huge 
 manufacturing cities. 
 
 But one thing in my hotel struck me espe- 
 cially. It is well known, notwithstanding the 
 complaints of English travellers of our love of 
 money, that next to Italy, England is the most 
 dishonest countjy in the world to travel in. The 
 hackman cheats you, — the landlord cheats you* 
 and the servants cheat you. You are fleeced 
 the length and breadth of the kingdom. Such 
 outraores as you are compelled to submit to 
 would not be tolerated for a moment in the Uni- 
 ted States. You are not only charged enor- 
 mously for your board, but are compelled to 
 make up the servants' wages — each man pay- 
 ing^such a sum that servants give the landlord 
 a large price for their places, demanding nothing 
 for their labor. In travelling, you not only pay 
 your fare, but every time tlie horses are chang- 
 ed, or once in fifteen or twenty miles, are ex- 
 pected to give the driver an English shilling, or 
 about twenty-five cents our money. But this 
 landlord of Binriingham was none of your swin- 
 dlers — he scorned to fleece travellers — and 
 would have no one in his house who practised it. 
 So he had regulations printed and neatly framed 
 hung up in the apartments, on purpose, it was 
 stated, to prevent those who stopped at his house 
 from being imposed upon. Servants were not 
 allowed to demand any thing, and it was contra- 
 ry to the rules of the house to charge more than 
 
 four shillings (a dollar) for a bed, the same for 
 dinner and breakfast ; or, in other words, it was 
 not permitted to ask more than about four dol- 
 lars a day from any person, unless he had ex- 
 tras. I could not but exclaim, as I turned to- 
 wards my bed — " Honest man ! how grateful 
 travellers must feel for tlie interest you take in 
 their welfare ! No cheating here ; and one can 
 lay his head on his pillow in peace, knowing 
 that in the morning there will be no trickery in 
 the account — a dollar for his sleep, a dollar for 
 his breakfast, and he can depart in peace ! 
 
 The approach to Liverpool through the tunnel 
 is any thing but pleasant — this subterranean 
 travelling is unnatural — it seems a great dea. 
 worse to be killed under ground than in the dear 
 air of heaven, and beneath the calm quiet sky. 
 Liverpool is an unpleasant city to stop in ; yet, 
 before I embarked, I was compelled to spend a 
 month there. I will not describe it ; I do not 
 like to describe cities — they are simply a con- 
 fused heap of houses, an endless web of streets. 
 One day as I was sauntering along, I saw in a 
 stairway leading to the second floor, a man two- 
 thirds drunk — dressed like a clown, with a sin- 
 gle feather in his cap, and a monkey hopping to 
 and from his shoulder. Holding on to a rope, 
 and swinging backwards and forwards on the 
 steps in his drunkenness, he kept bawling out to 
 the passers by, " Walk up, gentlemen — only a 
 penny a piece — the tallest woman in tlie world, 
 besides Oliver Cromwell, Queen Elizabeth, 
 Henry the VIII., and other great men, large as 
 life — only one penny a sight — well worth the 
 money. Walk up, gentlemen !" It was such 
 an out-of-the-way-looking hole, and withal such 
 a comical advertisement, that I presented my 
 penny, and " walked up" and sure enough there 
 was a woman seven feet high, towering head 
 and shoulders above me. She was slender, 
 which, with her female apparel, that always ex- 
 aggerates the height, made her appear a greater 
 giantess even than she was. I could not believe 
 my eyes, and suspected there was some trickery 
 
138 
 
 ENGLISH CITIES. 
 
 practiced, and told the exliibitor so. He immedi- 
 ately requested her to sit down, and take off her 
 shoes and stockings, and then asked me to feel 
 of her feet and ankles. I did so, and found that 
 they were actually bone and muscle. But, to 
 use a western phrase, she was " a tall speci- 
 men," and I came to the conclusion I had seen 
 three of tlie most remarkable women in the 
 world. First, a French woman who weighed 
 sir hundred and twenty-four pounds — a moun- 
 tain of flesh ; second, an Italian without arms? 
 who could write, thread a needle, embroider, 
 sketch, load and fire a pistol with her toes, and 
 last of all, tliis English girl, seven feet high, or 
 thereabouts. 
 
 Another day, as I was passing along a bye 
 street, I heard some one singing, and soon after 
 a man in his shirt sleeves emerged into view, 
 leading four children — two on each side — and 
 singing as he approached. He took the middle 
 of tiie street — the children carrying empty bas- 
 kets — and thus traversed the city. I soon dis- 
 covered that he was a beggar, and this was his 
 mode of asking alms. With his head up, and 
 a smile on his countenance, he was singing 
 at the top of his voice, something about a happy 
 family. At all events, the burden of his strain 
 was the happiness he enjoyed with his children : 
 how pleasant their home was for the love that 
 dwelt in it, &c. He did not speak of his poverty 
 and sufferings, or describe the starvation in his 
 hovel, but taking a different tack, solicited cha- 
 rity on the ground that people ought to keep 
 such a happy family in the continued possession 
 of their happiness. Where begging is so com- 
 mon, imposture so frequent, and men's hearts 
 have become so steeled against the pitiful tale 
 and the haggard face, the appearance of suffer- 
 ing accomplishes but little ; and I could not but 
 admire the man's ingenuity in thus striking out 
 a new path for himself. Still, it was pitiful to 
 watch him — it seemed such an effort to appear 
 happy, and the hungry-looking children at his 
 side, though trained to their task, and wearing 
 bright faces, seemed so way-worn and weary. 
 I followed their footsteps with my eyes till they 
 turned an angle of the street, and as their voices 
 died away in the distance, I fell into one of my 
 fits of musing on life, its strange destinies, and 
 the unfathomable mystery attaclied to the un- 
 equal distribution of good and evil in it. Alas ! 
 how different is the same man^that is, tlic out- 
 ward man. Circumstances have placed one on 
 a throne, and hia heart is haughty, his glance 
 defiant, and his spirit proud and overbearing. 
 
 Misfortune has placed another in poverty and 
 want, and he crouches at your feet — solicits, 
 with trembling hands and eyes full of tears, a 
 mere moiety for his children. Injustice, abuse, 
 contempt, cannot sting him into resistance or 
 arouse his wrath. With his manhood all bro- 
 ken down, he crawls the earth, the bye- word 
 and jest of his fellows. Yet life to him is just 
 as solemn as to the monarch, — it has the same 
 responsibilities, the same destinies. That hum- 
 bled and degraded spirit will yet stand up in all 
 its magnificent proportions, and assert its rank 
 in the universe of God. The heap of rags will 
 blaze like a star in its immortality — and yet that 
 unfortunate creature may struggle and suffer 
 through this life, and enter on another only to 
 experience still greater unhappiness. The 
 ways of Heaven are indeed dark and beyond 
 the clouds. 
 
 INIy friend left me at Liverpool, and took the 
 steamer for Dublin, where I promised, in a few 
 days, to meet him. I wished to make the land 
 route through North Wales, and then cross 
 over the Channel. Crossing the Mersey in a 
 ferry-boat, I took the cars for the old city of 
 Chester, lying on the confines of England and 
 Wales. This ancient town, wliich has borne 
 such a part in the history of England, stands 
 just as it did centuries ago. The same immense 
 wall surrounds it that guarded it in knightly 
 days. It environs the entire place, and is so 
 broad that the top furnishes a fine promenade 
 for three abreast. Towards evening I wandered 
 without the walls, and strolled away towards 
 the banks of the Dee. It was a lovely after- 
 noon for England — the sky was clear, and the 
 air pure and invigorating. A single arch is 
 sprung across the stream, said to be one of the 
 largest in the world. It is a beautiful curve, and 
 presents a picturesque appearance, leaping* so 
 far from one green bank to another. Along the 
 shore, winding through the field, is a raised 
 embankment, covered with green turf for a 
 promenade. Along this, ladies and gentlemen 
 were sauntering in groups, while here and 
 tliere a'fisherman was casting his line. It was 
 a lovely scene — there on the quiet banks of the 
 Dee, and in full view of the old walls of Ches- 
 ter, I sat down under a tree, and thought long 
 and anxiously of home. It is always thus — in 
 the crowded city, and turmoil and hurry of tra- 
 vel, one almost forgets he has a home or far- 
 distant friends — but a single strain of soothing 
 music, one quiet night, or one lonely walk, 
 brings them all back to him, and ho wonders 
 
LINES. 
 
 139 
 
 tliat lie ever left them for boisterous scenes. 
 Oiie hour we are all energy and will — wishing 
 for a field of great risks and great deeds, and 
 feci confined and straitened for want of greater 
 scope and freer action — the next we feel lost in 
 the world of active life around us — utterly un- 
 equal to its demands on our energies, and thirst 
 only for a quiet home and more tranquil enjoy- 
 ments. The land of my birth looked greener 
 to me there, on the banks of the Dee, than ever 
 before — and the wide waste of waters never so 
 wide and so unfriendly. 
 
 At sunset I took the stage-coach for the 
 western coast of Wales. I travelled till mid- 
 night, and then stopped to make the rest of the 
 route along the north shore by daylight. A 
 little Welsh inn received me, the landlady of 
 which, in return for my politeness to her, se- 
 cured me a seat next day in the coach, which I 
 otherwise should have lost. She had been ac- 
 customed to the haughty bearing of English- 
 men, and though I treated her with only the ci- 
 vility common in my own country, it seemed so 
 uncommon to her, that she asked me where I 
 resided. She seemed delighted when I told her 
 in America, and the next morning prevailed on 
 
 the driver to give me a scat, though he had told 
 me the coach was full. 
 
 I had read much of Wales, and had obtained, 
 when a boy, very extravagant ideas of the wild- 
 ness of its scenery from Mrs. Hemans's poems. 
 It did not occur to me that I had just come from 
 the Alps, the grandest scenery on the globe, 
 and hence should prepare for disappointment ; 
 but expected to be astonished with beetling crags 
 and lofty mountains, until at last Snowdon 
 crowned the whole, as Mont Blanc does the 
 peaks that environ him. I never stopped to ques- 
 tion my impressions, nor inquire when or where 
 I derived them ; and hence was wholly unpre- 
 pared for the diminutive hills that met my gaze. 
 One must never form a notion of a cataract or 
 a mountain from an Englishman's description 
 pf it. Living on an island and in a rolling 
 country which furnishes no elevations of mag- 
 nitude, and hence no large streams, he regards 
 those relatively large of immense size. Still, 
 the north coast of Wales presents bold and 
 rugged features ; and with its old castles 
 frowning amid the desolate scenery — gray as 
 the rock they stand on — is well worth a visit. 
 But these I will reserve for another time. 
 
 iLinEfiiis 
 
 On an Incident observed froai the deck of a steamboat on the Mississippi river. 
 
 Where the dark primeval forests 
 Rise against the western sky, 
 
 And " the Father of VV^aters " 
 In his strength goes rushing by : 
 
 There an eagle, flying earthward 
 From liis eyrie far above, 
 
 With a serpent of the forest 
 In a fierce encounter strove. 
 
 Now he gains and now he loses, 
 Now he frees his ruffled wings ; 
 
 And now high in air he rises ; 
 But the serpent round him clings. 
 
 In that death embrace entwining, 
 Now they sink and now they rise ; 
 
 But the serpent wins the battle 
 With the monarch of the skies. 
 
 Yet his wings still struggle sunward. 
 Though that crushing weight they bear; 
 
 But more feebly those broad pinions 
 Strike the waves of upper air. 
 
 Down to earth he sinks a captive 
 In that writhing, living chain ; 
 
 Never o'er that blue horizon 
 
 Will his proud form sweep again. 
 
 Never more in lightning flashes 
 
 Will his eye of terror gleam 
 Round the high and rocky eyrie, 
 
 Where his lonely eaglets scream. 
 
 Oh, majestic, royal eagle. 
 
 Soaring sunward from thy birth. 
 
 Thou hast lost the realm of heaven 
 
 For one moment on the earth ! A. C I 
 
110 
 
 CARLYLE AND HIS IMITATORS. 
 
 (DAmiljYE,]! AHIG) HUS lEMIT'irAf ©IS, 
 
 One of the oddest specimens of humanity now 
 ^guring in this planet, take him altogether, is 
 Thomas Carltle. Say what you will about 
 him, he is a psychological curiosity — a sort of 
 lusus naturcc — if we may be allowed to dip up a 
 couple of spoonfuls from the somewhat turbid 
 waters of schools. We have been vexed with 
 him a hundred times at least, during our journey 
 in his company through a single duodecimo vo- 
 lume, for the manner in which he breaks up the 
 Anglo-Saxon language, and hurls its fragments 
 at our head, as a volcano belches out red-hot 
 stones and lava. Nevertheless, we cannot say 
 we bear the honest old Goth any lasting malice, 
 for aU that. Nay, we are not quite sure but " at 
 bottom," as he would say, we like him pretty 
 well, with all his unpardonable antics. His 
 mind does not act like other people's minds. Its 
 machinery is constituted on a different principle. 
 The economy of intellectual motion, so to speak, 
 is different in his mind. We have never wor- 
 shipped him, aa some have. We are indeed no 
 hero-worshiper. That the philosophy of this 
 singular man is sometimes defective, perhaps 
 worse than defective, we will not deny. Then 
 his style is not our style, nor any one's else, for 
 that matter, but his own. There are peculiari- 
 ties in the man's method of literary locomotion, 
 often, which are awkward enough. He does 
 not travel the turnpike-road always ; and when 
 he docs, he occasionally has a Mazeppa of a 
 horse to ride — a horse not half so tame and gen- 
 tle as some nags we wot of who toil in a bark- 
 mill. Apropos of these same bark-mills, there 
 are a host of them, and a great many kind and 
 gentle horses seem to bo necessary to turn them. 
 But, as we were saying a moment ago, we have 
 no idols, and if we had, perhaps Thomas Carlyle 
 would not be one of them. Nevertheless, we 
 venture to say, that we like the quaint old man. 
 We are seldom in his company, without being 
 interested and instructed. 
 
 True, he figures in a costume about as an- 
 cient as the Elizabethian era — some think as far 
 back aa William the Norman. But what of 
 that ? What do wo caro for his wardrobe, so 
 
 that the man who wears it is well enough ? We 
 have no patience with those people who insist 
 on removing the old man's knee-buckles, and 
 brushing all the powder off his wig, before they 
 admit him to their parlor. We are for having 
 a man tell what is in him, in his own way. If 
 he has nothing to say, then let him hold his 
 tongue. But if he has an idea, or a bundle of 
 ideas, in the name of humanity, let him utter it 
 or them. Don't stop his mouth, because he can- 
 not enunciate the aspirate in Shibholeih. That 
 matter of the aspirate is worth attending to, no 
 doubt. But as his tongue cannot master it, let 
 it go for once. 
 
 " But I cannot bear Carlyle's Scandinavian 
 jargon." So it seems. Well, we coniesji that 
 considering it is English, the man's dialect ia 
 rather as trange compound. It is to be presumed 
 that he sometimes groups his words together 
 without the fear of Blair or Alison before his 
 eyes. Then he gallops along, once in a while, 
 without even nodding to Dr. Johnson as he 
 passes. That is " the unkindest cut of all," 
 considering how the old lion liked to be noticed ; 
 though it is the more pardonable certainly, when 
 we recollect how Carlyle has made a hero of 
 tliis same dictionary-maker,* and of Boswell, too. 
 almost, when we come to tliat. Grant all this. 
 If the words the man speaks, or wants to speak, 
 are his own words, will you not let him utter 
 them ? He is a barbarian, forsooth ! But will 
 you even turn a barbarian — an uncouth China- 
 
 " * I find in Johnson's books undisputed traces of 
 a great intellect and a great heart — ever welcome 
 under what obstructions and perversions soever. 
 They are sincere words, those of his. He means 
 things by them. A wondrous bucl^ram style, and 
 the best he could set to them — a measured grand- 
 iloquence, stepping, or ratlier stalking along in a 
 very solemn way, grown obsolete now ; sometimes 
 a tumid «i st of phraseology, not in proportion to the 
 contents of it: all this you will have to put up with. 
 For the phraseology, turmid or not, has always 
 something within it. So many beautiful styles and 
 books, with nolhitifr in them ! A man is a malcfac- 
 • tor 10 the world who writes such. They «re the 
 avoidable kind"— Heroes and Men Worthip, p. 225. 
 Am, edition. 
 
CARLYLE AND HIS IMITATORS. 
 
 141 
 
 man, or a savage Kamschatkan out of doors, if 
 he is civil and well-behaved, the more especially 
 if he has any thing to say to you, and is sincere 
 in his utterance withal ? You would do no such 
 tiling. 
 
 Carlyle is sincere, artless, and unaffected. 
 This it is, which in our way of thinking, should 
 atone for a multitude of peculiarities in his style, 
 which some regard as semi-barbarisms. He has 
 indeed been charged with affectation. Some 
 think he is a compound of affectation and con- 
 ceit. We know better. Every one who knows 
 him well, must know better. If we believed the 
 method (or want of method, if you will,) so ap- 
 parent in all this remarkable man's efforts, were 
 all the result of affectation, or were not a 
 part of liimself, naturally, legitimately, flowing 
 from his soul, we would make a bonfire of his 
 books sooner than we would speak a word in 
 praise of them. We do not believe it. In our 
 judgment, affectation, literary affectation, is one 
 of the unpardonable sins. We have no patience 
 with it, whatever. Of this sin we honestly be- 
 lieve Carlyle is as innocent as a cliild. 
 
 This is a very important point, however. On 
 this pivot, indeed, a favorable or unfavorable 
 estimate may turn. Sd that it ought not to be 
 dismissed with a mere assertion. Suppose we 
 analyze a little the man Carlyle, and ascertain, 
 if we can, what are some of the wheels in his 
 machinery, and how he came by them. We 
 have said that he is a singular specimen of hu- 
 manity ; and it requires no shrewdness to dis- 
 cover that. He was not made at first like the 
 great majority of those combinations of matter 
 and spirit we are accustomed to meet with. He 
 was cast in a different mould. Don't misun- 
 derstand us, reader. We are no fatalist — ^no- 
 thing of the kind. We believe, nevertheless, 
 in primitive intellectual biases. And this is 
 scarcely more than contending that the mind is 
 individual — ^that it operates by itself, and does 
 not amalgamate with other minds — that while it 
 presents generic phases, perfectly agreeing with 
 those of every other specimen, it exhibits some, 
 or may exhibit some phenomena which are pe- 
 culiar to it, and so are remarkable. Why not ? 
 Is it not so in every other department of nature ? 
 Why should the genus man — humanity, we 
 should rather say— be an exception ? Why 
 should the analogy, so apparent elsewhere, fail 
 here ? Carlyle's mind had in it somethmg po- 
 sitive, something quite out of the ordmary course 
 of things, from the outset ; and this something 
 grew with his growth and strengthened with his 
 
 strength. What was that something ? That 
 is a question not so easily answered. You have 
 done a great deal, when you have read a mind 
 of the first class. 
 
 Carlyle had an early habit of looking into the 
 heart of tilings. No one despised the mere shell 
 of the kernel more than he did. His contempt 
 for outside draperies and conventional forms, 
 is always one of the most observable features in 
 his whole character. He has no sj-mpathy with 
 fustian. This of itself is the component ele- 
 ment of sincerity. It can hardly be taking too 
 much for granted, to call Carlyle naturally sin- 
 cere, deeply in earnest. Then he had a soxd, 
 too — a soul that could sympathize with human- 
 ity, and was in harmony with it. This it is 
 which brings him into contact witli every one 
 who can understand him. The genius of his 
 great intellect is so unique, that the cog-wheels 
 cannot always touch corresponding wheels in 
 our intellect, and set them agoing. But there 
 are points of contact between his soul and ours. 
 We feel tliat liis is like our own, and the two 
 move in imison. Perhaps liis sensibility to hu- 
 man woe is not always well bestowed. But 
 what of that ? So that he has a heart, we ought 
 not to grumble too much, if his sjrrapatlues, in 
 their overflow, sometimes reach objects which 
 we regard as less deserving. 
 
 But the great distinguisliing feature in his 
 mind, that which more than any other rendered 
 it a singular mind, was, we apprehend, not so 
 much what he thought of men and things, as 
 the mode in which he grouped together those 
 thoughts, and laid them away for use. His so- 
 called barbarisms in dialect may be accounted 
 for, in a considerable degree, on tJiis principle, 
 without resorting to the charge of affectation. 
 Language, in general, is not a very arbitrary 
 thing, after all. Men, groups of men, make 
 their language ; and each one of all the lan- 
 guages on the globe has peculiarities, answer- 
 able to certain peculiarities in tlie respective 
 classes of men who originated the language. 
 The men reflect themselves in their language, 
 as distinctly almost as a face is reflected in a 
 mirror. So do individual men present us with 
 a picture of themselves in their modes of exhib- 
 iting ideas. They do little else, if they are sin- 
 cere, honest, unaffected. This does not need 
 argument or illustration, surely. 
 
 Now, taking it for granted that Carlyle's in- 
 tellectual machinery is singularly constructod — 
 so singularly, indeed, that it stands almost by 
 itself — ^what need is there of going farther to ac- 
 
142 
 
 CARLYLC AND HIS LMITATORS. 
 
 count for the singularities in his use of lan- 
 gTiage ? What possible necessity can there be 
 for lugging in this charge of affectation ? 
 
 But tliere is another circumstance to be taken 
 into the account. Carlyle had a German edu- 
 cation. What he would have become, if he 
 had not visited Germany, it is impossible to 
 know. But we may be sure, that to his foreign 
 education, are to be attributed some of his prom- 
 inent peculiarities. He had a German mind, 
 to start with ; or rather, liis intellectual struc- 
 ture was somewhat analogous to the German, 
 for in classing such a mind as his, we are puz- 
 zled to find a genus to which it may be attached. 
 There was, at least, some kind of elective affin- 
 ity between his modes of thinking, and those of 
 our estimable friends in Germany : and one not 
 intimately acquainted with the genius of Carlyle, 
 might expect that he would bolt at once the 
 whole system of German philosophy, horns and 
 all. But he did no such thing ; and there were 
 at least two good reasons why : first, (we speak 
 it with the profoundest respect imaginable, for 
 we love the Germans, though we may be par- 
 doned for loving truth more,) he had too much 
 good sense ; and secondly, he is incapaple of 
 being a very quiescent disciple of any school. 
 The schools — the " university professorships," 
 as he sometimes designates them — are not as- 
 sociated with the best of company in his vo- 
 cabulary. 
 
 Still, though it was hard work to engraft the 
 scions of the German philosophy upon such a 
 stock as Carlyle's mind, yet it was sufficiently 
 homogeneous with that philosophy, to be in 
 some measure shaped by it. His contact with 
 German mind, moreover, tended to develop 
 Bome already existing germs, which, when de- 
 veloped, more than any. other circumstances, 
 rendered him the singular man he is. This in- 
 timacy added strength to his singular habits of 
 thinking, and tended to determine more unalter- 
 ably the mode of expressing his thoughts. This 
 you see plainly enough in his " Sartor Resar- 
 tuR." You see that, although he will not go to 
 the German mill for his grist, ho has no antipa- 
 thy to riding in a German vehicle over a German 
 road. And then one can hardly help thinking 
 that he relishes a loaf of bread occasionally, 
 from this same German flour, though he is 
 careful to say nothing about its origin, and per- 
 haps, at tlio time, ho forgets where it was 
 ground. 
 
 Now, put these several circumstances togeth- 
 er, and you have the elements that made Car- 
 
 lyle. In his habits of thinking, he was naturally 
 bold, independent, daring. He was as wild and 
 untractable as the deer in his mountain-home. 
 Nevertheless he was "full of the milk of liuman 
 kindness." His soul is more prominent, even, 
 than his intellect, in many of his efforts. He 
 honestly believes he has a mission to accom- 
 plish to his fellow-men. He sees (and who 
 cannot see ?) that the machinery of society is 
 out of order, and he is anxious to do something 
 to regulate it. Nay, all the ardor of his enthu- 
 siastic soul is enlisted in the thing. Besides, 
 his ideas, naturally grouped together uniquely — 
 almost grotesquely, perhaps — were for a long 
 time under German influence, which tended to 
 increase and fix this peculiarity of grouping. 
 Bear in mind, too, that an honest, individual 
 mind, in the expression of his thoughts, only in- 
 dicates' the manner in which they exist in the 
 mind, inter se. If his style is singular, it is be-, 
 cause his ideas are singularly arranged. The 
 dialect of Carlyle is only an index of the inter- 
 nal economy of his magazine of thought. 
 
 Why not let a man speak the thought that is 
 in him ? Why force him to utter liis oracle 
 through your throat ? Why not allow a little 
 latitude in this matter ? In other words, why 
 compel a man to be somebody else, before you 
 will listen patiently to him ? You never quar- 
 rel with anybody, let his nose be ever so un- 
 sightly, because he does not go to some quack 
 of a nose-maker, and get a new one. There is 
 no disputing about tastes, you say ; and you let 
 him appear in the nose that likes him best. It 
 may be a Grecian nose, or a Gothic nose, for 
 aught you care. It may be Roman, too, as 
 crooked as the spring of an old-fashioned chaise- 
 top, and as capacious, almost ; it is all the same, 
 to you, so that it is his own nose. It is never 
 regarded as particularly a nuisanc.3. You tol- 
 erate men with faces a^s ugly as a hedge-fence. 
 Why not allow a little license in the features 
 of men's intellects ? This is all we ask. Grant 
 us this, and we have no fear that you will treat 
 Carlyle as an outlaw. 
 
 We have no patience with men and women, 
 we confess it, who are continually trying to 
 drown a man's voice, when he has something 
 to say, by ringing changes on Walker's Dic- 
 tionary, and Blair's Rhetoric, and Crabbe's Syn- 
 onyms. That may be a delicious concord of 
 sweet sounds to some ears; but we would at 
 any lime as soon hear the somewhat unmelodious 
 music produced by the filing of a saw. This 
 bringing an author up to an arbitrary standard, 
 
CARLYLE AND HIS IMITATORS. 
 
 143 
 
 a« our fathers (peace to their ashes !) used to i 
 try their witches, and ransacking the Spectator, 
 and Alison's Treatise on Taste, to determine the 
 propriety of a certain metaphor, simile, trope, 
 hyperbole, parabola, truncated cone, or what 
 not, is, in our way of thinking, to say the very 
 least of it, pretty small business. It is small 
 enough when applied to prose ; it is tenfold 
 smaller when it has to do with poetry. Some 
 critics are always looking through a microscope. 
 They never will let an author have any soul. 
 They cannot bear to see a man with a spark of 
 enthusiasm. lie must "talk by the card," as 
 Hamlet found it necessary to talk with the cap- 
 tious grave-digger. O what a picking of feath- 
 ers there is, when tliese eagles see a poor fel- 
 low's muse essaying to rise a little above the 
 dust of the public highway ! Such philosophi- 
 cal, ultra-intellectual poets as these criticfs would 
 make, give them a chance, would freeze up 
 what little juice there might be in a man's soul, 
 by half a dozen of their couplets. 
 
 Away with such a mechanical, artificial 
 standard of judgment ! We would rather have 
 Carlyle's poetry, at a venture, though every- 
 body would smile at the idea of poetic numbers 
 coming from such a source — we would rather 
 have Carlyle's poetry a hundred times over, than 
 the gibberish of these empirics, whom no muse 
 ever owned — men who manufacture poetry as 
 you would a spade or a wheel-barrow. Poetry, 
 to be worth an}^ng, must be an emanation 
 from the heart. It must gush out of the deep 
 founts of a full soul, as pure water issues from 
 a blessed spring. It must not be ground out of 
 the intellect, as flour is ground out of a mill. 
 People may think what they please, and say 
 what ihey please, about this same matter of po- 
 etry ; but it seems to us, that just the stupidest, 
 driest, huskiest piece of literary nonsense that 
 ever blundered into this planet, is your merely 
 intellectual poem, that bears on every part of it 
 the marks of the saw and the jack-plane. More- 
 over, we ad\nse all men, women, and children, 
 who do not want a chronic literary dyspepsia, 
 to keep clear of those who teach metaphysics, 
 spherical trigonometry, and conic sections, in 
 
 their poems. We ask nothing for the advice 
 though ; it is quite gratuitous. 
 
 May we not, in this connection, borrow a 
 sketch of the true poet from this same Carlyle ? 
 A singidar oracle, to speak on such a subject, 
 some may think. But hear him a moment. He 
 may be ever so crazy, but there is method in 
 his madness, we opine. He has been discours- 
 ing to us about Shakspeare, the world's great 
 portrait-painter, as he calls him. He thinks 
 him remarkable for his intellect — for his power 
 of seeing into the heart of things. After all, he 
 says, " it is the poet's first gift, as it is all men's, 
 that he have intellect enough. [Carlyle here 
 means the power of seeing deep into things. 
 He does not use the w^ord intellect, in contra- 
 distinction to heart, of course.] He will be a 
 poet, if he have — a poet in word — or, failing 
 that, perhaps still better, a poet in act. Whe- 
 ther he write at all, and if so, whether in prose 
 or in verse, will depend on accidents — who 
 knows on what extremely trivial accidents I 
 perhaps on his having had a singing-master, on 
 his ha\ing been taught to sing, in his boyhood. 
 But the faculty which enables him to discover 
 the inner heart of things and the harmony tliat 
 dwells there, is not the result of habits or acci- 
 dents, but the gift of Nature herself — the pri- 
 mary outfit for a heroic man in what sort so- 
 ever. To the poet, then, as to every other, we 
 say first of all, see. If you cannot do that, it is 
 of no use to keep stringing rhymes together, 
 jingling sensibilities against each other, and 
 name yourself a poet — there is no hope for you. 
 If you can, there is, in prose or verse, in action 
 or speculation, all manner of hope." 
 
 But we are devoting so much space to the 
 master, that we have little left for the disciples. 
 And this is the less to be regretted, perhaps, as 
 those wretched vagabonds deserve but little no- 
 tice. However, they must not be overlooked 
 altogether ; and with the reader's kind permis- 
 sion, we will show this genus some considera- 
 tion in another number. Their name is legion ; 
 and they form a very respectably numerous 
 menagerie of themselves. 
 
144 
 
 CARLYLE AND HIS IMITATORS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 As we said in the previous chapter, when 
 we were making our apology for Carlyle — 
 or as we were going to say, which was it ? — 
 we cannot understand the meaning, much less 
 the app opriateness, of the stereotyped phrase, 
 " favorite author." You might as well talk 
 about a favorite article of dress, or a favorite 
 piece of furniture, or a favorite tint in the rain- 
 bow. There is no sense in the expression, that 
 ever we could see. We know a man, who 
 never wants to hear any music out of the key 
 of E flat. He believes that to be the key of 
 nature, and every melody which has not three 
 flats at the beginning of it, is set down as arti- 
 ficial, and discarded at once. Now people may 
 smile at this man's taste ; but there is just as 
 much reason in it as there is in setting up a 
 favorite autlior, and making the standard of ex- 
 cellence consist in the measure of conformity 
 to liim. Surely a man should have as much 
 liberty in talking, as his neighbor has in sing- 
 ing. Why not ? Why may we not like equally 
 well, perhaps, two styles, as opposite as the 
 poles in many respects ? For our part it is 
 no evidence of a want of literary judgment or 
 consistency, to hear a man one day praising 
 Bishop Butler — as laconic as a Delphine oracle, 
 on the one hand — and tlie next day in ecstacy 
 over Doctor Chalmers, as diff'use as the air we 
 breathe, on the other hand. 
 ■ It is the thought, rather than the garb of the 
 thought, that is more deserving of praise or 
 censure. It is the man — not his dress. Now 
 is there not thought in Carlyle, at the bottom of 
 his phraseology ? Is ho not a man of genius ? 
 Tlicre liave been a great many definitions of 
 this same genius; and some have narrowed 
 down its signification so that it can only bo 
 predicated of about half a score of men and 
 women — themselves included, of course — since 
 the creation of the world. But may we not say 
 
 of Carlyle, as he himself said of Schiller — that 
 any notion of genius which excludes such a 
 mind, will hardly be agreeable to philosophical 
 correctness, and will tend rather to lower than 
 to exalt the dignity of the world ? Who says 
 that this man does not utter ideas of great 
 value — sometimes of superlative beauty and 
 grandeur ? Who will deny-^who that has 
 read him, thoughtfully, earnestly, discrimina- 
 ting!)' — that some of his pages, in this regard, 
 are beds of sparkling diamonds ? We should 
 insult the judgment and taste of our readers, 
 and come pretty near making a dunce of our- 
 selves, in attempting to prove a thing so nearly 
 self-evident. Otherwise we should be strongly 
 tempted, even at the risk of being charged with 
 somewhat of Carlyle's prolixity, to quote a half 
 dozen of his sentences. We think we should 
 not have to ransack a great many chapters, to 
 find that number which would be worth hear- 
 ing. We think we know of some oracles at 
 present on the stage, not very low in the world's 
 esteem, who have said some weaker things, 
 though ever so beautifully and gracefully, than 
 this honest old Visigoth has uttered, for instance, 
 in his critique (or whatever you please to call 
 it) of Shakspeare, of Milton, of Luther, of the 
 Puritans, of Goethe, of Schiller. But some- 
 thing too much of this. 
 
 A word now as to the imitators of Carlyle. 
 We honestly believe, that among those who 
 have made any noise in the world, there never 
 was a set of aspirants to literary fame, who de- 
 served less at the hands of the critic, than these 
 servile copyists. True, we have raised our 
 voice, and tried to dissuade the mob from cru- 
 cifying the master, but we have no disposition 
 to spare the disciples. We must say — and this 
 is the least we can say, conscientiously — we 
 hold them in the supremest contempt. What a 
 wretched, stupid piece of business they make, 
 
CARLYLE AND HIS L\nTATORS. 
 
 145 
 
 in retttering their rabbi's oracles, and palming 
 tliem off as their own. And there is such a 
 multitude of them, too, now-a-days ! The i.\n- 
 glo-Saxon world is swarming with tliese flies — 
 all tliird-rate minds, who imbibe not a particle of 
 tlie spirit of Carlyle, and who sip only enough 
 of him to enable them to throw off their sleepy 
 rantings about nothing, in the form of tolerable 
 parodies on his style. We certainly have kept 
 our eyes and ears open to little purpose, if they 
 are not the silliest set of literary pretenders — 
 the smallest specimens of crawling empiricism 
 — that ever attempted to cater for the world's 
 edification. 
 
 But the mere fact of their croaking is not the 
 worst of the matter. Tiiese fellows, who glory 
 in out-heroding Herod, (as what imitator does 
 not ?) are let loose upon the community as llie 
 representatives of Carlyle, and to some extent 
 they are accredited as such. Thus they often 
 do a great deal of mischief. True, this is the 
 only way in which they can do mischief. As a 
 general thing, they are ver)' docile, harmless 
 animals — " remarkably harmless, except when 
 irritated," as the cicerone says at the me- 
 nagerie — and even then, the eflects of their 
 wrath are mostly eKhibited in a rather undig- 
 nified assault and battery upon the English 
 tongue. 
 
 An imitator, at best, is sufficiently contempti- 
 ble. But the man who plays the harlequin, and 
 who dresses himself up in all manner of fan- 
 tastic trappings, and then asks you to listen to 
 his brayings under pretence that they are the 
 roarings of the lion Carlyle, is contemptible 
 beyond toleration. But after all, none who 
 are familiar with the original, and have withal 
 but a trifling knowledge of natural history, 
 need to unmask these vagabonds to find out 
 in what genus and species to rank them. Their 
 ears protrude ludicrously enough through the 
 shaggy mantle they have assumed. 
 
 Apropos of these imitators. One day last 
 summer, the heat and bustle of the city drove 
 us some distance abroad, in search of 
 
 " Some boundless contiguity of shade." 
 
 We did not discover that superlatively envia- 
 ble retreat exactly. We found shade enough for 
 all practical purposes, though. It abounded, if 
 it was not boundless. So much for the shade — 
 as for a boundless contiguity of it, we found 
 nothing of the kind. Some things we did find, 
 however, which perhaps interested us quite as 
 much on the whole, and among the rest was a 
 
 manuscript, written by o«r friend. Miss C , 
 
 giving some choice specimens from the mines 
 of these imitators of Carlyle. The WTiter, it 
 ought to be premised, is no admirer of Carlyle, 
 and intended with these missiles to hit the 
 knuckles of tlie old gentleman himself. Never- 
 theless, we think the sticks and stones ought 
 to be used about his imitators, especially the 
 first volley of them. Here they come, how- 
 ever, let them hit where they may. So friend 
 author, if you happen to be a little vulnerable, 
 " stand from under,'' as tlie sailors say. There 
 is something coming down from the mast-head. 
 
 IMITATIONS OF CARLYLE. 
 
 '■ Oh reader I hast thou never, through the 
 dim vista of departed years, beiield thy momen- 
 tous destiny whirling in one chaotic mass of 
 noctiferous confusion in the dark abyss of the 
 universe and nature's wide, inscrutable death- 
 scroll ? And hast thou not felt that thou too 
 wert one embodied somniferous nonentity — 
 now hovering in seraphic evolutions above the 
 sacred shrine of unfruitioned anticipations, — 
 anon, sailing upon the everchanging, yet un- 
 changeable surface of chaos, and wondering 
 how the deep soul-humbling vortex of future 
 greatness could diffuse unfathomable gloom 
 upon the shadowy vacuity of emptiness; and 
 dispel those profound unutterable night-visions 
 of thy imagination ? And then, wafted beyond 
 the spheres of thought into the incoherent re- 
 gions of transcendentalism, does not thy soul, 
 wrapt in dreamless beatitude, shadow forth the 
 incomprehensible future, resting upon the eter- 
 nal basis of ethereal Christendom ? Alas ! I 
 know thou hast, and then, wearied out with 
 the solemn, deep and unutterable death-notes 
 of the fathomless universe, which ever and 
 anon overwhelm that mighty soul of thine, 
 engulf thy airy visions beyond the depths of 
 vacuity, and behold those mental hallucina- 
 tions which, profound as infinitude, envelop 
 thy darkened understanding. Is this indeed 
 thy inscrutable destiny? Deny it not, oh!, 
 thou who hast ever given free utterance to- 
 thy disjointed echoes of tautological nameless- 
 o\ogy, and brightened thy wits at the sacred 
 shrine of university-professorships, with other 
 specimens of fathomless nothingness. Have 
 they never horrified thee with their inharmo- 
 nious melody, and reminded thee that thou 
 too art circumambified with undoablest doa- 
 bihties, worthy of a greater hero ? 
 
 " Falter not ; this little life-stream of thine. 
 
146 
 
 "PAIX A VOUS." 
 
 unendurable though it be, may emerge from 
 its pitiful environment, into the seraphic mazes 
 of undeniable realities, when thy latest life- 
 dreams of incomprehensible nothingness shall 
 have become the infalliblest death-pill of im- 
 measurablest time ! 
 
 " Onward then, I say, with undaunted cour- 
 affe, into the deep sacred infinitude of discover- 
 ability ; and let thy soul-breathings echo forth 
 that mystery of all mysteries — deep-seated for- 
 getfulness, and everlasting nihility. Greatest, 
 mightiest, incomprehensiblest hero ! Oh ! could 
 we search out the beginnings of thy deep unut- 
 terable thoughts, and trace thy wanderings 
 onward to the inaccessible goal of ungetata- 
 bility ; how would all our profound soul-aspira- 
 tions, sink into the insignificantest category 
 of unendable treasureupabilities ! Vast, deep, 
 infinitude of nothingness ! Chaos of the uni- 
 verse ! Depth of deepest depths ! What art 
 thou ? Wonderful beyond our narrow opti- 
 cality, is this boundless sphere of uncreated 
 sublunarism !" 
 
 " Insatiable flesh-flies ! I envy ye not those 
 crazy phantoms of monopolizing sensuality ; — 
 corn-laws, starvationizing, and repeal vetoes. 
 Whence come they? From your sapless re- 
 
 ceptacles of concentrated vacuity. What are 
 they ? Incessant eruptions of those inexhausti- 
 ble volcanic craters, — vain, worthless upper- 
 storyism. 
 
 " Follow, then, those monomaniacal hallucina- 
 tions, if ye will. I envy ye not. Anon ye must 
 answer for the life-blood of those victims of your 
 mammonizing, soul-enslaving policy, by which 
 ye fill your brainless receptacles, too shallow 
 for aught that is shadowless. Prosper while 
 ye can, for your day is coming. And then, the 
 souls that are bodiless shall rise up and call you 
 cursed ; and tell you of life-consuming wo, and 
 soul-consuming bitterness; and tell of homes 
 that are tenantless — brought to destruction as 
 in a moment ; for famine has visited them, 
 meagre and desolate. 'Tis a famine of man's 
 invention. Children of the desolate offered up 
 at Mammon's shrine, rise up from your sepul- 
 chral death-sleep, and be our witnesses ! — 
 Unwisdoming lucre ! who shall number thy 
 victims ? Ah ! I envy ye not !" 
 
 With this rather pungent morceau, kind 
 reader, we take our leave of you, provided 
 you have not already left us, in which case 
 any leave-taking on our part would be quite 
 superfluous. 
 
 €6 
 
 IPAH^ A ¥®TDrSo^^' 
 
 BY ERASMUS PJBRRY. 
 
 PKAIRIES fair, ye've won my heart — 
 Loth am I with you to part ; 
 Where's your like the wide world through ? 
 Solemn prairies, faix h vous. 
 
 Mississippi, turbid river, 
 Flowing on forever, ever ! 
 Bear me to the ocean blue ; 
 Mighty river, paix d. vous. 
 
 Traveler o'er these wide domains, 
 Verdure of these fruitful plains. 
 Darkling stream, and lake of blue, 
 Ever, ever, paix ^ rout. 
 
 Red man ! for thy fathers' graves 
 Searching 'mid these grassy waves — 
 Graves, nor home, no more thou'lt view : 
 Child of nature, faix ii vous. 
 
 * Peack to too.— These lines were written on returning home, after four years' absence on the "Western 
 Prairies. 
 
 To my far New England home, 
 While I tarried, death hath come ; 
 Death will not his work undo — 
 Sister, brother, jiaix it vous. 
 
 Lo! New England, soon I greet thee ; 
 Dearest mother, soon I meet thee ; 
 Hearts I leave afar, adieu — 
 God be with you, jiaix Sl vous. 
 
STRAY THOUGHTS. 
 
 147 
 
 sirmAY iriEi(D¥©iEiiPS. 
 
 BY ANNA M. HEFFEENAN. 
 
 "We dream not of love's might 
 Till death has robed, with soft and solemn light. 
 The image we enshrine. Before that hour 
 We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 
 Within lis laid." 
 
 It was New- Year's night, and a large party 
 were assembled in a magnificent mansion in 
 the upper part of Broadway. 
 
 The air without was filled with frost and 
 enow; and, as it sighed mournfully through 
 their desolate dwellings, the children of poverty 
 shivered in its cold blast. 
 
 But within were soft carpets, and the win- 
 dows covered with thick damask curtains, that 
 the cheek of beauty might not be chilled. 
 Bright forms, radiant in lovehness, were there, 
 who, in the dance and song, remembered not 
 that pain and hunger and weariness were witli- 
 out, and those strains of joy and gladness, to 
 the poor and lonely, could find no echo in their 
 hearts. 
 
 Opposite this lofty dweUing was one of hum- 
 ble appearance ; no lights gleamed from its 
 windows, save in one lonely chamber, where a 
 mother watched beside her dying child. 
 
 Long had she hung over him in anguish un- 
 utterable. Hope and fear alternately cheering 
 and filling her heart with despair. Alas ! the 
 tide of life was ebbing fast ; each moment his 
 moans grew feebler and his breath more slow. 
 
 " Father in heaven !" she cried ; " if such is 
 thy will, spare him to me — my child, my only 
 one. I am forsaken by all on earth ; leave me 
 not in darkness ; spare me the only joy my des- 
 olate life hath known, or take me with him." 
 
 It might not be ; and in her anguish she has 
 taken and pressed him to her throbbing heart, 
 as though she would hold him there for ever. 
 His little arms were entwined around her neck, 
 while her tears and kisses were rained on the 
 cold brow, where the dews of death were fast 
 gathering. How drearily passed the hours of 
 that long night. How mournful the prayers 
 for strength, that broke the hushed stillness of 
 of the chamber of death. 
 
 Yet the vail of sorrow that enshrouded her 
 
 soul was woven by the hand of mercy ; and, 
 could that stricken mother have raised it, she 
 would have seen revealed the great mystery of 
 life, and understood why it is decreed by the 
 Unfathomable, that sin and suffering should be ; 
 and, with joy in her heart and praise on her 
 lips, she would have resigned her loved one into 
 the care of the blessed spirits who hovered 
 round to bear him to the spirit-land. She shud- 
 dered ; for strains of soft music and tlie soimd 
 of merry voices, as if in mocker}' of her woe, 
 reached her desolate ear. Life and deatli so 
 near ! The world and its charms passing 
 away for ever from the eye of the dying, and 
 life presenting its most inviting aspect to the 
 gay and thoughtless. 
 
 Thus joy and sorrow, the living and the dead, 
 all commingled together. 
 
 "Mother! dear mother!" feebly exclaimed 
 the dying boy ; " I cannot longer stay. Around 
 me are glorious beings with sunny wings, who 
 call me to go with them. Ah ! they smile, and 
 speak in soft, low tones ; and but now it seem- 
 ed I was with them, far above the bright blue 
 sky in heaven, dear mother. But I heard you 
 mourn and you weep for your boy to return ; 
 and, in answer to your prayers, my happiness 
 was changed to pain and suffering. Stay me 
 not now. But a little while shall pass, ere I 
 return again for you, and my vAogs shall bear 
 us to yon bright home, where you will sorrow 
 no more." 
 
 It was as if an angel had spoken, and the 
 mother knelt, in holy awe, beside her dying 
 child, and murmured, " Father, thy will be 
 done. He is not mine, but thine ; pure and 
 unstained, I return him to thee." Blessed are 
 the early called. Her arm was around him ; 
 her cheek pressed close to his ; and still he 
 smiled so sweetly, and his parting breath yet 
 Ungered on her brow, even after his spirit had 
 escaped from her embrace of love. 
 
 Ah ! who can describe the loneliness and 
 utter desolation that fills our hearts, when one 
 we have fondly and purely loved, whose exist- 
 ence has become necessary to our own, is thus 
 
148 
 
 STRAY THOUGHTS. 
 
 suddenly snatched away, and the voice that has 
 ever breathed in our cars the endearing tones of 
 affection is hushed for ever, and he, who was 
 once our hope and pride, is left to moulder in 
 tlie dark grave. There is something terrible 
 and humiliating in the thought, as we learn 
 how slight and frail a thing is human love — 
 when it seems most bright — thus hovering on 
 the verge of extinction. How strange it is, 
 that though fabric after fabric of happiness thus 
 crumbles into dust, we still eagerly seek to 
 raise up ties that must be sundered, and allow 
 objects to enter the heart and claim sole domin- 
 ion there, when we know not but at the mo- 
 ment that seems to us most heavenly, an un- 
 seen destiny is laying the foundation for future 
 misery and unavailing tears. 
 
 The absent may return. Anger and old dif- 
 ferences can be explained away. Time will 
 restore tlie things of earth. In life there is 
 hope ; but the dead return not to us again. 
 They are deaf to our cries and supplications : 
 they heed not our tears. 
 
 " Thou hast all times and seasons for thine 
 own, oh death !" 
 
 It is thus, when humbled by grief, that hu- 
 man vanity receives her severest blow ; and 
 we then truly learn our own insignificance. 
 Who is there that, at some time of their life, 
 has not experienced moments of deep and fear- 
 ful conflict, when tlie dark shadows of affliction 
 fell heavily on their souls, and past happiness 
 seemed but a dream, that had vanished for 
 ever, as though they " sorrowed without hope ?" 
 At such times, selfish in our grief, we wonder 
 that others can smile, while we are sad ; that 
 our friends can indulge in pursuits for which 
 we have lost an interest ; and, ofttimes, in the 
 world's turmoil and exciting scenes, seek for 
 oblivion of our own sad thoughts. We, too, 
 would fain taste the " waters of forgetfulness." 
 But in the gay and apparently thoughtless, that 
 we often meet, could we but raise the vail thus 
 assumed, we would find tliat the most sensitive 
 heart shrinks from intruding its sorrows, when 
 it would only meet with repulse and coldness in 
 return ; and thus society combines in assisting 
 each mutually to deceive the other, since all 
 must assume a character different from the one 
 they really possess. 
 
 It is not strange, that in our moments of grief 
 and desolation, we almost feel as if our afllic- 
 tions call for some sympathy in nature's face ; 
 and yet tlie sun shines as brightly, and tlio sky 
 as clear as ever : only we have changed, only 
 
 o'er the mourner's soul the darkness of aneclij)se 
 has passed. 
 
 But, blessed be God for the assurance ! 
 though we are separated for a time from those 
 we have so truly loved, yet they will share with 
 us an eternity of happiness, even for ever and 
 ever; for surely, if the soul is immortal, the de- 
 sires that constitute its being must be immortal 
 also. And, oh ! inexpressibly sweet is the 
 boon of eternal life, since it unites us again 
 with those who have gone before, and we feel 
 no more strangers to the spirit-world ; and leads 
 us to welcome the " night" that will close all 
 sorrows and hush all pains, to awaken on a 
 bright and glorious morn ; to find the king of 
 terrors divested of the gloomy attributes with 
 which we have been wont to regard him, and 
 behold in our deliverer from the bondage of 
 earth the most glorious and beautiful of heav- 
 en's seraphs. 
 
 Thus we may feel the purifying influence of 
 grief, that softens and harmonizes our nature, 
 and memory becomes a blessing, recalling each 
 loved remembrance to our stricken hearts ; and 
 though it proves the vanity of making to our- 
 selves earthly idols, it yet supplies us with 
 joys over which cold skepticism has no power, 
 forms of matchless beauty, ever winning and 
 smiling, who tlirong our dreams and waking 
 hours, wearing the remembered faces of the 
 buried dead. No coldness can estrange such 
 relationship, as often mars the dearest friendship 
 of earthly friends, and visions though ye be, yet 
 the influence of the cold, heartless world may 
 not dispel them. 
 
 Silent forms of the past, blessed children of 
 better hours — companions of one's solitude, may 
 ye always remain as ye are, links between the 
 living and the dead. We feel that they must 
 be near, that they sympathize in our cares and 
 sorrows. To them our purer, holier thoughts 
 are turned. For a time, the soul soars abo\-e 
 earthly things, and we feel at such moments 
 that earth is not our abiding-place, and filled 
 with peace unspeakable, we learn to look with 
 kinder, better feelings on our fellow-beings on 
 whose lot, as our's, is written to suffer and 
 change. 
 
 Time is a paltry thing ; days, and weeks, and 
 years ; but the mile-stones tliat mark eternity : 
 one glance through tlie vista of the past, and 
 wo shudder to think how far we have advanced 
 to the land from whence none returns. Yet a 
 little while, and our places will know us no more. 
 
 The unquiet passions that have made our 
 
INVOCATION TO PEACE. 149 
 
 being's strife, and the throbbing heart, will alike / and song in our dwellings will again pour forth 
 
 be stilled in the slumber tliat on earth knows no < their sweetest strains. The breath of spring 
 
 waking. | will sweep over our graves, laden with the in- 
 
 Our funeral will wind on its way ; the last > cense of sweet flowers ; but the songs of its 
 
 look will be taken and the last prayer said, s birds and the rush of its waters will not be 
 
 Our friends will return to their homes, and < heard in the cold, silent cities of the dead, 
 
 we shall be left behind to the cold embrace of > where 
 
 the tomb, to become food for the loathsome > "Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side; 
 
 worm — humilating thought ! And it may be for I Yet none have saluted, and none have replied." 
 
 a time, our remembrance will awaken grief; < And thus, oh death ! thou boldest all in com- 
 
 but the duties of Ufe, its toils and cares, will ) panionship. 
 
 creep in ; new friends will usurp our places, \ Truly, oh God ! the dead man's only life is 
 
 the eve of the moilmer will be dried, and music found in thee. 
 
 irH¥(D(SA^ir(DH IT© IPISASIg. 
 
 " Nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more." — JsAiABt ii. 4. 
 
 Hail ! reign of peace ! we welcome thine appearing. 
 
 To still time's tumults in a long repose ; 
 Wave wide the sceptre which thy hand is bearing, 
 
 Till earth's drear deserts "blossom as the rose." 
 
 Long hath the sword gleamed in the grasp of ages — 
 
 The fiercest symbol of a brutish power ; 
 And all man's record, on its storied pages, 
 
 Hath war's deep bloodstains, even to this hour. 
 
 From court and cabinet, from town and village, 
 
 From vast cathedral and the cloistered cell. 
 Earth's ear hath caught the din and strife of pillage, 
 
 Uttering o'er human hopes a wild death-knell. 
 
 How hath it preyed upon sweet home's affections ! 
 
 How hath it quenched the hght of beauty's eye ! 
 How hath it stung strong hearts with dread reflections ! 
 
 And dashed out bow-tints from life's hopeful sky ! 
 
 Grod's footstool it hath curtained round with sadness, 
 
 And hid His throne of mercy from our prayer ; 
 Resigned His image to the passions' madness. 
 
 And chained our strugglings to a fixed despair. 
 
 How hath it drowned the music of the ocean ! 
 
 And hurled Ufe's gladness 'neath the cold, dark wave ; 
 Dashed kingdoms to the dust in wild commotion, 
 
 And 'whelmed proud nations in one gory grave ! 
 
150 
 
 THE GRAVE-STONE. 
 
 Earth, air, and sea, its strange, dark deeds are telling. 
 And Heaven hath sighed them to the circling spheres ; 
 
 Each age of time the doleful strain is swelling — 
 Its echoes break amid eternal years. 
 
 O ! haste, blest season, seen through distant ages, 
 
 In holy vision, by the Prophet's eye ; 
 Fulfil the golden dreams of sleeping sages. 
 
 And let earth symbolize the world on high. 
 
 Hash its wild jargon with thine angel voices ; 
 
 Touch flinty hearts, as with a Moses' rod ; 
 Baptize the world with love, till it rejoices, 
 
 like blessed Eden, in the smile of God. 
 
 Plume with high purposes the human spirit, 
 With holy thoughts the heart of nations fill, 
 
 A home on high let all our hopes inherit, 
 And to the surging passions say, Be still. 
 
 All bloodless be thy marches on to glory, 
 
 " Welcoms !" shall greet thee from a thousand tongues, 
 Angels shall bear aloft thy joyous story, 
 
 And chant thy triumphs in their ceaseless songs 
 
 f EH (^mA¥ll-^f (DMIg, 
 
 By CLEMENT. 
 
 "Mbfortuhes, they say, never come single," 
 and it sometimes appears as if the bark of one's 
 life entered upon a succession of storms, each 
 adding terror and peril to the other. The ways 
 of Heaven are inscrutable, and it sometimes 
 puzzles even faith itself to reconcile the deal- 
 ings of Providence. I have seen a young and 
 beautiful woman, with a spirit all kindness and 
 a heart all love — full of sympathy for the dis- 
 tressed — arrested on the very threshold of life 
 and of happiness, and, after years of acute suf- 
 fering, dismissed in bodily torture to tlie other 
 world. She seemed to need no chastening — 
 mild and submissive and gentle, she appeared 
 all that one could desire in a human character. 
 Yet, immediately after her marriapc, she was 
 proetrated by sickness, and, for fifteen years, 
 was never without suffering. When the blow 
 first fell, she bowed meekly to it, and, without 
 
 a word of complaint, said that it was all right, 
 for her Father's hand held the rod. But that 
 rod, though never murmured against, was never 
 removed until the waters of the dark valley 
 closed over the crushed form. Such dispensa- 
 tions are hard to understand now, though at 
 last they will not only appear just and wise, 
 but claim our love and gratitude. 
 
 This incident was recalled to my mind while 
 standing, the other day, in the grave-yard of 
 
 the little town of M . It was just at 
 
 evening, and the golden sunlight was rolled 
 like a sea through the quiet valley that slum- 
 bered in the lap of the hills. The tall elms 
 stood still : not even a leaf quivered, as this 
 sunset flood bathed their green crowns in its 
 mellow hue, and the eastern mountains seemed 
 robed for the gala-day of Creation. The river 
 Uiat wound past flung back the gorgeous light 
 
THE GRAVE-STONE. 
 
 151 
 
 wherever the green willows that fringed its 
 banks would let it down, and all was beautiful 
 as the smile of heaven. Amid this luxuriant 
 scene, I stood for a while enchanted, and was 
 recalled from its beauty only by a small broken 
 marble shaft at my feet, surmounting two di- 
 minutive graves. They were the graves of 
 two children, who had doubtless been buried 
 together, and the desolate parents had reared 
 this broken shaft — a memorial, at once, of the 
 early fate of the sleepers and of their own 
 ruined happiness. On inquiry, I found they 
 were the graves of tlie chHdren of my old 
 
 friend, S H . What ! I exclaimed to 
 
 myself; is the hand of fate so inexorable ? Is 
 there no rest for her this side of the final rest ? 
 
 Susan H r I had known for a great many 
 
 years ; but had lost sight of her at inter\'als, as 
 I became a wanderer over the earth. In youth 
 she lived in opulence. Her father was a 
 wealthy man, and spared no expense to render 
 his daughter all that a fond parent could wish. 
 She grew up in beauty, and, like all others, her 
 heart soon became entangled in the meshes of 
 love. But he who had won her heart was 
 poor ; and hence his suit was rejected by the 
 father. It is idle to follow the course of their 
 love — to speak of its changes, disappoiutments, 
 hopes, and fears. Youthful hearts love wildly, 
 and cannot listen to the claims of avarice — 
 scarcely to the voice of judgment. 
 
 After many vows and tears, young Henry 
 left the place, and came to New York to seek 
 his fortune. A relative finally obtained a place 
 for him in the West Indies, where there was 
 every prospect of his soon acquiring a fortune. 
 Before he embarked, he wrote a long letter to 
 his betrothed, telling her of his plans and des- 
 tination, and naming the ship in which he was 
 to embark. Every line breathed hope, for the 
 weight that had lain so long upon his heart had 
 been suddenly hfted, and left him, feeling like a 
 man who could dare and do " all that becomes 
 a man." 
 
 He set sail in one of the small vessels that 
 trade between New York and Havana ; and, 
 with a fair wind and smooth sea, soon com- 
 pleted half the voyage. But as they approach- 
 ed the tropics, a change came over tlieir pros- 
 pects. 
 
 One night, as the ship lay idly rolling on the 
 heavy swell, just as it had been swin^ng to 
 and fro for two days, becalmed, there appeared 
 in the southern horizon every indication of a 
 hurricane. The caj^n noticed it, and, before 
 
 dark, bad every thing made tight — ^the sails 
 furled, and a sharp look-out kept by the watch. 
 He could not sleep, himself, but kept pacing 
 the deck — now watching the sky, that had sud- 
 denly put on sackcloth, and now listening to 
 the heavy moan of the sea. that seemed laboring 
 with some direful dream. The ship stood still 
 in the darkness — ^rose when the long swell ca- 
 reened it over, making the cordage rattle and 
 the masts creak. At length the sea began to 
 move, though apparently stirred by no wind. 
 There seemed some invisible agency at work, 
 torturing the waves into foam by apprehensions 
 of coming woe. Just before midnight, a low 
 humming sound was heard in the distance, fol- 
 lowed by a loud and steady roar, that swelled 
 rapidly into the full-voiced thunder ; and then 
 the shock came. In a moment, all was uproar 
 and confusion on board the ship. She seemed 
 to hft before the tornado, and fly, like a fright- 
 ened thing, over the boiling sea. 
 
 There was no longer any sky, or sea, or 
 clouds : all were mingled together, and chaos 
 and night and the tornado had it aU to them- 
 selves. The wind shrieked through the rig- 
 ging, as if a score of fiends were shouting defi- 
 ance to the passing storm ; and every timber 
 creaked and groaned, as a sort of interlude to 
 the dismal howl around it. Then there came 
 a pause as sudden as the shock. It was, how- 
 ever, but for a moment ; the tempest, having 
 gathered again its energies, burst with redou- 
 bled fury over the shrinking vessel. The sea, 
 at first, could not make into waves — the wind 
 pressed with such power on its breast ; but the 
 spray was carried in a blinding shower through 
 the air. All that night the hurricane raged ; 
 and, when the black morning dawned, the sea 
 presented a frightful appearance. It looked as 
 if it had been churned by enormous enginery, 
 rather than smitten by the wind. At last, the 
 waves began to rise. The captain, who had 
 hoped that the tempest would break before a 
 heavy sea was made, now began to look anx- 
 ious and doubtful. His ship became unman- 
 ageable, and drove heavily before the blast. 
 He could not carry a rag of canvas, for the 
 naked masts barely withstood tlie shock. Be- 
 fore night, a tremendous sea was rolling. The 
 helpless vessel went staggering and floundering 
 through the billows, which, ever and anon, fell 
 with the sound of thunder on her shivering deck, 
 and strove manfully to withstand the tempest. 
 — At length there came one wave, wliich broke 
 , directly on the ship. A sudden crash — a sharp 
 
152 
 
 TflE GRAVE-STONE. 
 
 cry succeeded, and when tlie vessel lifted again 
 from the mass of waters, every mast had been 
 swept from the deck, and she lay a mere log in 
 the deep. Tliis was the last effort of the hur- 
 ricane, but it proved fatal to Honry. lie had 
 staid below, listening to the crash and roar 
 without and above, till he could endure it no 
 longer. He was the only passenger on board, 
 and the solitude becoming more frightfnl to him 
 than the aspect of the sea, he came on deck, and 
 lashed himself fast, so as not to be carried away 
 by the waves. But in that last crash one of the 
 falling timbers struck him down, wounding him 
 dreadfully. He was carried below, and then 
 every effort made to save the ship. It was of 
 no avail : her present condition, added to her pre- 
 vious strain, soon caused her to leak badiy, and 
 by morning the pumps were unable to keep the 
 water from gaining, and before the sea was 
 down, sufficient to launch a boat, she was fast 
 sinking. At length, however, the boat was cast 
 off, and shoved away upon the waste of waters. 
 In the bottom lay the helj^ess, mangled form of 
 Henry. For three days they were at sea in an 
 open boat, but on the morning of the fourth, a 
 vessel was descried approaching them. The suc- 
 cor came too late, however, for the wounded man. 
 His sufferings and exposure tc^ether proved too 
 much for him, and that night he died. Before 
 next night his form was descending the depths 
 of the ocean Uke a flash of light, and a world 
 of waters went rushing over him. 
 
 When the news of the death of her lover 
 
 reached Susan H , she was crushed to the 
 
 earth. I will not attempt to describe the utter 
 despair that seized her heart — tlie wild passion 
 tossings that threatened to upset her reason, or 
 the gasping prayer for help that burst convul- 
 sively from her bosom. He who has once seen 
 a young heart crushed by one fell blow, knows 
 what a terrific spectacle it is. You do not see 
 the dazzling lightning, nor hear the crash of 
 the thunderbolt — you know of its presence and 
 power only by the smitten and shattered trunk. 
 
 " Time heals all things," and though this may 
 not be true, it certainly deadens all sorrow. 
 
 Susan H rallied from the shock, but was 
 
 changed in all her character. From bright and 
 sunny girlhood, she was transformed into a 
 grave and thoughtful woman. Such terrible 
 experiences mature one fast. 
 
 This misfortune was soon followed by an- 
 other — her father died, and, to the astonishment 
 of all, pcnnilcM. Unsuccessful speculations 
 had ruined him, and his wife and daughter were 
 
 left to their own resources. Years passed on, 
 
 and I visited the village of M with an old 
 
 friend. I had lost all track of Susan. Judge of 
 my astonishment when I found her in this little 
 village, supporting herself and mother by her 
 needle. It was a dreadful struggle to one of 
 her mind, accomplishments, and eariy affluence, 
 to sulxnit to the little annoyances and drudgery 
 of such a li fe. But her naturally strong charac- 
 ter triumphed over her feelings, and I found 
 her quite cheerful. 
 
 Soon after I left the place, I learned she was 
 about to be married to a man in moderate cir- 
 cumstances, but of excellent character. Seven- 
 teen years had passed since she — ^then a girl of 
 eighteen — had buried her hopes and love with 
 her Henry, and now, a staid woman, she ac- 
 cepted the hand of another. But first she told 
 him her history, and that she never could love 
 him as she did the one she had lost. He had 
 her wannest esteem and friendship, but her love 
 had perished long ago. He said he asked for 
 no more, and would trust to time and circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Several years' residence in a foreign country 
 again caused me to lose the history of Susan, 
 and I heard no more of her till I was told that 
 this broken marble shaft stood over the grave 
 of her two and only children. Poor Susan ! she 
 seemed to rally from one blow, only to be smit- 
 ten by another. Her two little boys, her pride 
 and her comfort, were slain at her side together 
 — only one day divided their deaths. It was 
 with a sad heart I called to see her, and my 
 sorrow was not abated when I saw what rav- 
 ages grief had made with her once beautiful 
 form and face. She was thin and care-worn, 
 and twenty years seemed to have been added 
 to hef life. As she met me, one of her bright 
 smiles illumined her face, and she greeted me 
 with the cordiality of an old friend. In a mo- 
 ment, however, her countenance changed, and 
 she began to speak of herself. A flood of tears 
 checked her, and she exclaimed, " I can't talk 
 about it — they were my beautiful boys — my 
 only joy, and both, both gone ! Oh, it has al- 
 most killed me — ^but I know it is right — it is 
 all right !" After conversing with me awhile, 
 she went for their portraits, taken after their 
 death. During her absence from the room, I 
 took up a book, lying upon the table, and there 
 dropped from it the following poem, which I 
 bogged of her. It shows how her Uioughts had 
 dwelt upon her boys, and her heart pined for 
 the better land. Life had loet its attraction, 
 
P»mfd by .1 '."'.Chnpman 
 
 Kn^^rawd by Wrldi kWaJter 
 
 '■'C. HIM©. <Sll.i£iiL;r^jl£IR< 
 
■int ; 
 
 hange, to dwell among tiiine 
 
 iay. 
 
 Then the i: . !rd>*ft2. 
 
,-«.s^^ 
 
THE YOUNG GLEANER. 
 
 153 
 
 and tliis last blow had prostrated her ener- 
 gies. 
 
 " There breaks upon the sorrow's evening gloom 
 
 A trembling Instre from beyond the tomb." — W. G. C. 
 
 My mind was filled with mournful images ; 
 The green tree reft of branches— and decay 
 Sapping its very roots — dirge-like music 
 Amid the ruin'd halls whence life had fled — 
 The silent, sculptured image of the dead 
 Amongst the lining, joyous ones of earth ; 
 All seemed the emblems of my lonely heart, 
 And on the winds I pom-'d my plaintive lay. 
 
 Why should I linger — 
 Have they not gone, my beautiful, my own ? 
 They of the beaming eye and joyous tone ? 
 Doth the rose flourish when the young buds die, 
 And on tlie ground the scattered leaflets lie ? 
 Doth the dove linger, when from her nest 
 The young have flown she warm'd with her 
 
 own breast ? 
 Even thus with me: my fainting soul doth 
 
 yearn 
 For that calm resting-place, whence none 
 
 return. 
 I hear their voices, and they seem to say, 
 (Wooing with loving tone,) Oh, Mother ! why 
 
 delay? — 
 
 Then upon the breeze 
 Came a low sound, most sweet and clear, 
 As, trumpet-toned, it fell upon my ear. 
 Like angel's song, 'twas from the better land. 
 Where robed in purity my loved ones stand. 
 
 " Cease thy complaint ; 
 Even as by fire the gold is tried, 
 So shalt thou pass this ordeal purified ; 
 And from the ruin'd shrine there shall arise 
 Unto the I^ord a holier sacrifice 
 Than e'er in other days ye offer'd him 
 Before whose brightness thy lost love grows 
 
 dim; 
 And the bruised spirit yield a sweeter tone 
 Than to the young heart's melody was known : 
 And beams more radiant than sunset dyes 
 Or moonbeams soft of summer evening skies, 
 Illume thy pathway for the coming years, 
 Soften thy sorrow, dry the falling tears. 
 And guide thee, when a few more suns have 
 
 flown. 
 From time's sad change, to dwell among thine 
 
 own." 
 
 Heaven shield her from farther misfortunes, 
 and grant her her lost treasures back again in 
 a better world ! 
 
 IPH® YeiOrSJ^ ©ILflgAHISK. 
 
 BY FHANCIS O. WOODWOETH. 
 
 Thus a gleaner was repining, 
 As she sat her down to rest. 
 
 Summer's sun above her shining, 
 
 Winter lowering in her breast: — 
 
 " Why am I so poor and lonely. 
 In a world so full of joy ? 
 
 Must I then, a menial only. 
 
 Ever thus my life employ — 
 
 " Forced to toil from morn till even, 
 In the sunshine and the rain, 
 
 Scorned by men, unloved by heaven, 
 For one meagre sheaf of grain ! 
 
 " Yet with such a life before me. 
 Oft my mother used to say, 
 
 ' Grod is kind, and angels o'er thee 
 
 Watchers are by night and day.' " 
 
 Heard she then, that weary maiden, 
 
 Words that seem'dfrom heav'n address'd: 
 
 " Come to me — though heavy laden, 
 I will give thy spirit rest." 
 
 Then the maiden's toil grew lighter, 
 Ceased for aye her tears to flow ; 
 
 Then her sunny face beamed brighter, 
 For it caught a heavenly glow. 
 
 Toils she now from morn till even. 
 
 In the sunshine and the rain, 
 Blest to be beloved of Heaven, 
 
 T^wugh a gleaner 'mid the grain. 
 
154 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Thou art gone home ! Oh ! early crowned and blest !— Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 'Tis sad amid a world of bloom 
 
 To gaze upon thee now, 
 And mark the shadow of the tomb 
 
 Upon thy gentle brow. 
 
 There lingers still upon thy face 
 The smile it used to wear ; 
 
 And all that death can leave of grace, 
 Is sweetly pictured there. 
 
 So much of life is on thy brow. 
 My heart could almost deem — 
 
 That thou art only sleeping now, 
 And smiling in thy dream ! 
 
 Pale roses on thy bosom sleep, 
 And violets meek and fair, 
 
 Like sorrowing love have come to weep 
 Their dewy teacrdrops there. 
 
 Yet hath thine heart, so cold and still, 
 Once borne a weight of woe ; 
 
 And thou hast suffered wrong, and ill, 
 That none but God can know. 
 
 Thy spirit's harp-strings, in the strife. 
 
 Were broken all too soon ! 
 The joyous sun-light of thy life — 
 
 Was dimmed at early noon ! 
 
 Yet when thine earthly hopes grew dark, 
 
 A better light was given ; 
 It lead thee to the shelt'ring ark — 
 
 Thy peaceful home in heaven ! 
 
 How sweet is the spring-time, with blossoms and leaves ! 
 How sweet is the summer, with fruitage and sheaves ! 
 And its clear flowing springs, crystal chalices, whence 
 You may drink purest waters beside the farm-fence. 
 
 At mom, when the sunshine first breaks through the trees. 
 When the dew-drops are glitt'ring and stirred by the breeze, 
 Hark! the notes of the robins and thrushes commence 
 *Mid the green waving bushes along the farm-fence. 
 
 At noon, when the reaper reposes from toil, 
 
 Where the oak throv/s its shade on the smooth-shaven soil, 
 
 How he gazes, delighted, with beauty-struck sense 
 
 On the landscape that circles around the farm-fence. 
 
 And at eve, when the herd, with its bare-footed guard, 
 Is slowly approaching the busy barn-yard, 
 How ofl have I gone, and with idle pretence, 
 Sate a silent spectator upon the farm-fence. 
 
 The fleet-footed squirrel abandons his lair, 
 And nibbles his acorn and hazel-nut there; 
 The lark loves the meadow, and warily thence 
 Glances up at the ambush behind the farm-fence. 
 
 What a gay time is boyhood! Its footsteps are seen 
 By the brookside, the woodside, all still and serene; 
 Ye many-leaved volumes, away with you ! hence ! 
 Let me wander once more by the sunny farm-fence. 
 
■ • t • 
 
VALLEY OF PRAJELAS. 
 
 155 
 
 'flSIg YAlLILIgY (DI? IPmAi3rigILjA§, 
 
 OPPOSITE COL DU PI 
 
 BT J. T. HEADLET. 
 
 The glorious and successful battle of Sala- 
 bertrann occurred on Saturday night, and the 
 next (Sunday) morning, the weary but vic- 
 torious exiles found themselves on the top of 
 the mountain of Sei. For three days previous 
 to the battle, they had been constantly on the 
 march, drinking only water and eating scarcely 
 anything, and hence, at the close of the en- 
 gagement, felt the need of repose and food. 
 But the routed enemy might rally, and rein- 
 forcements arrive to their aid, and the conquest, 
 which had been so hardly won, \\Tested from 
 their grasp ; and so, guided by the glorious 
 moon, they slowly began the ascent of the 
 mountain. All night long they toiled up the 
 steep acclivity, though numbers, overcome by 
 fatigue, kept staggering from the line of march, 
 and faUing beside the rocks. Several were thus 
 lost ; and but for the rear-guard, which kept 
 rousing the sleepers, as the moonbeams re- 
 vealed their dark forms on the mountain-side, 
 many more would have perished. At length 
 the morning began to break in the east ; at first 
 a cold gray light, and then a rosy red, bathing 
 the lofty Alpine peaks in the same ruddy hue. 
 Oh ! a sunrise in the Alps is glorious beyond 
 description. How often I have stood mute and 
 awe-struck to see the King of day slowly roll 
 his blazing car over those giant forms of na- 
 ture, and look with his regal eye on the deep 
 valleys sleeping sweetly below ! White snow- 
 peaks and glaciers above, dark fir-trees mid- 
 way, and the green vales beneath, with here 
 and there an awful gorge that defies the day- 
 light to reach its abysses, combine to form a 
 scene that baffles description. All this burst on 
 die wanderers, as they stood and leaned on 
 their trusty muskets, and gazed below them. 
 Yet the beauty and splendor unrolled before 
 them were forgotten in the emotions of love 
 and joy, that found utterance in mingled tears 
 and smiles and loud thanksgivings ; for as the 
 
 ) mists rolled slowly upward, and the sunbeams 
 X flooded the earth, they saw the mountains that 
 I locked in their native homes. The hills of their 
 boyhood — the hills their fathers had trod — the 
 peaks that had ever risen before them in their 
 dreams and their prayers, and towards which 
 their eyes had been constantly strained through 
 their long perilous march — the hills that sur- 
 rounded their sanctuaries and their altars, at 
 length stood clear and bold against the distant 
 horizon. Amaud stood a moment, and gazed 
 with swelling heart on the scene ; and then 
 called all his followers about him, and pointing 
 to their native fastnesses, bade them bless God 
 for having brought them, as by a miracle, 
 through so many perils, and now permitted 
 them to behold again the hills of their father- 
 land. He then knelt in their midst, and with 
 uncovered head offered up a solemn thanks- 
 giving to God. What a scene they presented 
 on that mountain top in the early sunrise ! 
 Those men, who the night before had stormed 
 so wildly through the battle, were now bent in 
 humble prayer to the God who had led them 
 safely on. 
 
 Their first view of their native hills forms 
 the subject of the present engraving. Just as 
 the valley appeared to them, is it here spread 
 out before the spectator. They are looking off' 
 on the valley of Prajelas, some leaning on their 
 muskets in silent joy, others relating to their 
 friends the prospect before them. 
 
 But though they had arrived at the borders 
 of their own land, their perils were not over. 
 Delays were dangerous ; and before the sun 
 had mounted far up the heavens, their long 
 column might be seen winding down the breast 
 of the mountain, directing its serpentine course 
 towards the valley of Prajelas. Keeping on 
 their march, they might be seen in the after- 
 noon commencing the ascent of the Col du Pis. 
 Suddenly, a company of dragoons came gal- 
 
156 
 
 VALLEY OF PRAJELAS. 
 
 loping along the road to intercept their march ; 
 but the firm presence of the Waldenses so 
 awed them, that they retired without striiiiig a 
 blow. The next day — Monday — they came 
 upon a body of troops, drawn up in battle array, 
 at the foot of the Col du Pis, ready to receive 
 them. Amaud immediately halted his feeble 
 troops, and, gathering them around him, sol- 
 emnly committed them and their cause to the 
 God who had thus far befriended them. He 
 then formed his band into three columns, and 
 firmly began the ascent of the next mountain. 
 The enemy, seeing the determination of the 
 Waldenses, gave way, and the latter marched 
 triumphantly forward. 
 
 For several days after, they met with more 
 or less obstacles, but at length reached the val- 
 ley of Paoli, where still stood one of their old 
 churches. There the first public worship was 
 performed in their march. A chapel which the 
 Catholics had added to tlie church, was first se^ 
 on fire, and all their religious emblems re- 
 moved ; and then Amaud mounted a bench 
 placed in the door-way, and gave forth the sev- 
 enty-fourth Psalm to be sung. Together those 
 stem warriors chanted that touching complaint 
 of David, commencing, " O God, why hast 
 thou cast us off" for ever ? why doth thine an- 
 ger smoke against the sheep of thy pasture ? 
 Remember thy congregation, which thou hast 
 purchased of old ; the rod of thine inheritance, 
 which thou hast redeemed," &;c. When they 
 came to the passage, " O let not the oppressed 
 return ashamed : let the poor and needy praise 
 thy name. Arise, O God, plead thine own 
 cause," many an eye was filled with tears, and 
 voices that had shouted steady and strong in 
 the tumult of the fight, trembled with emotion. 
 The glorious anthem rang through the Alpine 
 valley as the hymns of the Waldenses rang of 
 old, recalling their ancient worship, before the 
 sword of the oppressor had driven them forth 
 to eat tlie bitter bread of captivity. 
 
 After a short pause, they again struck up, 
 and sung the hundred and twenty-ninth Psalm : 
 " Many a time have they afflicted mo from my 
 youth, may Israel now say : many a time have 
 they afllicted me from my youth : yet they 
 have not prevailed against me. The ploughers 
 ploughed upon my back : they made long their 
 furrows. The Lord is righteous : he hath cut 
 asunder the cords of the wicked. Let them all 
 be confounded and turned back tliat hate 
 Zion," &c. Alter they had finished singing 
 the Psalm, Amaud preached in exposition of it 
 
 He showed how they had been afflicted, and 
 sorely, like Zion of old — how the ploughers 
 had ploughed upon their backs and trodden them 
 down. He spoke of their long exile in other 
 lands — their toils and hardships, until they were 
 ready to weep anew over their misfortunes. 
 But when he came to show how the Lord liad 
 "cut asunder the cords of the wicked," and 
 " turned back" those that " hated Zion," every 
 eye beamed with joy and triumph, and there 
 hovered on every lip the shout that went up so 
 loud from the bloody field of Salbertrann: 
 " Thanks to the Eternal of armies who hath 
 given us the victory." 
 
 We cannot follow the Waldenses through all 
 their difficulties, until they finally, as mentioned 
 in a previous sketch, took possession of the vale 
 of Bobi. They met with losses and some disas- 
 ters, but never with a defeat ; their enemies 
 were turned back in every encounter. 
 
 Only one charge has been laid to the door of 
 the Waldenses in this long and perilous march, 
 that of cruelty to their captives. During the 
 latter part of their expedition they invariably put 
 them to death. Whether they surrendered or 
 were taken by force, it mattered not ; they were 
 slain without mercy. But it must be remem- 
 bered this was not an act of vengeance, nor did 
 it spring from that thirst of blood which has 
 made so many tigers of the human species, but 
 was an act of self-defence — of pure necessity. 
 Few in number themselves, they could not be 
 encumbered with prisoners, for the latter would 
 soon outnumber their captors. They could not 
 turn them loose, for they would not only imme- 
 diately arm again to oppose their progress, but 
 convey to others that information on the con- 
 cealment of which the salvation of the Walden- 
 ses depended. To set them free, was to secure 
 their own destruction : and they could not con- 
 fine them, for they had not a hut, much less a 
 fortified place they could call their own. It 
 was a hard necessity, but one their enemies 
 laid upon them. They could not have done 
 otherwise, and the poor victims were slain 
 while crying for mercy. Shut out from all re- 
 inforcements, with no post to fall back upon, 
 and no line of communication kept open be- 
 tween tliem and succor, they were forced to 
 cut their way through to their possessions and 
 homes with the sword, and right nobly did tliey 
 do it. Their pastor, Arnaud, was afilictcd with 
 no childish squeamishness about shedding blood. 
 Ho would pray with his face to the ground for 
 tlio help of Heaven, and then rise and rush to 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 157 
 
 battle. He would send up his loud thanksgiv- 
 ing for deliverance, and then coolly slay his 
 prisoners ; and God heard him and sanctioned 
 his course, and made him the founder again of 
 his church in the Alps. He was a noble and 
 great man. Far-reaching in his plans — clear 
 in thought — correct in judgment — prompt and 
 fearless in action — humble and devout in his 
 religion, he excites our wonder and admiration 
 at the same time that he wins our love and sym- 
 patliy. A man of peace, ignorant of arms, he 
 yet withstood the king of France, then the ter- 
 ror of Europe, and put to flight his veteran 
 troops. The hand of an overruling Providence 
 is seen in all that transpired under his guidance. 
 The Israelites never fought a battle in which 
 the interposition of Heaven was more clearly 
 seen than in that of Salbertrann. That eight 
 hundred peasants should attack, in an en- 
 trenched position, and put to flight nearly three 
 
 thousand regular troops, and in the open valley 
 slay six hundred men, with a loss of only fifteen 
 to themselves, is little less than miraculous. 
 Equally so is the routing of twenty-two thou- 
 sand French and Piedmontese by three hundred 
 and sixty-seven Waldenses, just emerged, pale 
 and thin, from six months' imprisonment. It is 
 also a remarkable fact that the Lord preser\-ed 
 the grain upon the earth till midwinter, so that 
 tlie Waldenses could gather it for their preser- 
 vation after they had got possession of their 
 country. In those high latitudes and elevated 
 regions, to see men harvesting grain in the dead 
 of winter, instead of the height of summer, one 
 is ready to believe it a miriacle, as much so as 
 the showers of manna that fell around the camp 
 of Israel. 
 
 We have omitted many things in our hurried 
 sketches, lest we should seem too tedious. One 
 more engraving and sketch will finish the series 
 
 s'lrAH^^s 
 
 A mother is at rest. 
 That fond, exulting, anxious, sorrowing heart 
 No more with joy shall thrill, with grief shall smart, 
 
 A mother is c/ rest. 
 
 A wife in death lies low. 
 like priceless jewel in a brittle urn, 
 Love in her heart was liid. The spoiler stern 
 Shivered the vase — lost was the radiant gem ; 
 (Richer than pearl in monarch's diadem,) 
 
 A wife in death lies low. 
 
 A friend is dead. Whose friend ? 
 Alas ! the scalding tear upon the cheeks 
 Of all who knew her many virtues, speaks — 
 
 " Have we not lost a friend ?" 
 
 A ChH&tian sleeps in death. 
 A soul redeemed from selfishness and fear — 
 A will to ser\'e her heavenly Master here — 
 
 Here is thy triumph. Death ! 
 
158 STANZAS. 
 
 A kind, kind heart is cold. 
 A spirit buoyant, undiscouraged, free — 
 Of impulse strong, tireless activity — 
 
 In plan and action bold. 
 
 Who shall arise and fill 
 The place so long and nobly filled by thee ? 
 Christian, wife, mother, friend, kind heart ? — Till we 
 Another of a kindred spirit see, 
 
 We'll mourn thee still. 
 
 Yes, we mourn our loss. 
 Though great thy gain : our selfish hearts will bleed ; 
 Ay, though we know thy ransomed soul is freed 
 
 From every cross ; 
 
 Yet not, indeed, as those 
 Who hopeless mourn, would we thy fate deplore ; 
 But, rather, those bright scenes of bliss explore 
 
 Where now thou dost repose. 
 
 No stranger thou 
 In that fair world ; that word of Christ's is thine : 
 " I know my sheep, and I am known of mine." 
 
 He will fulfil it now. 
 
 And when with golden key 
 He opes the crystal gates of life eternal. 
 Where pleasures never fading, ever vernal, 
 
 Shall strike thy dazzled eye — 
 
 Thy fond maternal eye, 
 Searching amid the white-robed, radiant throng, 
 Two sainted, youthful forms will mefet ere long 
 
 With transports high. 
 
 Nor will the Saviour frown. 
 Nor check the bliss of that enraptured hour, 
 When the death-severed meet to part no more. 
 
 Such love he'll not disown. 
 
 And there, from sorrow freed. 
 Pull many an earthly friend thy soul shall find ; 
 The warm in heart, the good, the pure in mind, 
 
 Tlie Saviour's ransomed seed. 
 
 And shall wo wish thee here, 
 More sin, more trial, and more grief to know ? 
 Nay, rather may our spirits long to go 
 
 And join thee there. 
 
MARANNIS. 
 
 159 
 
 Sffl^ISAHHIIS. 
 
 A TALE OF OLD EGYPT. 
 
 It was a golden day in the Egyptian sum- 
 mer, and the sunbeams fell gloriously on the 
 river and the river bank, and glittered on the *\ 
 massive piles of Camak. Such a day is never 
 known in other lands than those where the sun 
 gleams through pure air, and shines on green 
 spots in the midst of deserts. Such a day is 
 seldom known out of Eg)'pt. 
 
 It was high noon of a festival, and the no- 
 bles and the mighty men were proceeding in 
 vast crowds toward the temple of the gods. 
 Up the long avenue, between the giant sphinx 
 heads, poured the thousands of worshippers, in- 
 deep and solemn silence, and stood at last far 
 down the avenue, before the veiled statue of 
 Isis, with their eyes fixed intently on the in- 
 scription upon its base. 
 
 At the entrance between the second pylonse, 
 knelt a maiden, the daughter of a prince, with 
 her head bent toward the base -of an obelisk, 
 whose mystical finger pointed up into the sun- 
 light with its broken apex, signifying, that afar 
 off in that deep blue, was an unknown God, to 
 whom it was impossible to attain. 
 
 She was a queenly child, who had seen the 
 Nile overflow its bank some sixteen times. The 
 lineage of a noble shone in her dark eyes, now 
 covered by the hea\y lashes that drooped over 
 them. She had knelt thus, unmoved, motion- 
 less, for an hour or more. The hundred thou- 
 sand men of Egypt, were far down the long 
 vista of pylona;, sphinxes and obelisks. She 
 was alone, her attendants kneeling apart from 
 her, and perfect stillness was in all the vast 
 temple. 
 
 As she knelt thus, she was suddenly startled 
 by the tones of a voice, whose melody was 
 strangely sweet, yet deep ; and, starting to her 
 feet, she saw standing near her, an old and 
 weary looking man, resting on the arm of one 
 who was young" and strong. The garments of 
 the older were plain and simple, while the lat- 
 ter wore robes of princely magnificence. A 
 
 long train of armed men stood silently listening, 
 while the patriarch, looking in the eye of the 
 younger man, pointed his thin white finger 
 heavenward, and spoke in the musical accents of 
 the Hebrews. His head was white, and hia 
 form, once tall almost to the stature of a giant, 
 was now bent under the weight of six-score 
 years ; but his eye was bright with the lustre 
 of youth, and gleamed now with strange fire, as 
 he spoke earnest words to the prince, on whose 
 arm he leaned. 
 
 The latter listened with deep respect until 
 he paused, then turning to his train, told them 
 that the old man was speaking of the unknown 
 God to whom the obelisk pointed ; and as he 
 turned, the Egyptian maiden caught the kingly 
 glance, and bowed low before the eye of Joseph ; 
 and then she kaew that the old man was the 
 father of their ruler, the Hebrew Jacob. 
 
 She listened intently while Joseph spoke to 
 his warrior train of the God of Abraham. The 
 hardy men of battle heard with deep respect, 
 for they knew that their master had intimate 
 communion with his God, and the maid drank 
 in every word of this new and marvelous teach- 
 ing. She had not worshipped Isis, but her soul 
 more nearly open to the truth, found her God 
 at the foot of the obelisk. Here was a revela- 
 tion of that God — a teacher sent from Him ; 
 and, when the train swept on up the avenue, 
 she turned slowly and thoughtfully away. 
 
 There was one in the train who had not 
 passed by the maiden without a glance of ad- 
 miration. Nay — more ; while she had been 
 listening to the voice of Joseph, Ephraim had 
 been reading her countenance ; and, giving up 
 his father's words to other ears, had devoted 
 himself to the study of that beautiful face. By 
 the brilliant jewels on her forehead, he knew 
 that she was noble, for none that was not might 
 wear them thus ; and, as the wind blew aside 
 her purple robe, by the glittering serpent with 
 a ruby head, which shone on her breast, he 
 
160 
 
 MARANNIS. 
 
 knew Marannis, tlie daughter of the first prince 
 of the kingdom. 
 
 Not a month had passed since the festival of 
 Carnak, and Marannis was attached to the 
 household of Asenath, the wife of Joseph. 
 Here, of course, she was daily meeting the all- 
 beloved Ephraim. He was a manly boy. The 
 olive face of Canaan was somewhat darkened 
 by his Egyptian blood, and he had an eye like 
 an eagle's. Although the younger, he already 
 surpassed his brother in stature and intellect ; 
 and, whichever way he turned, he found a wel- 
 come—all loved the bright boy Ephraim. And 
 Marannis loved him. It was not strange that 
 she, whose mind was wont to dwell on myste- 
 ries that her father shrank from, should sit and 
 listen to the Hebrew boy, as he repeated in her 
 ear the lessons he had learned from his prophet 
 father. And he heard from her the lore of an- 
 cient Egypt ; for, young as she was, she had 
 been the pupil of the magicians, and they had 
 taught her much of the wisdom of the mother 
 of philosophers. Egypt even then was old. 
 The pyramids had been built beyond the mem- 
 ory of man. (Who knows but that nation sent 
 up its last wail of agony in the deluge, from the 
 summit of Ghizeh ?) Elephantina and Carnak 
 had grown old and hoary. Among these rel- 
 ics of an age then ancient, (now the ancient of 
 ancients) her mind had grown to maturity in 
 early girlhood, and she taught Ephraim the 
 mysteries of her old creed, in exchange for the 
 truths of his heavenly instruction. 
 
 The giant sons of Jacob stood around his 
 bed, and heard his last words and his blessing. 
 His head lay on the breast of Rachel's first-born 
 son, the saviour of Egj'pt, the ruler of the king- 
 dom. In the shade of the heavy curtain of the 
 western opening, stood Marannis, holding the 
 hand of Asenath, and listening to the words of 
 the dying patriarch. How her heart leaped, as 
 she heard him bless Ephraim ! " He shall be 
 greater than his brother," said the old man; 
 and the eye of the maiden sought, in the dim 
 light, for tjie tall form of her boy-lover. Anon 
 he sought her side, and Asenath stepped forth 
 into the room, to the head of the couch, and 
 stood near Joseph. 
 
 In that hour the Hebrew boy and the Egyp- 
 tian girl pledged their love to one another, in 
 
 the presence of the God they both acknowl- 
 edged and worshipped. A holy love was that, 
 gushing up out of their glad young hearts, and 
 overflowing from their eyes in smiles, and their 
 lips in words of affection. Three years passed, 
 and Ephraim stood by the death-couch of Ma- 
 rannis. It was in her father's lordly mansion; 
 tlie proudest man, that father, in all Egypt. 
 
 "I am passing away, Ephraim," said she, 
 " passing into the silent land. In my old dreams 
 of death; in those days when I first saw you in 
 Carnak, I used to dream of keeping a vigil over 
 my father and my country, sitting on some star, 
 or flitting through the blue sky. And when I 
 >. learned to love you, before you taught me the 
 name of your God, (and mine now,) I thought 
 it would be pleasant to die, if I might become 
 a spirit to go with you alway, and watch and 
 love you. But now ! I have seen visions of a 
 holy land — a land fairer than the Canaan your 
 father tells us of ! I go thither. In that bright 
 land I shall see Abraham, your mighty ances- 
 tor, and Isaac, his son. Shall I not know 
 Rachel and Leah, whom I heard Jacob name 
 with his dying breath? Farewell — I wait your 
 coming !" 
 
 It was night in Ephraim's soul, for many a 
 year after ho laid Marannis in the tomb of her 
 fathers. When the moon fell softliest on the 
 Nile, he oftentimes stole out from the palace, 
 and pushing his light boat out on the river, 
 made his way toward the spot where tliey had 
 placed her, and wept and prayed. 
 
 Years hurried along, and he became a man. 
 Gradually the vividness of that affection gave 
 place to a settled sadness on his face, which 
 they said remained there till his death — then a 
 smile, serene and calm, took its place, but not 
 till then. 
 
 He became old, and the father of a mighty 
 race. But, in his many wanderings, the old 
 man forgot not that first bright dream of his 
 boyhood ; and when, at length, the years of his 
 pilgrimage were ended, and he lay dying, he 
 seemed to see a face looking to him from afar — 
 to hear a voice falling with saintly tones on liis 
 ear, and he smiled — and, reaching his arms out 
 toward heaven as if to embrace a beloved one, 
 ceased to struggle with the ills of life. 
 
« • , • • • " 
 
I-.-: 
 
 TAILIit^r . „ .; Wit*?2!ES. 
 
 ;he Walla- 
 Aho collect 
 
 and and, like 
 iC thick grass 
 uadowofitB ma. 
 
 ■ on ail sides. It is, in 
 
 ^ - ■■'••■'ig scene; and the poorer 
 
 ..-Ik) are unable to command a carriage, 
 
 -uu, in order to secure 
 
 ■ ?ry fiivctite 
 
 vJiks; V 
 
 
 
 ■**^i>;i ♦'■,.': 
 
 '.V,ii 
 
 1 1^ . 
 
 
 hine. 
 
 B 
 
 Ing willow, stands upon 
 j-ucath the windows of the 
 the Sultan ; and tlic breeze. 
 
 ':i their tenants I lus season o; 
 ■ranches of the l ballad in >><^ 
 re <rf the sun 5 certain 
 
 carnages. 
 
 •Tb<' 
 
^ 
 
 Jlf"^ 
 
VALLEY OF SWEET WATERS. 
 
 161 
 
 ¥A]L3LIgY (DIP SWlEIg^ WAIPISmS. 
 
 Kyat-Khasa, called by the Franks the 
 " Valley of the Sweet Waters," is a lovely glen, 
 nestled at tlie base of a chain of hills, and situ- 
 ated between Eyoub and Hassa KuT, the quar- 
 ter of the Jews. It is entirely shut in on all 
 sides ; and looks, from the heights above, which 
 are bleak and arid, hke a huge emerald. 
 Through the thick grass of the valley, and 
 under the shadow of its magnificent trees, flows 
 the Barbyses ; a limpid, but inconsiderable 
 stream, upon whose banks rise two of the most 
 fairj'-like edifices that ever sheltered prince or 
 peasant ! The larger building is a summer- 
 palace, where the favorite wives of the Sultan 
 lounge away many of the long sunshiny days of 
 the warm season in comparative freedom ; and 
 exchange the closely-latticed apartments of the 
 Imperial harem for the shady groves and grassy 
 paths of the palace gardens ; dreaming through 
 the hot hours in gilded kiosques* on the river 
 bank ; or driving amid the tall plane trees in 
 arabaSjt bright with gilding, and drawn by 
 cream-colored oxen. 
 
 The valley itself is delicious; the green- 
 sward is bright and rich, to a degree unkno\\'n in 
 any other en\iron of the city. In spring it is the 
 grazing-ground of the Imperial stud ; and beau- 
 tiful Arabians are installed with great pomp, 
 picketed after the Eastern fashion, and super- 
 intended by parties of Bulgarians, whose tents 
 are pitched in the valley, and who never quit it 
 under any pretence until they are released from 
 their charge. In summer it is the resort of all 
 ranks ; who, on every Friday, (the Turkish 
 Sabbath.) resort thither, to enjoy what none 
 know better how to appreciate than the Orien- 
 tals — a bright sky, a running stream, flowers, 
 leaves, and sunshine. Bullock-carriages, cov- 
 ered with gay-colored awnings of silken shag, 
 fringed with gold; gilded arabas drawn by 
 swift horses ; and caiques, the number of whose 
 elegantly-clad rowers denotes the rank or 
 wealth of their owners, pour forth their tenants 
 every moment ; while the thick branches of the 
 noble trees protect from the glare of the sun 
 parties of white-veiled women, who, squatted 
 on their mats or carpets, and attended by their 
 
 ♦ Pavilions, 
 
 t Turkish carriages. 
 
 slaves, sit for hours, listening to the Walla- 
 chian and Bulgarian musicians, who collect 
 paras* and praises at a very trifling expense of 
 melody ; purchasing the prettily and significant- 
 ly arranged boquets of the dark-eyed Bohe- 
 mian flower-girls; or watching the ungainly 
 dances of the Sclavonians, who, with their dis- 
 cordant bagpipes under their arms, perform 
 evolutions which resemble the saltatory attempts 
 of half-educated bears. Here and there, a little 
 apart from the crowd, may be seen a party of 
 Greeks, engaged in their graceful romaika ; 
 while groups of lovely children, and water- 
 venders, and sweetmeat merchants, wander up 
 and down the greensward, and are greeted with 
 smiles and welcome on all sides. It is, in 
 short, a spirit-stirring scene ; and the poorer 
 classes, who are unable to command a carriage, 
 or a caique, will cheerfully toil on foot from the 
 city, under a scorching sun, in order to secure 
 their portion of the festival. 
 
 The valley of Kyat-Khana is a very favorite 
 resort of the present Sultan, who has expended 
 considerable sums in beautifying the palace, 
 and in ornamenting the fountains and kiosques 
 which appertain to it ; but only a short time 
 since it was entirely abandoned for two years, 
 owing to the death of a favorite Odalique, who 
 expired suddenly, in the very zenith of her 
 youth and beauty, during a visit which she 
 made here with her Imperial master ; whose 
 grief at her loss was so intense, that he could 
 not bear to inhabit the valley until time had 
 blunted his regret. A handsome head-stone, 
 erected to her memory, lettered with gold, and 
 overshadowed by a weeping willow, stands upon 
 a square platform, beneath the windows of the 
 saloon occupied by the Sultan ; and the breeze, 
 as it sweeps tlirough the flexile branches of tlie- 
 tree, almost carries them into the apartment. 
 Sultan Mahmoud, who is esteemed a very re- 
 spectable poet for an Emperor, is said, during 
 his season of despair, to have written a pathetic 
 ballad in her honor ; but, be that as it may, it is 
 certain that she has been long forgotten among 
 the bevy of beauties who now tread the gilded 
 chambers of the palace of Kyat-Khana. 
 
 •The smallest actual coin known; twenty of 
 them being only equal tp.oft? penny English. 
 
162 
 
 SCENES IN THE EAST. 
 
 S(BllflS Hlf ^mm liAS^. 
 
 BY AN ITALIAN OFFICER. 
 
 EGYPTIAN SERAGLIO— GREEK CAPTIVE— BATTLE OF ST. JEAN D'ACRE. 
 
 When we returned to Alexandria, in Egypt, 
 we found the Egyptian squadron ready for bat- 
 tle. All the fortresses and shores around the 
 city were well armed with guns, and watched 
 by soldiers. Mehemet All's palace was changed 
 into a place of defence, while the Pacha had 
 retired to Napoleon's fort, in the centre of 
 Alexandria. In the Tuscan consulship I met, 
 for the first time, Ali Bey, the most handsome 
 and polite Egyptian I ever saw. He invited 
 me to his house and desired me to write a letter 
 in Italian for him. He lived in a very luxurious 
 style ; his saloon was entirely covered by silk 
 draperies, furnished with the richest divans, 
 and paved with white marble. We drank IMocha 
 coffee, and smoked Hatakia's tobacco, with tlie 
 arkylem in the Turkish fashion. I asked him 
 to allow me to see his seraglio. " Although 
 it is not customary among us to show foreigners 
 our women, I will satisfy your wishes," said he. 
 In the mean time he gave orders to the chief of 
 his eunuchs to have his ladies made acquainted 
 with my visit, and to keep themselves with their 
 veils down over their faces. " I differ from the 
 Europeans," added he, " in that I keep concu- 
 bines and slaves. I would rather have a legiti- 
 mate wife, and my servants free ; but 1 must 
 submit to the customs of my country." We 
 entered into the seraglio, in the room where the 
 women were assembled by order of their chief 
 There were a score of women, sitting down on 
 Persian carpets, around a beautiful fountain of 
 fresh and clear water, where colored fishes 
 were playing and swimming. Some of the 
 concubines were smoking, others drinking 
 coffee or sweet potions, and>many were reading 
 the Alcoran, and the talcs of the Arabian 
 Nights. When the chief of the eunuchs opened 
 the golden door, or what Ali Bey called the 
 ceUstial entry, all the captives bowed to 
 
 their master, and all their looks were cast upon 
 me. They were covered from head to foot with 
 a veil of white cashmere, having only two holes 
 for the eyes and one for the breath. I sat down 
 with Ali Bey on a divan in this epicurean para- 
 dise, where the old eunuch, like the cruel 
 Cerberus of the Sybilla, was always looking at 
 me and at those women wlio he supposed 
 could most attract my attention, and excite my 
 young and ardent imagination. His look was 
 fierce ; always cast on me, like a tiger watch- 
 ing for a new victim. He appeared angry that 
 his master should have introduced a foreigner 
 into the sacred sanctuary of his love. Tliis 
 poor Ethiopian had been mutilated from child- 
 hood, and h ? was also deprived of the use of 
 speaking, as his tongue had been cruelly cut 
 out. He had to look and be silent — such was 
 his duty. The ladies of the seraglio could play 
 and sing. They were all of different countries, 
 such as Georgians, Jewesses, and one Grecian 
 woman. This latter sang a Grecian song, and 
 accompanied herself on the guitar, by order of 
 her master. Her name was Lyda, born in 
 Scio, where she was taken prisoner in the war 
 in 1821, between the Greeks and Turks. She 
 was only three years old when she was brought 
 by a Jew and sold for fifteen years to Ali Bey. 
 I could see only her sparkling eyes and red 
 lips, and I formed the idea that she was a beau- 
 tiful woman. I was more fortunate than Ali — I 
 could understand the modern Greek language, 
 and her sweet but lamentable song : " Oh, 
 Grecia, my native land, must I say to thee fare- 
 well forever ? Shall I see no more my native 
 place, the beautiful blue skies of Grecia, and 
 sleep no more on my mother's breast ?" Afler 
 a moment of rest, and taking advantage of the 
 ignorance of Ali, she began again to sing : 
 \ " Oh, foreigner ! oh, youth ! if e'er you visit 
 
SCENES IX TIIE EAST. 
 
 163 
 
 Grecia, salute my native heme for m?. Tell 
 my unhappy friends that Lyda Hesperas lives — 
 but no, I do not live — a slave, a concubine 
 dies always — never lives." After her song 
 was finished, my heart was filled with a strong 
 and anxious desire to free her from her slavery, 
 and to carrj- her to Greece. 
 
 Ali Bey asked me in Italian what Lyda sang. 
 It was a very difficult matter for me to answer 
 his question truly, and I said : " Your Lyda 
 sang the beauties of nature." 
 
 The second day of our stay in Alexandria 
 we were sent to Constantinople to take back the 
 charge of Mehemet Ali. Ali Bey had received 
 orders from the Pacha to go to Rosetta, and I 
 was in great incertitude as to the expediency of 
 endeavoring to rescue Lyda, and to fly with her 
 to Greece. But, with all my sweet dreams and 
 good feelings, I was under the painful necessity 
 of leaving the lovely and unhappy Lyda to 
 her fate, and return to my vessel. 
 
 We landed, for a few hours, at the Island of 
 Cyprus, near the road of Salamis, where, cen- 
 turies ago, there was accomplished the fate and 
 independence of Greece. There, two great 
 generals, Themistocles and Aristides, forgot their 
 hatred and threw aside the \-ain and childish 
 dissension which had separated them for many 
 years. There were gathered all the Grecian 
 people spared from the wars of Xerxes, and 
 there Greece, for the last time, gave to the 
 world a great example of valor and of patriotism. 
 The brave Lacedaemonians died at Ther- 
 mopyla;, in obedience to their law. Athens was 
 destroyed by the Barbarians — Greece deserted on 
 account of the Persian invasion, and all the hope 
 of her salvation lay in the waters of the Sala- 
 mis — where the Grecian fleet of three hundred 
 and eighty vessels,* after a fierce fight, and a 
 great loss on both sides, destroyed almost all 
 the Persian navy, and insured tlie victory and 
 BaI\-ation of Greece. On our way to Constan- 
 tinople we took a pilot at Teaos, who assured 
 as of an imminent attack on Alexandria, by 
 the Turkish navy. The pilot was a Greek, and 
 had sailed in the Archipelago for more than 
 thirty years. 
 
 Think of a young man of nineteen years of 
 age, who had always sympathized with Greece 
 and Greeks, having a good knowledge of the 
 ancient and modem history of that country, and 
 what must have been my delight, to view, for 
 the first time, the Grecian shores ! I wished 
 
 I ♦ Herodotus, lib. viii. chap 8, p. 96. 
 
 to go to Athens, and travel all over that 
 classic soil, but could not. When near the 
 island of Tenedos, the pilot called me out from 
 my cabin, to see Mount Idas, and, behind it, 
 the place where stood the ancient city of Troy. 
 I took Virgil's JBneid with me, and gazed 
 upon those shores, covered, in former years, 
 with warriors and combats, but now all silent 
 and deserted. A few white stones are the 
 only memorial left to the traveler to see where 
 once stood the ancient and great city of Troy. 
 
 On the morning of the fifth day of our sail- 
 ing, we entered the Hellespont, where Xerxes 
 constructed a bridge over the sea which divides 
 Europe from Asia. The space is not over a 
 mile broad, but still it is dangerous when the 
 wind blows from north-east. On both sides 
 there are strong fortresses, in order to prevent 
 war vessels from entering tlie sea of Mar- 
 mora. 
 
 When we obtained the firman to go to Con- 
 stantinople, we continued our sail, and arrived 
 at Matamora towards the evening. The shores 
 of the sea, the various and picturesque hills, 
 the sun that was setting behind the white top 
 of Mount Olympus, offered the most enchant- 
 ing and delightful view. At sunrise we ar- 
 rived at Constantinople. We passed near the 
 Island of the Princes, and, when near the Im- 
 perial Seraglio, fired a salute to the Turkish 
 fleet The Turkish commodore did not return 
 our salute, and even neglected to hoist the 
 Tuscan colors ; and our captain sent me to the 
 commodore's vessel, to demand the reason for 
 such an insulL 
 
 The answer was short, and not less insult- 
 ing. We had to consider ourselves prisoners 
 of war, and the commodore ordered us to cast 
 anchor near the fortress of the Seraglio. 
 
 We were prohibited to go on shore, for any 
 purpose, until permitted by the Di\"an. The 
 Turkish government had been informed of the 
 mission of our vessel — to bring secret dis- 
 patches to some friends of Mehemet Ali, and 
 to return to Alexandria for the same purpose. 
 Although the captain protested against such a 
 violation, as our vessel carried the Tuscan flag, 
 Mahmcud, the old Sultan, would not hear any 
 reason from us. Had not the ambassadors of 
 the Allied Powers interfered in our favor, our 
 splendid frigate would have been seized by the 
 Turkish government, and we forced to do ser- 
 vice in the Turkish fleet. 
 
 It was on Friday, the holy day of the Ma- 
 hommedan religion, and on the anniversary of 
 
164 
 
 SCENES IN THE EAST. 
 
 the Ramazan, when, at sunrise, all the ves- 
 sels and forts fired salutes and raised the Ma- 
 hommedan colors, and those of the Allied Pow- 
 ers. After the prayer of the Sultan in St. So- 
 phia, all the army paraded at the Bazaar. The 
 Emperor reviewed his troops, and exhorted them 
 to be faithful and brave soldiers. After a 
 while, accompanied by the great Dervis, or 
 great priest, and by all his ministers and supe- 
 rior officers, he went on board the commodore's 
 vessel, where the Dervis read the Alcoran, 
 invoked upon the Sultan the protection of the 
 prophet Mahomet, and blessed all the navy in 
 a loud voice. The squadron left the same day 
 for Alexandria in Egypt. 
 
 On the tenth day of our detention, Mali- 
 moud sent us orders to leave the road, and 
 never return to Constantinople, but to sail for 
 Italy, instead of Alexandria in Egypt. The 
 firman of the Sultan was, that, if we should 
 dare to re-enter the Hellespont, all the fortresses 
 of the Dardanelles would fire upon us, and sink 
 our vessel. 
 
 With such a kind and imperial order, wc 
 gave our first farewell to Stamboul, yet with 
 much sorrow, as I would have visited the city 
 •and the beautiful shores of the Bosphorus. 
 I had seen nothing of the city, only from our 
 ship — merely the outlines of the golden mina- 
 rets of St. Sophia, the splendid and magnificent 
 palace of the Sultan, and the marble building 
 of the Seraglio. On entering the Marmora 
 Sea, we saw a small caique, or boat, bearing a 
 white flag, and making us signs to stop. From 
 the signals made by the passenger on board the 
 boat, our captain believed that this was the 
 secret emissary of Mehemet Ali. We took him 
 on board, and he said to the captain that he 
 was Salim Bey, the secret ChargS d'' Affaires of 
 the Pacha of Egypt. 
 
 In five days we arrived at Alexandria, and 
 the Turkish squadron had not yet appeared. 
 Salim Bey went to see the Pacha, and they 
 remained a long time in a secret colloquy at 
 the Fort Napoleon. When the news of the 
 sailing of the Turkish fleet was known in town, 
 all the Europeans were ordered, by their con- 
 suls, to leave the city for Rosetta. The Egyp- 
 tian navy and army were ready to fight, and 
 the whole population was excited against those 
 Europeans who belonged to the Allied Powers. 
 At last the hostile squadron was seen ap- 
 proaching the road, and from the admiral's ves- 
 Bel was made a signal of trust. Salim Bey 
 was diBpatched with a pilot-boat to tho Turkish 
 
 commodore, and that mysterious flag was the 
 real signal of the most shameful and infamous 
 treachery. 
 
 During the night the Egyptian vessels were 
 engaged in changing their anchorage. This 
 was a very strange affair, and none of the Eu- 
 ropean men-of-war in the road of Alexandria 
 could understand the intent of such a nocturnal 
 movement. Early in the morning the Turkish 
 squadron came into the harbor of Alexandria, 
 without any hostile demonstration. It was 
 known after that the Turkish admiral had 
 wretchedly betrayed the Sultan Mahmoud, 
 giving his fleet into the hands of Mehemet Ali. 
 Each Turkish vessel was placed between two 
 Egyptian men-of-war, and, by order of the 
 Pacha, all the ammunition was taken from on 
 board the Turkish fleet. Tho consuls cf the 
 Allied Powers protested against such a treach- 
 ery and violation."- They sent their ultimatum 
 to the Pacha — to return the fleet to the Sultan, 
 to evacuate all Syria, and to consider himself 
 a vassal of the Sublime Porte,'aiid not an inde- 
 pendent prince, or encounter the hostility of 
 their respective governments. Such an arro- 
 gant threat could only irritate and hurt still 
 more the feelings of Mehemet Ali, who an- 
 swered the consuls by returning them their 
 passports. He declined any interview with 
 them, he refused their offerings ; and the con- 
 suls of England, Russia, Prussia, and Austria, 
 left Alexandria for Constantinople. 
 
 All the English and Austrian naval forces of 
 the Archipelago and Mediterranean Seas were 
 united in Syria, in the harbor of Beyrout and 
 off St. Jean d'Acre. The war was now openly 
 declared. Mehemet Ali had refused to submit 
 to the ultimatum of the Great Sultan and of the 
 Allied Powers, in spite also of the infidelity of 
 the French Government. 
 
 We left Alexandria for St. Jean d'Acre, by 
 order of the Pacha, with dispatches for Ibrahim 
 Pacha, commander-in-chief of the whole 
 army of Syria. In less than forty hours after 
 wc arrived there, all communications were 
 prohibited. We could not land nor send the 
 dispatches to Ibrahim Pacha. The English 
 fleet was of fifteen vessels, while the Austrians 
 had four frigates and other small vessels. In 
 all, the allied navy consisted of thirty men-of- 
 war and four steamers. We remained in tho 
 harbor to wait for tho attack on the city and , 
 fortresses. Ibrahim had refused again to evac- 
 uate Syria, and the English and Austrian 
 commanders took on board all the Europeans 
 
SCENES IN THE EAST. 
 
 165 
 
 who were in the city. In the evening, all the 
 foreign vessels received orders to cast anchor 
 in the bay, as the next day was decided upon 
 in which to commence the attack and bom- 
 bardment of St. Jean d'Acre. 
 
 That fatal and bloody day came, when ten 
 thousand more victims had to perish, and 
 a strong and beautiful city to fiill in ruins. 
 The sun had hardly appeared on the whit« 
 and eternal snows of Lebanon before Na- 
 pier, the English commodore, gave the signal 
 to all the allied fleet to weigh anchor. The 
 Arabs believed that the squadron was leaving 
 for sea, and they paid no attention to the mali- 
 cious and skilful motions of the enemy. When 
 a mile from the road, Napier gave orders to 
 sail again into the harbor, and sweeping up 
 in splendid style, they cast anchor under the 
 fortresses of the city. From our vessel we 
 could see all the motions of the fleet, and when 
 they had cast anchor near the city, our captain 
 Siiid that St. Jean d'Acre was lost. " NafM)- 
 poleon,"said he, '-has spent six months and de- 
 stroyed a strong array under the walls of St. 
 Jean d'Acre, but now this impregnable place 
 must fall in less than a day." The Arabs had 
 allowed the enemy to approach so near the 
 walls of the city, that the guns from shore 
 could do no harm to the vessels, as they were 
 lower than the fortresses. Napier and Ban- 
 diera, the Austro-Turkish commodore, made 
 signal to prepare for action. The four steamers 
 then opened their fire ; the whole fleet began a 
 tremendous and stormy cannonade. The Arabs 
 answered with a no less destructive fire, but in 
 less order and without any advantage. The 
 enemy was sure of the victory, as his navy 
 wjis under shelter of the guns on shore. Four 
 houi's had already passed in bombarding and 
 destroying, when the Austi'o-Italian frigate La 
 Venere changed her position, and directed her 
 blazing bombs on the higher fortress of the 
 city. In five minutes all that large fortress 
 was turned into a volcano of fire and ruins ; one 
 bomb had fallen on the magazine, and more 
 than two thousand soldiers perished in the 
 awful explosion that followed. This was the 
 signal for the end of that fierce battle, and of 
 the victory for the enemy. The city had al- 
 ready ceased to answer the guns of the allied 
 squadrons, but no signs of tnice appeared for 
 the whole day. The loss and damages of the 
 English and Austro-Italian navy was a trifling 
 affair, compared wjd^ the destruction of the 
 Arabs, and of the ciJy of St. Jean d'Acre. 
 
 The bombardment of Acre had ceased with 
 the night of the 3d of November, and a de- 
 tachment of the troops of the Allied Powere 
 took possession of the citj-. The Gibraltar 
 of Syria was lost ; Ibrahim Pasha retired to 
 the mountains, waiting for new troops or an 
 order to leave Sp-ia. His situation was 
 precarious; he could no longer occupy that 
 country. All his troops were starved and 
 Avasted away, and the whole Syrian popula- 
 tion in arms against him. 
 
 After four months of war, Syria was evacu- 
 ated ; and the reti-eat of the Egyptians was 
 accomjianied by the most tenible disasters. 
 Near 20,000 men died on their way to Egypt, 
 by starvation, thii-st, sickness, and the fire of 
 the enemy ! Such w.is the end of the splendid 
 Egyptian army of 50,000 men who had con- 
 quered all Syria, and so bravely fought the 
 battle of Nizib against 70,000 Turks. 
 
 Ibrahim Pasha had retired to Gaza in Pales- 
 tine by the most difficult and circuitous march, 
 round by the Dead Sea and the plains of Jor- 
 dan. His few regiments encamped in that de- 
 serted land were in no condition to give battle 
 or to defend themselves against the Turkish 
 army. They were deprived of all the neces- 
 saiy means, the Oriental plague made large 
 i*avages amongst them, and the Turks, com- 
 manded by General Jochmus, were pursuing 
 them. Had not the English interfered, the 
 Pasha and his companions in suffering would 
 ceitainly have been destroyed. 
 
 We were only three days in Alexandria 
 when the Pasha, anxious for the welfare of his 
 son, and hearing that he was exposed at Graza 
 to the Turks, dispatched our vessel and the 
 steamer Nile with troops, money, and victuals. 
 Our captain had orders to bring the prince him- 
 self to Alexandria, but Ibrahim prefen-ed to land 
 at Damietta, as his person would have been in 
 danger from the population of Alexandria. 
 
 Sir Charles Napier had already appeared be- 
 fore Alexandria when we reached the harbor. 
 He issued a proclamation to the Pasha, stating 
 that Great Britain, Austria, Russia and Prussia, 
 with the Sultan, had decided that the nile of 
 Mehemet Ali had ceased in Syria ; that he must 
 return the Turkish fleet, and submit himself 
 to the Sublime Porte. Two days passed in 
 changing protocols and counter-protocols, mes- 
 sages and counter-messages, but nothing was 
 yet decided by the Pasha. Mehemet's last 
 hope was gone, yet still he hesitated. Napier 
 sent him his vltimatutn, giving half an hour to 
 
166 
 
 SCENES AND ADVENTURES IN THE EAST. 
 
 the Pasha to answer. All the inhabitants were 
 in great despair and confusion, and the soldiers 
 began to desert their places. Napier sent an- 
 other and last dispatch. " If you are disposed 
 to submit," said the English commodore, " you 
 shall be restored to the government of all 
 Egypt ; but if you refuse my ofTer, remember 
 that I have taken Acre in less than live hours, 
 and I shall burn and destroy your fleet, your 
 army and Alexandria in five minutes." The 
 Pasha was forced to yield. The Turkish fleet 
 was restored to the Sultan, and Syria was fairly 
 evacuated! The Pasha IMehemet Ali had been 
 pardoned, a decoration as a great vizier con- 
 ferred on him, and the province of Egypt con- 
 ceded to him, with the hereditary right thereto 
 to his descendants. 
 
 Thus ended the war of Syria. More than 
 30,000 people perished in the mountains and 
 plains, and the few regiments left by Ibrahim 
 at Gaza were dying by starvation and plague. 
 When peace was restored, we believed that 
 our vessel would have been sent back to Italy, 
 all our ship's crew being tired of so long and 
 dangerous a stay on those shores : many were 
 dead, and others were affected by diseases of 
 tliose countries. I secretly advised the crew 
 to send a petition to our consul, to let him know 
 how ill-treated we were, that we would not 
 stay any longer, neither on the vessel nor in 
 that country ; that our time was finished, and 
 we were all anxious to return to our homes. 
 All this was unknown to our captain and 
 officers. When the consul received our clan- 
 destine petition, he was just dining with the 
 captain. Although we did not complain of our 
 officers, our petition was looked upon by the 
 stupid and ignorant chargi d'affaires as a plot 
 or conspiracy against them. The captain was 
 the bearer of tlie answer to our petition, and of 
 the supreme and barbarous decision of his little 
 highness. I, as the author of so famous a piece 
 of bombast, was put in irons and confined for 
 ten days down in the steerage, while the others 
 who signed witli me had received orders not to 
 go ashore again till we returned to Italy. After 
 ten days of retirement, we sent another petition 
 — it was our uUiTnatum. We asked permission 
 either to leave the vessel or to sail by ourselves 
 for Italy. Certainly our menace had not the 
 power of Napier's order, for we were sent again 
 to Gaza, to carry those wretched troops to Da- 
 mietta. 
 
 We landed at Gaza after thirty hours* sail. 
 The bay of Gaza is veiy dangerous for a sliip ; 
 
 there is no harbor, nothing to secure one from 
 the north and east winds. Near the sea-shore 
 is an old fortress falling in ruins, built by Bona- 
 parte on his way to Syria. The city of Gaza is 
 like a small and dirty village of the Alps, and 
 lies six miles from the sea. When I landed with 
 twenty men, all well armed witli dispatches for 
 the Bey, we could find on our road nothing but 
 human corpses, and dead horses and camels all 
 putrefied. When we reached the camp, we 
 were furnished with horses and a guide to con- 
 duct us to the city. There were not less than 
 4000 persons encamped on the plain — men, 
 women, children, all deprived of food and living 
 on grass or dead horses ! The Oriental plague 
 and other sicknesses still continued to decimate 
 the population, while others were dying of 
 starvation and thirst. The Bey received me 
 and my men with great honor and courtesy ; 
 we drank coffee and smoked tobacco, and he 
 took me to see where was once the famous tem- 
 ple of the Philistines, destroyed by the hercu- 
 lean force of Samson. He asked me if we 
 could take twelve hundred persons on board. 
 
 " It is impossible," said I. " If they were 
 flocks of sheep, we could place tliem in any- 
 where ; but sick people require some com- 
 fortable place, and sufficient room." 
 
 " Do not be so humane," added the Bey ; " if 
 you had to remain here longer you would be- 
 come accustomed, I do not say to be cruel, but 
 to be more indifferent to suffering. If you 
 refuse to take those people on board, they will 
 die here soon. They can find no more water or 
 grass. I have no food for them. It is better 
 that they die at sea than to let their bodies re- 
 main exposed to the vultures of the desert." 
 
 With all his Oriental morals the Bey could 
 not persuade me to take twelve hundred persons 
 on board. I allowed him to send eight hundred, 
 and I promised him that we would return in 
 two days to take the rest. 
 
 The same day an Egyptian vessel came from 
 Alexandria, laden with orge and biscuit. 
 When it was distributed to these unhappy 
 people, I imagined myself in the valley of 
 Jehoshaphat, in the day of tlie universal re- 
 surrection. Those who could go to receive 
 their food were like hungry tigers, and there 
 began a tremendous fight among them. 
 
 On the morning of the 8th of February we 
 embarked those unfortunate beings. Many of 
 them, tortured by thirst, while on their way to 
 our vessel tried to drink salt water to assuage 
 their sufferings. When on board, our captain 
 
SCENES AND ADVTIXTURES IN THE EAST. 
 
 167 
 
 placed two men at the pumps to prevent them 
 drinking too much water at once : but alas ! 
 it was impossible to keep them away. Many 
 preferred to receive blows from their officers 
 rather than leave the water; others died in- 
 stantly, after hanng drank a few drops. The 
 most pitiful sight was to behold the women 
 who had children at their dried breasts, or their 
 husbands, in the impcesibility to go for them- 
 selves to the pumps. I saw many of these fe- 
 males, without anything to carry water in, fill 
 their mouths full, and throw it, drop by drop, into 
 the mouths of their invalid husbands ! We could 
 hear nothing but cries and groans — the weak 
 and lamentable voices of the dying, tortured by 
 wounds and other illnesses. Their sufferings 
 were indescribable. The captain, fearing mu- 
 tiny among them, required all their arms to be 
 given up ; and he gave orders that all the crew, 
 well armed, should keep watch over them till 
 we arrived at Damietta. But no mutiny was 
 to be feared from those dying passengers ! When 
 it was discovered that many of them were at- 
 tacked by the Oriental plague, they were thrown 
 overboard. Our crew unanimously asked the 
 captain to land these people again, or to give 
 his word of honor that they should not return 
 with the vessel to Gaza, but sail for Alexan- 
 dria. Had not the captain had influence over 
 them by his bravery and affection, I have no 
 doubt that a horrible 4iuman butchery would 
 have occurred on board. The captain said that 
 he himself had been deceived by our consul — 
 that he should leave the vessel when in Alexan- 
 dria, rather than continue this dangerous and 
 lamentable v(^age. All was now quiet, silent, 
 and mournful in our steamer; every moment 
 new victims were thrown into the sea; and 
 more than two hundred of the Egyptians per- 
 ished in our short voyage to Damietta. 
 
 Our arrival in Alexandria was looked upon 
 with suspicion. Mehemet Ali sent orders that 
 we should not leave the vessel nor go on shore, 
 as we had refused to return to Gaza, onr first 
 destination. Notwithstanding the insolent com- 
 mand of the Pasha, our captain left the vessel 
 with his baggage, and we never heard from him 
 again. He went to Leghorn with a French 
 steamer. 
 
 Here a new conspiracy was plotted : we de- 
 cided, one and all, to leave the vessel, and to 
 put ourselves under the protection of the French 
 consul. I wrote to the Pasha, with the signa- 
 tures of all the crew, that we had no orders to 
 receive from his highness : that we were Ital- 
 
 ians, were under the Tuscan flag, and could obey 
 no one but our captain ; and as the captain had 
 sailed for Italy, we had no longer a chief. " We 
 decline," said I, " to acknowledge the Tuscan 
 consul as our protector ; and now we are going 
 to ask the protection of tlie French and English 
 consuls." 
 
 The same day we left tlie vessel. Of all the 
 crew only an Austrian oflicer remained on 
 board. He was our Judas. Our first visit was 
 to the French consul. We explained to him 
 the causes of our complaints — to what evils we 
 had been exposed for eighteen months — how 
 barbarously we had been treated and deceived 
 by our consul — that we had not received any 
 money for eight months, and we required to be 
 returned to our country. The French consul 
 promised us his protection, and advised us to 
 return to our vessel. 
 
 I went to pay a visit to my friend Ali Bey, 
 whom I had not seen for ten months ; but 
 thinking, in the meantime, only of Lida, the 
 Greek slave — of her exquisite beauty and me- 
 lodious voice. I must avow that I was still a 
 strong abolitionist ; that I thought of a thousand 
 means to carry away Lida from Ali Bey's se- 
 raglio ; and I hoped to succeed. 
 
 It was on a Friday morning, just the hour 
 when all good Mussulmans go to pray to Allah, 
 when I went to Ali Bey's house. The little 
 Alim Azib was in the door, and scarcely had 
 he seen me before he came forward, bowing 
 with joy, and kissed both my hands. He told 
 me that Ali Bey was at Cairo on business ; that 
 \ the old negro eunuch had died of the Oriental 
 plague, and gone to see Allah, with the Great 
 Prophet. Lida, since my first visit to the 
 harem, had become pale and dull — had lost her 
 appetite, and wept day and night. " When 
 she is before Ali Bey," added Alim Azib, " she 
 tries to appear gay and cheerful. Now she 
 seems to be no more the sparkling star of the 
 seraglio ; she sighs all day, and remains long 
 hours to see the vessels coming from the sea." 
 
 All this history was a suflScient matter to 
 excite the imagination of a young man twenty 
 years old. I now became a Platonic lover — 
 full of compassion, and desire to save that un- 
 fortunate one. Although I could not trust 
 Alim Azib for his maUcious look, I asked him 
 if he knew the cause of her sorrows. 
 
 " Your first visit to the seragho," answered 
 the Arab boy audaciously ; " that is all. You 
 know that she is a Greek girl, an eternal enemy 
 to our nation, and follower, Uke you, of the infi- 
 
168 
 
 SCENES AND ADVENTURES IN THE EAST. 
 
 dol's religion. She told me her troubles ; and 
 more than that, I have in my possession a letter 
 that would send her, tied up in a bag, to take a 
 bath in tlie bottom of the sea." 
 
 It was a letter directed to me, and written 
 in the most pure and poetical Greek lan- 
 guage ! She asked me to rescue her from her 
 elavery; and said that she would be forever 
 my faithful servant, as Mirra was to Sardanap- 
 alus. " Let me see once more," said she, in 
 her letter, " the blue sky of Greece, all my sor- 
 rows will soon disappear. Come, take me with 
 you, wherever you like : Lida Hesperus will be 
 always at your side. Oh ! love me, pity me, 
 young Italian. Answer me ; let me know my 
 destiny, and what is your intention." 
 
 Alim Azib took me into a room of the house 
 where I could be unperceived and out of dan- 
 ger. Although I was armed from head to foot, 
 yet I began to think seriously of my dangerous 
 situation ; but the presence of Lida soon made 
 all my fears disappear. There we were alone, 
 only before Alim. She uncovered her lovely 
 face, and threw herself on my neck ; and weep- 
 ing, besought me to fly with her from Ali Bey's 
 seraglio. Her shoulders were covered only by 
 her long golden hair ; and around her neck, as 
 white as alabaster, she had a beautiful string 
 of pearls and coral. Her eyes were sparkling 
 and black, her mouth small, and her lips rosy. 
 She had a handsome figure, a tall and majestic 
 form ; indeed, was a true likeness of what we 
 might suppose Sappho, the poetess of Lesbos, to 
 have been. 
 
 We fixed on the next day as the time for our 
 flight. I was to send there some clothes by my 
 washerwoman, a Christian negro ; and Lida, 
 dressed in European style, was to leave the 
 house and meet me near the Franco Square. 
 Thus we seprated, to meet again on the next 
 fatal day. 
 
 Immediately after I left Lida I was attacked 
 with a severe inflammation of the eyes, which 
 became so painful tliat I despaired of ever re- 
 gaining my sight. The physician ordered me 
 to remain shut in a dark room, and not to ex- 
 pone myself to the light for several days. Think 
 what could be my situation and despair ! I re- 
 
 proached myself for having been so imprudent 
 and hasty in my determination to carry away 
 Lida from her master, and thus expose her to 
 more evils, and perhaps to death. I spent the 
 whole night in the most terrible state of mind. 
 I could not be present at our rendezvous, nor 
 could I find any way to let Lida know of my 
 sudden sickness. In the morning, at last, I 
 sent for my washerwoman : she came, and 
 promised me, in the name of the Holy Virgin, 
 to take Lida, unknown, to my hotel. The 
 hours were like long and eternal days to me. I 
 feared that she would be discovered, and arrest- 
 ed ; but towatds evening, 1 heard some people 
 at my door, all being darkness around me ; 
 and soon Lida's voice assured me of her 
 safety. 
 
 I shall never forget the care and attention of 
 the unfortunate and lovely Lida during my 
 sickness. She watched me day and night ; 
 and I owe the recovery of my sight, under 
 God, jbo her kind assistance. 
 
 Four days after the flight of Lida, Ali Bey 
 returned from Cairo. The devil was in the 
 house and in the city ; the irritated Mussulman 
 was looking everywhere for that unfortunate 
 slave. Had I been able, we would have sailed 
 for Athens, in an English steamer ; but, alas ! 
 I had to be the cause of all her misfortunes. 
 The lady of the hotel — a very religious and 
 Catholic woman — had concealed Lida in a dis- 
 tant part of the house ; but Alim Azib, after 
 having received fifty blows on his feet, told 
 Ali Bey where and with whom Lida had de- 
 camped. 
 
 The poor Lida was found, and taken back 
 to the seraglio, and dreadfully beaten ; and 
 I, after having been well chained, was conduct- 
 ed to the Tuscan consul, in order that he might 
 give me into the hands of the Egyptian govern- 
 ment. 
 
 Had not the janissaries of the consul inter- 
 fered, the soldiers of Ali Bey would have butch- 
 ered me while going to the consulship. I do 
 not remember how many blows I received from 
 them ; I had no time at that moment to keep a 
 particular account. 
 
r.artlott.A 
 
 
 '^^>//y//j7''/://u.j /f-//^- 
 
SIEGE AND HEROIC DEFENCE OF BALSILLE. 
 
 169 
 
 Umi^ AMID IHIISKDS® IDIgTOM(BI§ ©IP IBAIL^ITILEjIg. 
 
 We spoke in our last article of the safe return 
 of the Waldenses to their native valleys. But 
 though they had overcome all opposition, and 
 again reared their altars in their ancient places, 
 their troubles and dangers were not yet over. 
 Their powerful enemies resolved to make one 
 last great effort for their overthrow. For this 
 purpose the French king formed an alliance with 
 the Duke of Savoy, and their combined troops, to 
 the number oi twenty-tico thousand men, marched 
 into the Waldensian coimtry. Against this 
 overwhelming force the pastor and leader, Ar- 
 naud, could muster but three hundred and sixty- 
 seven men. Trusting, however, in that God 
 who had thus far protected and saved him, he 
 boldly resolved with his mere handful of peasants 
 to withstand this army of veteran troops. It 
 was useless to attempt an open warfare in the 
 valleys, and so he withdrew his band to the 
 impregnable rock of Balsille, and began to cast 
 up intrenchments. This rock, as presented in 
 the engraving, rises in the form of a cone from 
 the valley of Macel, or rather at the angle 
 where two valleys unite. It consists of several 
 precipices, rising one above another, whose 
 edges are fringed with scattered pine trees, that 
 give a still greater wildness to the savage scene. 
 The approach to it is through a fearful gorge, 
 where a few brave men could keep at bay ten 
 times their number. Into this fortress of nature 
 the weary exiles cast themselves, with the stern 
 resolve to conquer or leave their bones to be 
 picked by the mountain vultures. Their case 
 seemed a hopeless one, and their long journey 
 and battles and hardships were apparently 
 about to end in utter extermination. So con- 
 fident were the enemy of victory, that they 
 brought along executioners and halters w^ith 
 which to hang up the captives. 
 
 What a sublime spectacle did that rock then 
 present in the dead of winter ! All over its 
 massive form liung the snow-drifts, here and 
 there relieved by the dark edge of a precipice, 
 
 or the dwarf pine trees that rocked and roared in 
 the Alpine blast ; while in caves they had exca- 
 vated in the heart of the mountain — living on 
 roots and herbs which they dug from under the 
 snow — lay three hundred and sixty-seven brave 
 Christians, ready to die for their altars and 
 their homes. Like mere insects they hung 
 along that precipitous height, while the thou- 
 sands of their enemies were crowded in a dark 
 mass below. Shut out from the world around 
 them, exposed to all the severity of an Alpine 
 winter and all the horrors of famine, they 
 dragged out the weary months sustained by 
 that lofty faith and heroism which have made 
 the martyr and patriot of every age. But they 
 were not idle : every precaution was taken and 
 every defence made in their power. They dug 
 themselves eighty holes in the earth for houses, 
 each surrounded with a gutter, to carry off the 
 water, and then commenced their fortifications. 
 On the Sabbath they assembled on a small flat, 
 near what was called the castle, (the spot where 
 they made tlieir first stand,) and had divine 
 worship — Amaud preaching them two sermons. 
 Every week day also he assembled them morn- 
 ing and evening for prayers. In the morning, 
 at early daylight, these bold men wotild gather 
 together, and kneeling on the cold earth with 
 their heads bowed between their knees, listen 
 reverently to the prayers of tlieir pastor, and 
 then seize the spade and axe and labor till night 
 on the intrenchments. They made a succession 
 of breastworks, seventeen in number, each 
 higher up the rock than the other, so that when 
 driven from one they could retire to another^ 
 until they reached the sharp summit, where 
 they had resolved one and all to die. 
 
 The French and soldiers of tlie Duke, when 
 they saw how strongly the Waldenses were in- 
 trenched, hesitated to attack them, and finally 
 contented themselves with hemming them in, ' 
 hoping that the severe winter and famine would 
 force them to surrender. But they bore their 
 
170 
 
 SIEGE AND DEFENCE OF BALSILLE. 
 
 privations and sufferings without a murmur, 
 and still clung to their dens amid the snow- 
 drifts and cliffs of tlieir mountain rock, with 
 their first purpose to conquer or die. 
 
 At length spring opened, and the enemy, see- 
 ing no prospect of discouraging or starving out 
 the exiles, resolved to storm their intrench- 
 ments. So, on the Sabbath morning of the last 
 of April, 1690, they put their troops in motion, 
 and began to enter the defiles that led to the 
 first barricade. There was but one way of 
 access to the castle, as it was called, and that 
 was by a torrent which had cut a natural pas- 
 sage through the rocks. This Arnaud's prac- 
 ticed eye soon discovered, and he paid particu- 
 lar attention to it. He planted there strong 
 palisades, working upon them with his own 
 hands, and raised parapets of wall. He also 
 laid down trees, with the bushy tops towards 
 the enemy. On these he rolled a layer of 
 rocks to keep them down, and on the rocks 
 another layer of trees, and so on, until an al- 
 most insurmountable breastwork was reared. 
 As the enemy approached, the Waldenses open- 
 ed their fire with terrible effect, which caused 
 them to retire. At length it was resolved to pick 
 out five hundred men, and with them carry the 
 first barricade by assault. 
 
 In close and firm order this noble body of 
 men, sustained by a still larger body of peas- 
 ants, moved forward under cover of a terrible 
 snow storm, which filled the air like a driving 
 mist, until within close musket-shot, when they 
 halted and delivered their fire, then with a loud 
 shout sprang forward with the bayonet. They 
 imagined they could pull away the trees by the 
 tops, and thus open a passage, but the rocks 
 held tliem fast. Thus brought breast to breast 
 with the Waldenses, the fire of the latter could 
 be delivered with horrible effect, as indeed it 
 was. The muzzles of their guns almost touched 
 the bosoms of their foes, and when the word 
 " Fire !" rang along the breastwork, a volley 
 opened that laid the front rank dead at its base. 
 The second rank, however, stepped bravely in 
 the blood of their comrades, and with loud 
 huzzas pressed onward ; but that same tempest 
 of fire smote them down. The Waldenses 
 were divided in two portions, one of which in 
 the rear loaded the muskets, while those in 
 front discharged them. This made the firing 
 more constant and terrible — it was a continual 
 blaze there in the snow-storm, and the air was 
 filled with bullets, which rained in an incessant 
 shower on the devoted heads of the assailants. 
 
 The latter, however, bore bravely up till more 
 than two-thirds of their entire number lay 
 stretched on the rocks and amid the snow, and 
 were still striving desperately to stem the fiery 
 torrent, when the Waldenses sallied forth and 
 fell on them with such fury that all order was 
 lost, and the fight became a slaughter. But a 
 small band, without hats or arms, of all that 
 brave detachment, were left to bear to the army 
 the news of their sad overthrow, while not a 
 single Waldensian was killed or wounded. 
 
 Darkness and the storm finally shut in the 
 scene, and all was still save the groans of the 
 wounded. The next morning Arnaud assem- 
 bled his little band for prayers, and tears of joy 
 accompanied their morning thanksgiving. After 
 prayers they cut off the heads of the dead, and 
 stuck them on poles which they planted on the 
 palisades, to show the enemy that they had cut 
 themselves loose from mercy, and neither asked 
 nor expected pardon. 
 
 The French, overwhelmed by this great dis- 
 aster, broke up their encampment the next day, 
 and retired over the borders of France. On 
 that very day Arnaud preached a sermon, which 
 was delivered and received with flowing tears. 
 
 But the enemy had not abandoned their de- 
 signs, and on the 10th of May again marched 
 back and invested the rock of Balsille. In long 
 and glistening array the steady columns wound 
 through the deep defiles, while the roll of a 
 hundred drums and the prolonged blasts of the 
 trumpet made the rocks above the Waldenses 
 ring with echoes. Having learned wisdom 
 from their previous failure, the enemy advanced 
 with more caution, and investing the place on 
 every side, began to erect redoubts and mount 
 their cannon. The batteries soon opened, and 
 it rained an iron storm on the works of the 
 Waldenses. Not satisfied with this, they made 
 gradual approaches, by sending forward sol- 
 diers protected by fascines and sacks of wool, 
 who erected parapets in closer proximity to the 
 Waldenses. The latter, having no artillery, 
 could not prevent these approaches nor beat 
 down the parapets when raised, and hence 
 were compelled to witness the circle of fire 
 growing narrower around them every day. 
 They made sally after sally, but were compelled 
 to retire before the superior force of their enemy. 
 In a short time they found themselves entirely 
 surrounded. The French commander having 
 planted his cannon so as to completely uncover 
 the Waldenses, hailed them through a trumpet 
 and sent a flag of truce, offering them, in the 
 
SIEGE AND DEFENCE OF BALSILLE. 
 
 171 
 
 name of the King of France, free permission 
 to leave the country, if they would retire with- 
 out further resistance. To this summons the 
 Waldenses returned the following heroic reply : 
 " Messieurs, the answer we have to make is, 
 that not being subjects of the French King, 
 and that monarch not being master of this 
 country, we cannot treat with any of your 
 gentlemen ; and being in the heritages which 
 our fathers have left us from time out of mind, 
 we hope, by the help of Him who is the God of 
 hosts, to live in them and die in tliem, one and 
 all, even though there should be but ten of vs 
 left. If your cannon fire, our rocks loill not be 
 frightened at it, and we will hear them roar." 
 
 Bravely said, bold exiles ! the God of hosts 
 will help and send deliverance. 
 
 The cannon then opened with a terrific up- 
 roar, together with the small arms, till that old 
 rock trembled under the incessant explosions. 
 Still the Waldenses did not shrink from their 
 high purpose, and replied with their feeble vol- 
 leys. Before noon the French had fired a hun- 
 dred and fourteen rounds of artillery, and a 
 hundred thousand musket shots. The feeble 
 intrenchments of the Waldenses melted away 
 like frost-work before this tremendous fire. 
 [Inge gaps were opened in the walls, and the 
 next day was fixed upon by the enemy for a 
 grand assault, at three diflTerent points. Arnaud 
 saw at a glance that his feeble band could not 
 in their uncovered state sustain a general as- 
 sault, and so ordered them to retire by night to 
 an intrenchment farther up the rock. This, 
 however, was found to be impossible, for the 
 French had completely hemmed them in. 
 There was but one way of escape^ and that 
 was down the mountain over a frightful preci- 
 pice, and within sure striking distance of the 
 enemy's guards. It was impossible to carry 
 out their first resolution and make their last 
 desperate stand on the top of the rock, for the 
 enemy had got possession of it above their heads. 
 Thus encompassed and uncovered, they could 
 only turn to the God who had thus far defended 
 them ; and again he appeared for their deliver- 
 ance by sending at night a dense fog which 
 completely concealed the movements of the 
 besieged. Under cover of it they filed oj^t of 
 their intrenchments, and began to slide down 
 the precipices. If for a moment the fog lifted 
 before the night's wind, they would fall flat on 
 their faces till it again settled on the breast of 
 the mountain. With their shoes oflT to deaden 
 the sound, and at the same time make secure 
 
 their footing, they made their perilous way — 
 now letting themselves down a ledge, and now 
 crawling through a ravine, and at times so near 
 to the sentinels that the slightest motion of the 
 latter could be distinctly heard. At length one 
 of the Waldenses let a kettle drop from his 
 hand and roll down the precipice. As it went 
 jingling and rattling by a sentinel, he exclaimed, 
 " Wlio goes there ?" byt the kettle making no 
 reply, and soon ceasing its noise altogether, he 
 turned again to his drowsy watch. The fugi- 
 tives in the meantime had descended into the 
 ravine at the bottom, and by steps cut in the 
 snow ascended the opposite precipice ; and when 
 the fog lifted befqre the morning sun and rolled 
 away over the Alpine heights, the French com- 
 mander saw with indignation and astonishment 
 the little band he had made such immense 
 sacrifices to capture winding rapidly around the 
 crest of the opposite mountain. He immediately 
 ordered out a detachment in pursuit, but the 
 prey had escaped. 
 
 Various skirmishes after this occurred be- 
 tween the Waldenses and detachments of the 
 French ; but at length the Duke of Savoy 
 quarreling with the King of France, the former 
 sought the aid of his subjects whom he had 
 persecuted and driven from their homes. The 
 Waldenses received his proposals of an alli- 
 ance with joy, and fought as bravely under 
 their unjust prince as they had dwie for them- 
 selves. As a reward for their services, their 
 country was restored to them. Still as Prot- 
 estants they were subjected to various restric- 
 tions, and burdened down with heavy taxes. 
 
 When Bonaparte undertook the conquest of 
 Piedmont, they rallied bravely around their 
 prince, and were the last to yield. Notwith- 
 standing their stubborn resistance, Bonaparte 
 after his conquest removed all the odious re- 
 strictions under which they had suffered, abol- 
 ished the tax for the support of the Catholic 
 priesthood, and let them appropriate their funds 
 for tlie support of their own pastors, and gave 
 them every right guaranteed to a Catholic sub- 
 ject. After his downfall they simk under their 
 old oppression, in which they languish at the 
 present day. 
 
 Thus have we gone over a few of the most 
 striking incidents in the Waldensian history. 
 Every candid reader must acknowledge that it 
 is marked by extraordinary events, such as 
 have attended no people since the Israelites 
 performed their miraculous journey to the land 
 of Canaan. 
 
172 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 FAflHIim AM® KDAWlilSI'flgl. 
 
 A VILLAGE SKETCH. 
 
 EsQums W -, as he was called by all his 
 
 neighbors, had been out of health for a year 
 and a half. He was a man of about fifty 
 years of age; and up to the period of the 
 attack of his present sickness, had never needed 
 the care of a physician for a single day. He 
 had been a remarkably robust and healthy 
 man ; and in his occupation as a farmer, had 
 collected a large property, and was the richest 
 man in the vicinity. 
 
 'Squire W felt the full consequence of 
 
 his wealth, in a world where all men worship 
 money ; and although he was a kind man and 
 very hospitable, yet he felt above the most of 
 his neighbors, and his family visited in but few 
 houses around them. Their pride and distance 
 made them all unpopular ; and they were rather 
 the objects of ridicule for their hauglitiness, 
 than respected for their wealth. 
 
 A slight cold, the result of exposure, was the 
 origin of his illness. At first there was no 
 severity in the disease ; and indeed throughout 
 its whole course, he did not take to his bed till 
 the week before he died. It had come on 
 gradually ; each step so short and impercepti- 
 ble, that he was not aware of his being really 
 sick for some months. Then his extreme 
 paleness, noticed by his family first, led him to 
 think of other symptoms, such as a shortness of 
 breath and palpitation of his heart, occurring in 
 consequence of slight exercise or sudden agita- 
 tion of mind, which he had often noticed be- 
 fore, but did not regard as indications of disease. 
 They slowly increased in severity, or rather in 
 amount, till he found that he could not work as 
 formerly ; and he was eventually obliged to 
 relinquish labor altogether, and in fact to be 
 exceedingly careful in taking his daily exercise, 
 which often brought on alarming attacks of 
 fainting. His appetite continued good ; and 
 after a time there was no apparent accession 
 
 of his complaint, so that he was rather sur- 
 prised at his condition than alarmed ; though 
 at the urgency of his family, who had become 
 anxious on his account, a neighboring physi- 
 cian was called in, who continued to attend 
 him regularly for several months. But no 
 change took place for the better or worse. 
 
 I said it was a year and a half since his first 
 indisposition. About that time, for the first, he 
 experienced an attack apparently unconnected 
 with his previous disease, which brought him 
 to his bed. It was however but a new devel- 
 opment of symptoms, which continued for five 
 days, when they seemed to give way ; and feel- 
 ing better, he dressed himself, and walked 
 about his dooryard. The fatigue of the slight 
 exertion however overpowered him, and about 
 eleven o'clock at night he fainted ; and at this 
 time I saw him in connection with his attending 
 physician. 
 
 I am always unwilling to place my own 
 judgment in opposition to that of another who 
 has had more full opportunities for forming an 
 opinion ; but in this case I was convinced that 
 the disease had been misapprehended, and con- 
 sequently, not correctly treated. But it was 
 now too late. It was evidently gathering itself 
 up, and making its last and final assault upon 
 the seat of life. 
 
 This opinion I expressed candidly to the 
 attending physician, and my conviction that 
 the patient would experience frequent attacks 
 of this kind, if he continued to live, but that 
 he might expire in the first one. It was proper 
 that>this should be communicated to him ; and 
 we entered his room for that purpose. As we 
 took our seats by his bed, he said : 
 
 " I am sorry, gentlemen, to have given you 
 tliis trouble. I was unwilling to have you 
 called out at this time of night, and wished the 
 family to wait till morning; but they were viry 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 173 
 
 mucL iiMrnied, though I think without any 
 cause, and sent for you at once. I feel much 
 better now — as well, indeed, as I have felt for 
 some months." 
 
 And he sat up in bed to take the draught 
 which was presented him at that moment. His 
 breathing was short and quick, and his pulse 
 almost imperceptible, while his paleness, or 
 rather the utterly bloodless hue of his counte- 
 nance, was, if possible, much increased. I 
 stated to him my opinion of his case, which, to 
 my surprise, seemed to make no impression 
 upon him. 
 
 " I think you are mistaken," was his cool 
 reply. " But if such should be the fact, I am 
 perfectly ready. I have never done an act for 
 which I am not prepared to give an account 
 when called upon." 
 
 Shocked at his reply, I bade liim good night, 
 and left him in the care of my associate, whom 
 I agreed to meet the ne.xt morning at nine 
 o'clock. 
 
 I know no character so repulsive as tliat of 
 the man, who, as the close of an earthly and 
 godless life approaches — a life in which every 
 thought has been given to earth, and not one to 
 Heaven, save to boast of a worthiness and read- 
 iness which no mortal possesses in himself — 
 in that solemn and awful hour hugs to his heart 
 his own vain-glorious purity, and proudly tram- 
 ples under his feet the only hope worthy of a 
 sinful man — the hope purchased by a full 
 atonement. Who is ready to account for the 
 least of all his deeds — who, for the fact that 
 love was withheld where love was justly de- 
 manded, and when not to love was to hate ? 
 How awfully self-condemned must that naked 
 spirit stand the next hour, in the presence of 
 the utter holiness, and purity, and love it has 
 so long and so haughtily rejected and scorned ? 
 
 I was detained an hour beyond the time the 
 next morning, by professional business. It was 
 consequently ten o'clock when I reached the 
 house ; and the carriage of the attending phy- 
 sician was at the door. A ser\ant-boy stood 
 by the gate, and as I alighted, he told me Mr. 
 
 W was dying. I hurried into the house, 
 
 and went directly to the bedside of the dying — 
 of the dead man. He had just expired ; and I 
 stood in a scene most heart-rending. 
 
 Through the night he had seemed to revive 
 considerably, and had been very comfortable, 
 having slept soundly for some hours. He 
 awoke in the morning much refreshed, and had 
 taken a light breakfast about nine o'clock, with 
 
 his whole family by his bedside. Upon the 
 arrival of his physician he conversed freely, 
 and with more ease and strength than on the 
 previous night, and, in spite of all remon- 
 strances, insisted upon sitting up. He refused 
 assistance in rising, only allowing his wife to 
 hold his hand ; and when he stood upon his 
 feet, remarked that they thought him much 
 weaker than he really was. The words were 
 scarcely uttered before he fainted. They laid 
 him on the bed, and, when I entered, were 
 using every means to restore him. His wife, 
 in tlie midst of sobs and tears, was chafing his 
 hands, yet showing plainly, in her hopeless 
 look, her conviction that all was over. By her 
 side stood two manly sons, as if petrified by the 
 sudden blow, in mute sorrow gazing on the 
 form that they too felt was dead. 
 
 But the saddest part of the scene was to be 
 witnessed in the distress of the daughter, a 
 lovely girl, of about sixteen years. She was 
 clinging to the neck of her father, and covering 
 his face with kisses, which were only inter- 
 rupted by her earnest exclamations for help. 
 
 " Father ! wake up, dear father ! Why 
 don't you do something, Doctor ? He has only 
 fainted. Do something. He has often been so 
 before. He is not dead ; I tell you he has only 
 fainted, and will come out of it, if you will do 
 something. Don't stand so ; )'ou look as if 
 you think he is dead ; but he is not — he has 
 only fainted. Oh, try to bring him to ! Dear 
 fatherj don't you hear me ?" 
 
 Poor girl ! Her eye was wild, and her brain 
 too. Her mother said to me through her 
 tears : 
 
 " What do you think. Doctor ?" 
 
 I felt of his pulse ; and a slight quivering 
 motion, which I found under my finger, made 
 me think for an instant that there was still hfe. 
 I laid my hand upon the region of the heart ; 
 but I felt no motion there. Again I examined 
 his wrist, and thought that I felt the same flick- 
 ering I felt before; but if there was any, it 
 was almost immediately gone ; and I was about 
 to declare my belief that he was dead, when the 
 daughter again spoke : 
 
 " Why don't you speak. Doctor ? Say 
 something ! You do not think he is dead ? I 
 know it cannot be I He has only fainted ! 
 Don't you think so. Doctor ?" 
 
 It was a hard task to destroy the hope that 
 still lingered in the brain of the lovely girl ; 
 and when I said that he was dead, she threw 
 up her hands, and, with a wild shriek, fell 
 
174 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 heavily and senseless upon the floor. All our 
 care and attention was now directed to her; 
 and for some time it was doubtful whether she 
 too were not dead. But by the use of power- 
 ful restoratives she gradually revived, and 
 opened her eyes, when she was removed to an- 
 other room and left in the care of some of the 
 neighboring women who had come in. 
 
 ****** 
 
 I was about leaving the house, when Mrs. 
 W. requested me to see her daughter before 
 I went I followed her, and found the young 
 lady sitting up, but in an attitude, and with 
 an expression of countenance, tliat alarmed 
 me. She was sitting in a chair by the side 
 of a bed, upon which rested one hand in an 
 easy and graceful position, but the other hand 
 was pressed forcibly upon her forehead, as if to 
 suppress some severe pain. Her eye had much 
 the same wild appearance which it had when I 
 first saw her hanging on the neck of her dead 
 father ; but the wildness was increased to an 
 alarming degree. Yet she was quiet, neither 
 moving nor uttering a word. I sat down beside 
 her, and attempted to remove her hand from her 
 head ; but finding that she resisted the attempt, 
 I desisted, and took the other, which she suf- 
 fered me to do without opposition. Her pulse 
 was not excited, but beat with ordinary regu- 
 larity and force. What was the meaning of her 
 strange appearance ? Had I believed her capa- 
 ble of such a thing, I might have suspected lier 
 of counterfeiting a show of derangement. But 
 this could not be. Those fixed and tearless 
 eyes — that unmoving position, maintained with- 
 out change, and without apparent effort — her 
 whole appearance, in fact, seemed to tell most 
 plainly that her mind had received a shock too 
 powerful to bear, and had lost its balance. 
 
 I spoke to her, when, without altering her 
 position or moving her eye, she said, as if ad- 
 dressing some other person : 
 
 " He has only fainted ; if Doctor P had 
 
 come when he said he would, it would not have 
 happened. He will come to directly. I was 
 very much alarmed — but he will be better soon. 
 I am going in to see liim directly." 
 
 I attempted to lead her mind away from the 
 subject, but although she seemed to hear what 
 I said, she only replied in such broken cxpres- 
 eiona as the foregoing. Poor girl ! she was 
 evidently crazed with the intensity of the sud- 
 den blow ; but hoping that it niiglit be only tem- 
 porary, and being under the necessity of visiting 
 other patient«, I advised a composing draught, 
 
 and that, if possible, she should be undressed 
 and got to bed and kept perfectly quiet. I took 
 my departure, having promised Mrs. W. at her 
 request, to call in again in the course of the day. 
 
 The medical profession is every day accused 
 of insensibility to the pains and woes of llic 
 objects that require its care. It is thought, 
 somehow, that our constant familiarity with 
 human suffering, sears over our hearts, and 
 wears out our better feelings, so that we go 
 to our business as the mechanic goes to his 
 task, with a coldly Calculating view to its 
 profits ; or, if better things are allowed us, 
 only as the student of science to his studies, 
 curious to watcli the course, and progress, and 
 results of disease, or the elTects of remedies. 
 The probe that sounds the depth and extent of 
 the wound, however carefully and gently it may 
 be used, produces often intense pain ; and how 
 often is it made the evidence of a callous heart, 
 when that very heart was overflowing with 
 sympathy, and felt an answering pang to every 
 pain it reluctantly inflicted. Never was a 
 falser censure thrown upon any one, than that 
 which lays to our charge insensibility of heart. 
 There may be, and doubtless are, many in our 
 profession upon whom the imputation may 
 justly rest. But I speak not for myself alone, 
 when I aflSrm that as a body of men, physicians 
 are alive always to the most active sympathy 
 in all the pains of their afflicted charges. Tliey 
 may assume an air of stoical indifference — tliey 
 may wear a brow of unconcern and courageous 
 confidence, even when they have little hope ; to 
 infuse which courage and confidence into the 
 heart of the patient may be their great reliance 
 in restoring him to health. But underneath all 
 this calm and bold exterior lies hid a crowd of 
 trembling fears and harassing anxieties, that 
 makes day long and night restless, and life 
 wearisome, only for the conviction that his is 
 the noble and untiring task, with God's bless- 
 ing, to relieve human suflTering, and oftentimes 
 restore the almost dead to life, and to their de- 
 spairing friends. 
 
 Throughout my whole ride, on that day, my 
 mind was filled with the image of this bereaved 
 family, and especially of the stricken daughter. 
 Schooled in the same self-confident religion of 
 him who had just died, they had no source froir. 
 which to draw comfort, no staff on which to 
 lean. No wonder, then, that the mind should 
 grow giddy and fail in the terrible hour. It 
 was almost sunset when I visited them again, 
 and the body had been laid out upon the bed, 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 175 
 
 just as he had lain during his illness. The 
 family were seated around the bed, and by the 
 foot sat the daughter, with her hands folded, 
 but her countenance unchanged. 
 
 I learned, upon inquiring, that slie had ob- 
 stinately refused to take the draught I had 
 ordered, or to lie down, at frequent intervals 
 saying, that she was going in soon to see her 
 father, and that he had only fainted, and would 
 soon come to. With some difficulty I succeed- 
 ed in withdrawing the family from the room, 
 and persuading Alice, the daughter, to walk 
 with me in the garden in front of the house. 
 Hearty sympathy will win its way, even in 
 cases where the mind is willfully or from dis- 
 ease rendered difficult of approach. 
 
 Alice took my arm, and after walking a few 
 moments in silence, she heaved a deep sigh, 
 and said : 
 
 " I was sadly frightened at my father's faint- 
 ing ; it was so much worse than it commonly 
 has been. I do not know what I should have 
 done if he had not recovered from it. I have 
 so long been afraid he would die in one of these 
 turns. I hope you will continue to attend him 
 now. Do you think his disease is curable 2" 
 
 It was sad to see that she was still under so 
 strong a delusion, and I hesitated as to the 
 course I should pursue ; but soon determined, 
 at all hazards, to attempt to impress her with 
 the truth as it really was. It seemed at first 
 that she comprehended it, for she started and 
 looked me in the face, and exclaimed, " Dead !" 
 but the impression faded instantly. I tried 
 again. 
 
 "I was surprised, Miss W.," said I, "that 
 you did not weep as the rest of your family did, 
 when your father fainted this morning." 
 
 " I could not," she replied. " I wanted to, 
 and tears would have relieved me, for I felt 
 then, and I feel now, as if my brain was on fire. 
 There is such a burning here in my forehead. 
 But it is always so, for I can never shed tears 
 at first, though afterwards they come to my 
 rehef." 
 
 This then, I thought, may be the case now ; 
 and I hoped for the effect, whenever her in- 
 tensely excited feelings should yield, so as to 
 permit this great natural restorative power to 
 operate. During the remainder of our walk 
 she conversed freely, and even became some- 
 what cheerful ; but upon returning to the house 
 she sunk again into her melancholy silence. 
 
 Tlie funeral took place on the following day ; 
 but, although she was present during the cus- 
 
 tomary service, and followed the remains of her 
 father to the grave, no conviction of the truth 
 dawned upon her mind. She would start sud- 
 denly and gaze around upon the carriages and 
 the crowd of persons assembled, as if wonder- 
 ing what could have called them together, and 
 then relapse again into her listlessness. Once 
 she asked her mother, who stood weeping by 
 her side, just as the coffin was let down into 
 the narrow grave, why she wept so bitterly. 
 All relating to the actual fact of her father's 
 death and subsequent scenes, was utterly un- 
 realized by her, and she returned to her home 
 to sit in moody silence, and live in the continual 
 present ; for time seemed to make no progress 
 with her, unless she could be, for a while, cun- 
 ningly wiled away from the one consuming 
 thought. She would often speak of going in 
 to see her father, yet never made an attempt 
 to go. 
 
 At the solicitation of the family I continued 
 to visit her, though not with the expectation 
 that I should be able to do anything to restore 
 her. Change of scene was recommended, and 
 they spent several weeks in traveling ; but she 
 came home as she went, and sat down as if 
 she had never left the house. Her condition 
 was a very distressing one to all of us. Her 
 family, who had always been very fond of her, 
 were anxious that all should be done that could 
 be, and they spared no expense nor care that 
 offered any prospect of restoring the balance of 
 her mind, or alleviating her case. 
 
 It was strange that her health did not suffer, 
 yet it seemed to remain firm and uninjured. 
 She ate and slept but little, and could never be 
 induced to resume any of her former occupa- 
 tions. She had always been fond of music, 
 but her piano was neglected, and her voice never 
 tried one of her old and favorite melodies, and 
 when they were sung in her hearing, they 
 seemed to make no impression upon her mind. 
 The very memory of them seemed lost. 
 
 More than a year passed away thus, and the 
 grief for the loss of the father had diminished, 
 and the family of Mrs. W. had become again 
 as cheerful as they could be, with the melan- 
 choly condition of Alice continually before their 
 eyes. I had called at the house one afternoon, 
 and while seated at the tea-table, a violent 
 thunder-storm arose, which continued till late 
 in the night. I determined to make myself 
 comfortable where I was; and after tea was 
 over, a young lady who was visiting in the 
 family, took her seat at the piano. She played 
 
176 
 
 GOD SEEN IN HIS WORKS. 
 
 most exquisitely, and the evening passed rapidly 
 away. After having played more than an hour 
 she left the instrument ; but, as if seized with a 
 sudden thought, she resumed her sea% and 
 struck tlie notes of a favorite waltz. At first 
 it was soft and low, but gradually swelling 
 louder and louder, till the room seemed filled 
 with the music. As it began, Alice rose from 
 her seat, and moved slowly and gracefully 
 around the room to the time of the music. As 
 it increased in power she moved more rapidly, 
 and with her hands extended, as if supported 
 by some invisible partner, she still kept time to 
 the wild and soul-stirring music. All eyes 
 were fixed on her, but the musician still played 
 on. " Faster — faster," cried Alice ; and as the 
 tiine quickened, she whirled wildly but firmly 
 on — " Faster, faster ;" and the rapidity with 
 which she moved was terrifying, yet no one 
 
 dared to interfere. I know not how long this 
 continued. It may have been but a few mo- 
 ments, yet so agitated was I with apprehension 
 that it seemed an hour. I feared also that the 
 music might cease while she was so powerfully 
 excited, and I dreaded the consequences. But 
 it kept on, increasing in rapidity and power 
 with the reiterated " Faster, faster" of Alice. 
 
 At length she seemed to falter, and stepping 
 to her side, I received her in my arms as she 
 was sinking, exhausted. I laid her upon the 
 sofa, when a violent paroxysm of weeping en- 
 sued, and the long-sealed fountains of her heart 
 were opened, and she exclaimed : 
 
 " O mother, he is dead !" 
 
 She was restored, but only for a moment. 
 Three days from that time she was laid by the 
 side of her father. 
 
 (!&©I2) SMM lEM mU^ W(DIE1ES 
 
 There is a God ! The smallest flower 
 That spreads its leaves at morning's hour, 
 Whispers in accents soft and clear, 
 " My Maker's hand hath placed me here !" 
 
 There is a God ! The little bird. 
 Whose thrilling strain of joy is heard, 
 Sings sweetly from the waving tree, 
 " There is a God, who cares for me !" 
 
 ni. 
 
 There is a God ! Yon beaming star 
 That twinkleth in the sky afar, 
 Proclaims to each admiring eye, 
 There is a Crod, who dwells on high ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 There is a God ! The ocean's roar. 
 Swelling along the rocky shore, 
 
 Sounds forth in language deep and high. 
 His Sovereign Power — His Majesty ! 
 
 Each coral stem, each tiny shell. 
 Beneath the rolling waves that dwell, 
 Are viewed by that All-seeing Eye, 
 Which beams with mercy from on high ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 There is a God ! The thunder's peal, 
 The lightning's flash, this truth reveal ! 
 Oh ! who can view the stormy hour. 
 And yet deny His dreadful power ! — 
 
 vii. 
 
 Dreadful to those, whose hearts of pride 
 His glorious majesty deride ; 
 Who still refuse, on Nature's face, 
 The hand of Nature's God to trace ! 
 
THE TWO MEN AND THE TWO COUNTRIES. 
 
 177 
 
 flEIlE IPW© MIEIf AMID ^Mlg 'SPW® (S(D¥MfIEirilS, 
 
 CHALMERS AND O'CONNELL: SJOTLAND AND IRELAND. 
 
 A GREAT man's greatness is not felt till his 
 death. Not always true is this remark, for 
 there are some men of whom may be affirmed 
 a sort of greatness that enters the tomb with 
 the men, and lies there. Some men are so 
 great that the world is afraid of them, and 
 breathes more freely when they tread the earth 
 no more : they were monsters, perhaps, and 
 when they are dead and gone, the wonder is 
 that any one was ever afraid of them, or thought 
 them great. Such men have not the elements 
 of true greatness : the moral or mental power 
 that commands the homage of mankind, and 
 makes the man the hero. 
 
 I do not ask that others shall think as I do 
 of two men who have recently passed away 
 from this to another stage of being. If I write 
 freely of them and their deeds, let no one else 
 be censured for my views, if these views are 
 not agreeable to the reader. 
 
 Chalmers and O'Connell were at the head of 
 their respective countrymen, though neither of 
 them had a title to command. Victoria was 
 not more rnighty in Scotland than the Pro- 
 fessor of Theology at St. Andrews : the Queen 
 of Great Britain and Ireland could not rule the 
 Irish with her sceptre, as did the Liberator with 
 his cry of " Repeal." Both of these men were 
 heroes, and in their spheres were marked men, 
 whom the world stare at, and children run 
 after, and whose life is the life of the times 
 they live in, and whose death is a theme for 
 the living to talk of long after. A few weeks 
 ago, and the streets of Edinburgh and its house- 
 tops were thronged, and the whole city was 
 moved, to behold the funeral train of the man 
 of the people : — a few weeks afterwards, and 
 the same demonstrations of respect and rever- 
 ence were paid in Dublin to the memory of 
 O'Connell. The men were the best beloved of 
 their race, and when they died, tears — honest, 
 warm, feeling tears — were shed like rain over 
 their graves. The Scots loved Chalmers, and 
 
 the Irish loved O'Connell — there is no doubt of 
 it ; and I take the two men to mark the princi- 
 ples they lived to disseminate, and to form the 
 ground-work for a thought or two which I 
 would urge, on the comparative claims of the 
 men to the remembrance and gratitude of 
 mankind. 
 
 Scotland and Ireland ! The world has read 
 their history, and the world knows too the 
 causes that have led them to be what they are. 
 Neighbors as they are, sisters as they are, 
 with common blood, and common rights, and 
 common wrongs, each with a religion of her 
 own preference, and with the same motives be- 
 fore them for high and lofty progress in the 
 scale of nations, there is a contrast between the 
 Scotch and tlie Irish, so broad and marked, that 
 to fail of seeing it and feeling it is impossible. 
 
 Chalmers and O'Connell ! The world has 
 read their history — has had a chapter in their 
 history to read daily for many years. And no 
 man has seen the progress of either country for 
 a quarter of a century now gone, without see- 
 ing the name and the spirit of one or the other 
 of these two mighty men, like hero leaders at 
 the head of their countries' hosts. Both of these 
 men loved their country : they were p.\triots, 
 in the highest sense of that great word. I do 
 not challenge the sincerity of either of them : 
 they would have been martyrs for their owr> 
 principles, or willingly have lived a hundred 
 years to spread those principles. Both had 
 before them a common object for which they 
 toiled and suffered ; and both lived to see the 
 result of their respective efforts. Liberty in all 
 the earthj the elevation of the human race, was 
 doubtless the ultimate desire of both; but their 
 powers were displayed in first aiming to secure 
 for their own people that which they sought for 
 all the world. 
 
 Now look at Chalmers and Scotland — 
 O'Connell and Ireland. Grant that the former 
 had the advantage of a people far in advance 
 
178 
 
 THE TWO MEN AND THE TWO COUNTRIES. 
 
 Df tlie latter when lie came upon the stage of 
 action ; it will still be remembered that the 
 same principles which Jiad given the Scot the 
 pre-eminence, were carried out by these cham- 
 pions when they came to lead, Chalmers was 
 not only a patriot, but a Protestant; and the 
 strong features of that system of truth of which 
 the world first felt the power in the Reforma- 
 tion, were more vividly revealed in the Pro- 
 fessor of Theology and the eloquent preacher 
 of Scotland, than in any man since Knox. He 
 took the free Bible, and went out with it into 
 the world as the ark of human liberty. He 
 gave the Bible to the people, and then taught 
 them to read and understand it. It was the 
 doctrine of Chalmers, that religion and intelli- 
 gence were the elements of human freedom, 
 and he aimed at their wide diffusion, as the 
 grand security of what liberty they had, and 
 the only hope of more. In this Bible they 
 learned the great truths, not those only that 
 relate to God and heaven, but the truths that 
 lie at the basis of human rights, and make men 
 a world of equals, on the platform of a common 
 origin and destiny, made to differ on principles 
 as just and reasonable as the providence of 
 God. The truths of the Word of God it was 
 the aim of Chalmers to make familiar to the 
 minds of his countrymen ; and the one great 
 work of his life, which has been less dwelt on 
 than many others, was the wide diffusion of 
 learning among the people, that they might be 
 able to know the way of life through the reve- 
 lation from heaven. Since his death, the throng 
 of admiring eulogists have so delighted to dwell 
 upon the splendor of his intellect, the eloquence 
 of his lips, his own vast resources, and his power 
 over the minds of those with whom he had to do, 
 that his intercourse with the humble, his interest 
 in their elevation, and his desire to make the 
 poor rich in the highest of all possessions, the 
 treasures of virtuous minds, have been in some 
 measure overlooked. I have heard those affirm, 
 who have been familiar with his walks of use- 
 fulness, that the retirement of a cottage, or a 
 little gathering with the peasantry, or the 
 secresy of a sick chamber, or a congregation of 
 the vicious poor in the city, was the field in 
 which he appeared to nobler advantage than 
 even in his chair of theology, or the metropoli- 
 tan pulpit. The people were on his heart ; and 
 when he stood among those to whom learning 
 and genius were of little or no avail, except as 
 they gave energy to truth, he poured upon their 
 ears the messages of mercy to sinners by Jesus 
 
 Christ, with an earnestness, unction and power 
 that he did not attain unto when the titled and 
 fashionable crowds flocked to hear him in Lon- 
 don. Those who have thought of him only 
 as the great theologian may discover a new 
 trait in his character, as they read an anecdote 
 related by one of his brethren in the ministry 
 of the Free Church : — 
 
 "Sometimes it was my lot to be his companion 
 to some wretched hovel, where I have seen him 
 take his seat by the side of some poor child of want 
 and weakness, and patiently, affectionately and 
 earnestly strive to convey into his darkened mind 
 some ray of truth, that might guide him to safety 
 and to God. On such occasions it was marvelous 
 to observe with what simplicity of speech that great 
 mind would utter truth. One instance of this I 
 must be allowed to mention. The scene was a 
 low, dirty hovel, over whose damp and uneven 
 floor it was difficult to walk without stumbling, 
 and into which a small window, coated with dust, 
 admitted hardly enough of light to enable an eye 
 unaccustomed to the gloom to discern a single 
 object. A poor old woman, bed-ridden and almost 
 blind, who occupied a miserable bed opposite the 
 fire-place, was the object of the Doctor's visit. 
 Seating himself by her side, he entered at once, 
 after a few general inquiries as to her health, (fee, 
 into religious conversation with her. Alas ! it 
 seemed all in vain. The mind which he strove to 
 enlighten had been so long closed and dark, that it 
 appeared impossible to thrust into it a single ray of 
 light. Still, on the part of the woman, there was 
 an evident anxiety to lay hold upon something of 
 ■what he was telling her, and, encouraged by this, 
 he persevered, plying her; to use his own expres- 
 sion, with the offers of the gospel, and urging her 
 to trust in Christ. At length she said, ' Ah, Sir, I 
 , would fain do as you bid me, but I dinna ken how ; 
 how can 1 trust in Christ!' ' O, woman,' was his 
 expressive answer, in the dialect of the district, 
 'just lijypcn to Him.' ' Eh, Sir,' was her reply, 
 *and is that a'l* 'Yes, yes,' was his gratified 
 response, 'just lippen to Him, and lean on Him, 
 and you'll never perish.' To some, perhaps, this 
 language may be obscure, but to that poor blind 
 dying woman it was as light from heaven ; it 
 guided her to the knowledge of the Saviour, and 
 there is good reason to believe it was the instru- 
 ment of ultimately conducting her to heaven.' 
 
 Schemes of Church extension, schemes of 
 education, and schemes to remove the evils of 
 poverty, were objects that found in Chalmers an 
 efficient and untiring promoter ; and to the 
 effect of these we look, to learn the influence 
 which the man exerted on the generation of 
 which he was one of the leading minds. There 
 is Scotland — ^look at her and learn. The evils 
 she yet endures are the results of cruel and 
 unequal laws, which the next generation will 
 
THE TWO MEN AND THE TWO COUNTRIES. 
 
 179 
 
 modify or abolish.; but in the elements of human 
 happiness how large a share has fallen to the 
 dwellers among those hills. If knowledge and 
 virtue make a people happy, where is more of 
 the material of happiness than in Scotland ? 
 And when the lavvs of primogeniture and entail, 
 with the curse of a Church and State establish- 
 ment, shall be swept away by the progress of 
 free principles and sound political economy, we 
 may look for the onward rushing of that people 
 in a career of social, domestic and national en- 
 joyment, unexampled by any former experience 
 in their history. 
 
 It would bo a pleasure, not a task, to trace 
 the mind of Chalmers at work in all that has 
 been done in the last twenty-five years for the 
 advancement of sound political and religious 
 sentiment in Scotland. We should find him the 
 man of the people at all times, and willing to 
 spend and be spent for the spread of truth, and 
 confident always of final success. But I would 
 impress this one fact, that Chalmers, as a re- 
 former, rested for triumph on the power of God's 
 word, and by making this word the guide of the 
 people, he promised them the greatest good. 
 In this sign he conquered. And now that he 
 is gone, and men seek to know what he has 
 done for the world he lived in, they will find 
 that he has done nothing but to make religion 
 glorious in the eyes of the great, and lovely in 
 the eyes of the poor : nothing but to spread the 
 gospel among the people as the man of their 
 counsel, while he has taught them to read it, 
 and understand its claims upon the love of their 
 hearts. 
 
 Turn to Ireland and O'Connell. I know that 
 he had not the materials upon which to work 
 which the Scotchman had when he rose to be 
 a prince ; but as he had worse materials, more 
 ignorance, more vice, more poverty, more misery, 
 less liberty, less regard for law, the greater the 
 demand for the exercise of those strong powers 
 that alone are sufficient to overcome these evils 
 and exalt a nation that has been trodden down. 
 There is a charm in the word " EMANcirATioN" 
 that blends so cheerily with our treedom, that 
 we hardly stop to inquire what it means, and 
 without a moment's reflection we sing jMeans to 
 the man whose name is blended with it. And 
 when O'Connell is proclaimed the father of 
 Catholic Emancipation, we are ready at once 
 to place him among the great authors of human 
 liberty, the apostle of freedom in the nineteenth 
 century. But what has ii done for the mass of 
 ihe Irish people ' Has it made them more free, 
 
 more virtuous, more intelligent, more happy ? 
 This, I take it, is the test by which civil privi- 
 leges are to be estimated. If a man may be a 
 good Catholic and renounce allegiance to the 
 head of his church, who is a civil as well as a 
 spiritual prince and potentate, then he is enti- 
 tled to the rights and privileges of citizenship 
 in the land of his adoption. But if a Catholic 
 is still a Roman citizen, though his home is in 
 Ireland or America, he has no right to the priv- 
 ileges that are the birthright of those who love 
 the land they live in and the government that 
 fosters them, before all others, the world over. 
 But this is a digression, and is only hinted at, 
 for men to think of when they are weighing the 
 claims of their fellow men to the blessings 
 which seem to be equally the right of all. 
 They are the right only of those who will use 
 them for the permanent welfare of the whole 
 people. But O'Connell had his eye perhaps on 
 the elevation of his countrymen. I say perhaps, 
 for he has been charged with being infinitely 
 selfish, and with seeking only his own aggran- 
 dizement. Let it be granted that he was truly 
 and honestly a patriot, and lived only for his 
 fellows : it is the policy that he pursued as a 
 reformer that I would study to learn the wisdom 
 of the man and his claim to honor, now that he 
 is dead. His line of action has been governed 
 by the one sentiment that Ireland's degradation 
 is the result of her civil disability ; that if Ire- 
 land were free, Ireland would be happy. When 
 the Emancipation Bill became a law, and the 
 member from Clare could take a seat in the 
 British Parliament, the enthusiasm of the peo- 
 ple in the honr of triumph could scarcely have 
 been greater had each man been made a king. 
 But this was not enough to give prosperity to 
 Ireland, and " Repeal" has been the cry for the 
 last fifteen years, as if the severing of the Union 
 was to endow Ireland with the blessings that 
 make England and Scotland to differ from her. 
 Mistaken man, and miserably deluded people ! 
 Infatuated with the notion that O'Connell was 
 bom to be both king and priest, they have bowed 
 their necks to his feet, and their reason to his 
 will, and for years have received their lessons 
 from his lips. And are they any wiser, better 
 or happier for him ? The grand cause of their 
 degradation he has sought to perpetuate. Their 
 system of religion has enslaved and impover- 
 ished them, and that religion he has wielded as 
 the right arm of his strength. Had one tithe 
 of the power he has employed been spent in 
 the diffusion of knowledge among the people, 
 
 ft. 
 
180 
 
 THE TWO MEN AND THE TWO COUNTRIES. 
 
 especially the knowledge of the Bible and the 
 way of life by the gospel, Ireland would have 
 been at this day on the road to happiness. A 
 free Bible and free schools would have made a 
 free people of Irishmen, as it has of Scotch- 
 men ; but liberty without intelligence and vir- 
 tue, or liberty without the Bible, is not to be 
 enjoyed. O'Connell has agitated, and what 
 has his agitation produced ? Of what use is it 
 al this day to speak of the thousands and 
 hundreds of thousands that flocked to hear him 
 at Ballanahill, at Sligo, at Drogheda, at Eunis- 
 carthy, at Clare and on the hill of Tara ? Did 
 the seven hundred and fifty thousand that gath- 
 ered at once in these mass meetings of men 
 and women, learn the secret of being free and 
 happy, when they hung on the lips of Irish 
 agitators, and made the heavens tremble with 
 their shouts for freedom and their threats of 
 vengeance upon their oppressors ? They asked 
 for fisli, and he gave them a serpent ; they asked 
 for bread, and he gave them a stone ; and lo ! 
 the result. They have starved. 
 
 They have oppressors, and deliverance is 
 their right. But so have the Scotch ; and in 
 spite of the same system of proprietorship and 
 tenantry by which the rich are made richer 
 and the poor are made poorer, the people of 
 Scotland have a fair measure of happiness 
 among them. Life and property are safe in 
 Scotland : neither is in Ireland. Want and 
 wretchedness are in Ireland to a degree that 
 no other civilized land has endured in modern 
 times. And he that will study the religion of 
 Ireland will not be slow in learning that it is 
 the curse of the land ; and while it hangs on 
 the minds and hearts of the people, Ireland will 
 be degraded. Perhaps there was never a more 
 signal exhibition of the impotence of human 
 effort to accomplish a good end by the wrong 
 instrumentality. Ireland was diseased and 
 dying, but the doctors and the drugs were not 
 what the patient needed. They have but ag- 
 gravated the complaint and put far off, perhaps 
 forever, the day of recovery. The relief for 
 Ireland is not in the repeal of her Union with 
 Great Britain : she might be more miserable 
 alone than in company. Her relief is in the 
 diffusion of knowledge among the people — 
 knowledge that is incompatible with Popery, 
 and which will in any country work the over- 
 throw of that religion. O'Connell went to 
 work at the wrong end. He sougJit the abro- 
 gation of laws that will yield only to the ad- 
 vance of knowledge, which is power. And 
 
 when the schoolmaster, with the Bible in his 
 hand, may go through the length and breadth 
 of the Emerald Isle, diffusing there light and 
 life, Ireland will arise and shine. But the 
 Agitator and Liberator was not the man to dis- 
 cern the secret of his country's suffering ; and 
 though he was a giant, and toiled and fought 
 like one, and wielded a moral power over his 
 people sucli as no private citizen since the days 
 of the Grecian Republic has wielded, yet he 
 died and left the people as poor and oppressed 
 and despairing as when he first promised them 
 a parliament of their own. 
 
 I said that no one else may be blamed for 
 these opinions. They are the conclusions 
 reached by comparing Scotland and Ireland, 
 and asking what makes them to ^ffer. It is 
 natural to take such a review when two such 
 men, as their chiefs, are removed by death at 
 the same. time. The result of such a compari- 
 son will strengthen the confidence of Protest- 
 antism in its free institutions, while it shows 
 the statesman and political economist that the 
 safety of freedom and the advancement of na- 
 tional happiness are to be sought in the princi- 
 ples of religious liberty that the Reformation 
 and the Revolution have given anew to the 
 world. Let these be cherished, and the rights 
 of man will be safe. Temporary and partial 
 evils may remain ; and where these evils are 
 incorporated into the fundamental law of the 
 country, it may require time to work out their 
 remedy : but the religion of the Bible is sub- 
 versive of oppression, and as it spreads among 
 the people, makes them feel their strength and 
 equality.* Old wrongs they will endure till they 
 
 * There can be no more important or truer prin- 
 ciple promulgated than the one imbodied in this 
 paragraph by our correspondent, viz., that legisla- 
 tion cannot reform a people. As the source of deg- 
 radation and crime lies deeper than outward forms, 
 the remedy must go deeper also. But though this 
 is true, and especially important in this period of 
 sham social reforms, yet it is equally true, that a 
 people cannot be reformed while laboring under 
 restrictions that compel them to be ignorant and to 
 struggle on the verge of starvation. If you will not 
 give men enough to eat, you cannot make them 
 listen to moral teachings. Thus, while legal enact- 
 ments are powerless to elevate a people, the removal 
 of those which degrade and reduce them to starvation 
 is indispensable. This much, perhaps, should be 
 said injustice to O'Connell and Ireland, without at 
 all aflecting the position taken by our correspond- 
 ent. That O'Connell made a grievous mistake as 
 to the means of elevating Ireland is evident ; but 
 that he should have bent all his energies to the re- 
 moval of the terrible oppression under which his 
 
UNSEEN, BUT NOT DEAD. 
 
 181 
 
 can get at the peaceful remedy, but the wrongs 
 will be righted, and the people will have what 
 God gave them — the right to govern themselves. 
 When did two men die whose death has 
 stirred so deeply the heart of the civilized 
 world ? The one as a civilian, the other as a 
 Christian : both as leaders and reformers ! both 
 as patriots, with souls alive to the wants of 
 their people, and with courage to strike boldly 
 for what they claimed. There is a moral sub- 
 country suffered, was natural. A nation which has 
 been confiscated over and over again, which is 
 drained of ail her money and robbed of all her priv- 
 ileges, may well imagine that all her evils lie in her 
 poUtical condition. — Ed. 
 
 limity, too, in the mourning which followed 
 their departure. Not their native lands, but 
 distant lands, ocean-wide apart, lifted up their 
 voices and wept, when the tidings came on the 
 same gale that O'Connell and Chalmers were 
 dead. It is well to study the genius and 
 the principles of the two men, by the light of 
 their deeds and the results. And if in these 
 lines there is aught that charity would refuse 
 to say, or truth should have refrained from say- 
 ing, let it be searched out and rejected ; while 
 the facts still stand as testimonies of the power 
 that a free Bible, and a free school, and a free 
 gospel possess, and what they may achieve, to 
 make a people prosperous and happy. 
 
 WHSSISH, ilGT'IP E©^ llgASD 
 
 In my study lonely. 
 
 While the pale stars watch, 
 Thinking of thee only. 
 
 Some bright gleams I catch. 
 
 Oh ! then sorrow passes 
 To its kindred shades. 
 
 And from memory's glasses 
 Ne'er thy beauty fades. 
 
 Pictured on my spirit. 
 Gently lies thy form ; 
 
 Oh ! I seem to wear it. 
 Aye my heart to warm. 
 
 Though thou'rt unseen ever, 
 
 Lost to my embrace. 
 Far thine image never 
 
 Is from this heart's place. 
 
 If to be still cherished 
 
 In a soul once loved. 
 Is to live, ne'er perished 
 
 Art thou though removed. 
 
 If to one delaying 
 
 Here thou art allied. 
 Is to live, thou'rt saying, 
 
 " I have not yet died." 
 
 If to have a dwelling 
 For thy memory here, 
 
 In some heart high swelling 
 Is to live, thou'rt near. 
 
 If at every beating 
 Of that heart for thee. 
 
 Meet we, — ofttimes meeting. 
 Then, we seem to be. 
 
 If for aye abiding. 
 
 Faith, love, hope are found, 
 In these clay forms hiding. 
 
 Still to me thou'rt bound. 
 
 For these were the graces 
 
 Of thy life a part. 
 Which from my heart's places 
 
 Never do depart. 
 
 Therefore I, possessing 
 
 These gifts with life's power, 
 Still am thee caressing. 
 
 In each sacred hour. 
 
 K, in midnight dreamings, 
 Lost ones are returned. 
 
 Oft thy present gleamings 
 In my breast have burned. 
 
182 
 
 LINES TO THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 
 
 In yon stars now shining, 
 In all flowers and brooks, 
 
 For thee still repining. 
 Aye I see thy looks. 
 
 In the temple solemn, 
 
 In the forest wide, 
 On the mountain's column. 
 
 Thou art by my side. 
 
 At the secret altar, 
 When my spirit prays, 
 
 And my weak lips falter, 
 Lo ! thine seem to praise. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis true, wherever 
 
 On earth I abide. 
 Thy smile leaves me never — 
 
 Canst thou then have died ? 
 
 MHIgS m f HI^ (SAf SMILIL MKDOTfMHS, 
 
 BY REV. P. F. JtTDD, 
 
 Ye noble peaks ! — like bulwarks built, 
 
 Along the western sky — 
 Who laid your deep foundations there, 
 
 Who i-aised your summits high ? 
 
 'Twas He who spake — and suns and worlds 
 
 Obeyed his sovereign nod ; 
 Who, ere he brought the mountains forth, 
 
 Eternally was God ! 
 
 He raised your high, majestic domes. 
 Whose summits pierce the air ; 
 
 Ho heaved your massive pillars up, 
 And wrote His glory there 
 
 What mighty changes Time hath wrought, 
 
 What deeds of valor done ! 
 While ye have braved, unchanged, the rage 
 
 Of ages that are gone. 
 
 I've stood beneath your forest-shades. 
 And heard the wild bird's call, — 
 
 Or listened to the flute-like voice 
 Of some sweet waterfall. 
 
 I've loved to watch when noontide light 
 
 Shone brightly on you all, 
 Or see adown your graceful slopes 
 
 The lengthening shadows fall. 
 
 And, oh ! at sunset's peaceful hour. 
 
 That sweetest hour of day, 
 When cares and troubles of the world. 
 
 Pass with the light away — 
 
 When all the soul is soothed to peace, 
 
 And all the sounds that move 
 Seem charg'd with influence sweet and strange, 
 
 To bear the soul above — 
 
 I've stood upon your towering heights, 
 
 And from your lofty brow 
 Have gazed — from whence immensity 
 
 Seemed stretching out below 
 
 I've sought each wild, romantic spot. 
 
 And each sequestered nook, 
 And been whore human voice, it seemed, 
 
 Had ne'er its echo woko. 
 
 How have I watched the gilded clouds, 
 Which crowned you brilliantly. 
 
 And called the eyes I loved so well, 
 To come and gaze with me. 
 
 They seemed too pure indeed for earth, 
 
 As if to mortals given 
 To lead our thoughts from hues so bright, 
 
 To brighter hues of heaven. 
 
REALS AND IDEALS. 
 
 183 
 
 miSAlL© A'M^ HIDIgAILS, 
 
 Br JOHN PAUL JAIVIES. 
 
 THE BEREAVED SISTER 
 
 Ida BIentos was never easily forgotten by 
 those who had once known her. She could 
 not be. Her memory hung around you like a 
 thing of the bright ideal, which you could not 
 dismiss from your presence, even if you would. 
 There was a charm about her, which, when 
 once it obtained a hold upon the heart, could 
 never be dispelled. 
 
 And yet a stranger never distinguished her 
 above others. Well he might not. You look- 
 ed about her in vain for those external attrac- 
 tions, which are so often sought by the gazer. 
 She was neither wealthy, nor high-born, nor 
 yet beautiful, as the world understands it 
 
 It was not strange, therefore, that to the mass 
 of observers she was but an unnoticed wild- 
 flower. It was not thus with all. There were 
 those who knew her excellence. They sought 
 it where the wise and good alone seek it — in 
 the soul. And what a soul was hers ! So 
 pure and lofty, yet so exquisitely sensitive and 
 delicate ! At times, you would fancy, from the 
 vigor and enthusiasm of its flight, that it was 
 endowed only with the eye and the pinion of 
 the eagle. At other times, its intense suscep- 
 tibility of the most delicate emotions, would 
 present it to you as a thing woven of the 
 slenderest gossamer. She seemed to possess 
 one of those rare spirits, which in their higher 
 capabilities have " grown to an unearthly stat- 
 ure," and yet have lost none of those finer, 
 feminine traits of lovehness, that are inherent 
 in everjrthing beautiful. 
 
 While, however, such excellence was visible 
 in her as a woman, it was in another character 
 
 that it shone forth with its crowning beauty and 
 loveliness. There, every hue of the soul was 
 deepened and blended in a higher and holier 
 perfection. Ida Kenyon was a sister. She 
 had a brother every way worthy of such a sis- 
 ter's love ; and how deeply, how unreservedly 
 she loved him, you can estimate, who know 
 the nature of a sister's love — a love in its 
 brighter examples so pure, and so holy, that 
 no language but its own should essay to ex- 
 press it. Suffice it to say, she lived only in 
 his presence. He was her " soul's bright cy- 
 nosure." Wherever she might be, and what- 
 ever might surround her, she was unchanged. 
 Her eye seemed to wander about uneasily, un- 
 less it could rest upon him. You may doubt — 
 but believe me, men do not yet know all of a 
 sister's heart. When they do, surely it will 
 not be possible for them to be so often heart- 
 less. In the present case, the brother and sis- 
 ter were twins, and if brother and sister are to 
 each other what they sometimes are, and ever 
 should be — what must they be, when bound by 
 so holy a tie ? So closely were they allied in 
 fortune, and so firmly knit together in heart, 
 that it already seemed impossible for other than 
 the same destiny to await them. They had, 
 as it were, one common existence. 
 
 But, alas ! that such ties and relationships 
 can be broken. Such love should only exist be- 
 tween immortals. At length there came such a 
 severing of sacred ties as makes the heart ache. 
 The brother was stricken down by disease. 
 The hand of sickness lay heavy upon him, and 
 fastened him upon a couch of suflTering. But, 
 
184 
 
 SONG. 
 
 oh ! what a watcher, what a ministering spirit 
 grew to his bedside ! The same visitation that 
 brought down the life of the one to its last 
 sands, seemed to endow that of the other with 
 a new and supernatural energy. Hour after 
 hour, and day after day, watched that precious 
 sister by the sufferer, ministering to his wants, 
 and soothing his distress with a touching assi- 
 duity. No one could do it like her ; for she need- 
 ed no guide, no language. She had read every 
 smile and every frown that passed over his 
 features, until she knew his thoughts before 
 his lips parted. 
 
 Day and night passed, and it mattered not 
 that they came and passed again — she shrunk 
 not from her task. When entreated to yield 
 her charge to another, and seek rest, she 
 only answered with that mute and eloquent re- 
 fusal, which tells the heart's consciousness of 
 its own strength, and its unalterable resolution. 
 There she sat, her gaze steadily bent on him, 
 her brother, with that passionate tenderness, 
 which disregards the ordinary avenues of 
 thought, and strikes at once thrilling to the 
 heart. 
 
 But she passed not the ordeal unscathed. 
 Her brow and her lips changed. Their color 
 faded until they became like marble, and often- 
 times not the movement of a muscle would be- 
 tray through them the presence of that life, so 
 intensely wrought up to its mightiest energy 
 of endurance. It would have drawn tears into 
 any eye, to have looked upon that sister ; for 
 that silence and motionlessness were but types 
 
 of an agony of concern, that was grasping with 
 an iron hand the heart-strings within. Never 
 a tear glittered in her eye, not a sigh breathed 
 from her lips ; but that hidden anguish, though 
 it had sealed up every avenue through which 
 grief finds utterance, yet it could not conceal 
 its own bitter presence, or the occasional 
 glimpse of its fatal workings. 
 
 But why dwell on this ? She watched by 
 the dying. May I never behold the like again ! 
 When that bright eye closed, and the lips al- 
 ways so eloquent, started into its last convul- 
 sive quivering — when the quick breath came 
 and went heavily, and the pulse grew faint 
 and unsteady — when we knew that the hand 
 of death was already upon him — laying her 
 ;-hand upon his brow, she looked around on us, 
 as if fearful, but incredulous. 
 
 He died. When at length the sad truth 
 reached her heart, there was none of that gush- 
 ing out-burst of sorrow, which so often pours 
 its tears like rain upon the withered spirit. 
 She rose, and, with a strange smile, turned 
 calmly away to the open window. Every eye 
 was fixed upon her, and for a moment no one 
 thought of the dead. The living, if that may 
 be called life which reaches not the heart, 
 awakened every sympathy. A moment passed, 
 and she sank lifeless into the arms of her 
 friends. 
 
 The frail stem had broken, and the flower 
 began to wither. 
 
 S(DH(^, 
 
 Would'st have a song of the days of war ? 
 
 Of the deeds of the brave and free ? 
 O dip me a pen in a burning star, 
 
 And I'll write a song for thee ! 
 
 Or, give me the quill that the eaglo wore, 
 When he screamed upon the sea, 
 
 And shook the country the waters o'er, 
 And I'll write a song for thee. 
 
 I'll tell how the proud came over the waves, 
 In gold and in scarlet clad, 
 
 To bend as low as the lowest slaves 
 The hearts they had driven mad. 
 
 I see them now in their bright array, 
 With their kingly banner high : — 
 
 Come on ! you will meet the men to-day 
 Who are not afraid to die. 
 
 I see them now, and the casques they wear, 
 And the swords they bear are bright, 
 
 And gracefully float the plumes in air, 
 That the dust will stain to-night. 
 
MODERN WITCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 185 
 
 Ea(DlDIglM WiriP(BH(SiaAI§"IP UE IgWKDIPIg, 
 
 It is difficult for us, who in this day have 
 emerged somewhat from the fogs of supersti- 
 tion into an atmosphere where we can see a 
 little clear sky, to credit the voice of tlie past. 
 How strange it seems now, that less than two 
 centuries ago, multitudes of wise and good 
 men, in different parts of Christendom, were 
 not only believers in the reality of modern 
 witchcraft, but that they approved of inflicting 
 the severest penalties upon the imaginary 
 crime. But history is a sorry tell-tale ; and 
 the worst of it is, we are compelled to believe 
 her gossips. The annals of superstition, fright- 
 ful, horrible though they are, and full of puer- 
 ile absurdities, will well reward a great deal of 
 study. They are instructive, and the lessons 
 they teach it were well for us all to learn. For 
 mankind are naturally superstitious. We do 
 believe that the genius of superstition has a 
 very strong elective affinity for the human 
 mind, and that among the demons dispossessed 
 by the light of intelligence, this is very often 
 the last. It must be so. How can we account 
 else for many of the strange phenomena ex- 
 hibited by the notions and conduct of highly 
 intelligent and enhghtened men ? 
 
 The object of this article is to bring to view 
 one of the numerous phases of superstition — 
 to sketch the history, in brief, of modern witch- 
 craft on the continent of Europe and in Great 
 Britain, during a period of some two hundred 
 years immediately preceding the commence- 
 ment of the eighteenth century. We are sure 
 there are facts connected with this subject 
 which are not generally known ; and it is to 
 correct what is believed to be a very common 
 misapprehension in respect to the geographical 
 hmits of this superstition, that we ask the 
 reader's indulgence for a moment or two. 
 
 The Puritans of New-England are often 
 
 sneered at, by those who do not love their 
 memory — and there are many such — as having 
 been especially zealous in the matter of witch- 
 hanging. Is it true that they were singular in 
 this thing ? It is true they entered into the busi- 
 ness with an earnestness worthy of a much better 
 cause. They were thorough-going men, those 
 Puritans — no men of straw. It is true that 
 some learned men in their ranks were very 
 active in purging the conununity of witches. 
 They wrote learned books, too, describing, with 
 something like a ludicrous minuteness, all the 
 tricks and antics of those naughty supernatural 
 agents, who used to ride through the air armed 
 with brooms, and other equally formidable in- 
 struments, and who disturbed the peace of man 
 and beast in so many ways. These men, 
 moreover, hung their \'ictiras — a great many of 
 them, it is to be feared. Well, tlie Puritans 
 were superstitious — there is no disputing that 
 fact — they were superstitious ; and some of us, 
 who trace our ancestry to them, and are a little 
 in their way of thinking about matters and 
 things in general, are in no immediate danger 
 of forgetting it. We are reminded of it too 
 frequently for that ; and it is very kind, too, in 
 our good friends, who cannot bear to see us 
 guilty of the sin of pride of ancestry, to jog our 
 memory so often when we might be in danger 
 of hero-worship. It is very kind in them to 
 read us a chapter on New-England witchcraft 
 now and then, to keep us humble. It was bad 
 business, as we sa\4 before, that crusade against 
 witchcraft. What could Cotton Mather and 
 his satellites have been thinking about ? We 
 have no disposition to say much, if anything, 
 by way of apology for that stain on the charac- 
 ter of the Puritans ; though every one who un- 
 derstands those remarkable men must admit 
 that this crusade resulted from a misguided 
 
186 
 
 MODERN WITCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 religious zeal ratlier than malice. This we 
 claim for them — no more. 
 
 But why are these sincere, though misguided 
 men, pointed at as solitary examples of this 
 foolish, groundless, wicked superstition ? Did 
 they stand alone in the thing? Not by any 
 means. We are quite content to let the history 
 of witchcraft speak for itself; all we ask is, 
 that it shall tell the whole truth. Then we 
 think it will be clear enough, that in this not 
 very laudable trade of witch-hunting and witch- 
 killing, the Puritans were not " sinners above 
 all the Galileans, because they did these things." 
 Enter history,* with a rather voluminous manu- 
 script. 
 
 The belief that certain individuals have su- 
 pernatural power over their fellow-creatures, 
 is by no means of recent origin. To say noth- 
 ing of those spiritual possessions, the exist- 
 ence of which, antecedent to the Christian era, 
 is generally, almost universally, admitted by the 
 Christian world, witchcraft, in some form or 
 another, has had a prominent place in every 
 system of pagan mythology. At the advent 
 of Christ, the existence of witches was uni- 
 versally credited in the Roman empire. Witch- 
 craft was punishable, too, though it does not 
 appear that the practice — pretended or real — 
 of the arts so denominated, was considered an 
 offence against religion. After Constantine had 
 made nominal Christianity popular, as everybody 
 knows or may know, the opinions and dogmas 
 of the old Roman mythology were made to 
 coalesce with the doctrines of Scripture ; or 
 rather, Paganism was Christianized. The rude 
 uncouth system of Rome, which borrowed so 
 much from the superstitions of the Northmen, 
 was gilded over with Christianity. So far as 
 religion was concerned, the revolution of Con- 
 stantine did little else than to substitute new 
 names for old ones. The things remained, to 
 a great extent, unchanged. Only the grosser 
 pagan observances were abolished. The super- 
 stitions of the old rigime were transferred to 
 the new. The notions about witchcraft, some 
 of which have pretty strong marks of Scandi- 
 navian origin, were all retained, substantially. 
 They were modified, greatly modified — so was 
 everything else, in fact — trfsuit the genius of 
 
 • tor ihe authorities on which most of the facts 
 stated in this article arc founded, as well ns for 
 more minute information on the general subject, 
 see Dr. Hutchinson's History of Witchcraft, For- 
 eign Quarterly Review, No. XI , 1830, and Cham- 
 bers's Information for the People, art. Superslilions. 
 
 the Christian system. Very soon the pooi 
 witches, who had previously suffered only from 
 the state, began to be hunted down by the 
 Church. Witchcraft became a great offence 
 against religion, as well as the civil law. That 
 was natural enough. It was precisely the re- 
 sult that we might have anticipated ; and, ac- 
 cording to the generally recognized principles 
 of government at that time, it was right, too. 
 Nay, it was right, (and this is a pretty signifi- 
 cant fact,) according to the principles of the 
 law-makers and law-executors of England, 
 France and Germany, now ! If the state was 
 right — according to the standard set up by those 
 who wed together the civil and religious insti- 
 tutions of the nation — if the state was right in 
 its estimate of the matter of witchcraft, then 
 the state was right in nerving the arm of the 
 ecclesiastical power, and the Church was right 
 in striking those terrible blows, the records Of 
 which are some of the darkest stains on the 
 face of modern history. Be that as it may, 
 however, it was a dark day for the nominally 
 Christian world, when the Church was set a 
 witch-hunting. That memorable day occurred 
 in the latter lialf of the fifteenth century. 
 
 In 1484 a famous bull was issued by Pope 
 Innocent, enjoining, in the strongest terms, 
 upon inquisitors, and other faithful subjects, to 
 ferret out and to punish all such as were guilty 
 of the sin of witchcraft. The commission was 
 put into the hands of one Sprenger ; a man, 
 who, it would seem, wanted neither the blood- 
 thirsty spirit nor the superstitious zeal necessary 
 to carry out the plans of His Holiness. Then 
 came speedily a regular form of trial for sus- 
 pected witches — a form that afterwards went 
 by the name of the malleus malejicarum — the 
 hammer for witches. All the judges, in their 
 trials of suspected persons, were required to 
 use this hammer. Furious blows were dealt by 
 it. There never was a hammer in a smith's 
 forge tliat could make more terrible havoc. 
 And Sprenger was a very Vulcan in the use of 
 it. Moreover, the metal they had to work upon 
 was not always very soft. They had to strike 
 it pretty hard, sometimes, to make it malleable. 
 
 But Uie edict of Innocent was strengthened 
 by subsequent bulls. Alexander VI., Leo X., 
 and Adrian VI. — the latter about the year 
 1622 — each contributed something by way of 
 adding to the weight and efficiency of the mal- 
 leus malejicarum. The public mind was in a 
 fever of excitement about witchcraft at the end 
 of the fifteenth century. It is astonishing, the 
 
MODERN WiTCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 187 
 
 ravages of this absurd superstition, from tliis 
 time onward, for more than a liundred years. 
 But the influence of superstition, when con- 
 nected with religion, and when it virtually 
 becoiues religious frenzy, is like the mountain 
 torrent, leaping and foaming, and gathering 
 strength from its own impetus and from its 
 tributaries ; lashed into greater furj"^ by every 
 obstacle, until it overwhelms and destroys every- 
 thing in its course. Need we any other argu- 
 ment than this — the absolute, blind, intolerant 
 anarchy of superstition — to prove that the union 
 of the civil and the ecclesiastical power is an 
 adulterous union, and one that must be fruitful 
 of a fearful amount of mischief? 
 
 The power very generally ascribed to 
 witches — or rather, perhaps, to the evil spirit 
 who instigated them — at this period was well 
 nigh omnipotent. " They have a way of work- 
 ing," remarks an old writer, quoted by Dr. 
 Hutchinson, "by severall elements — earth, 
 water, ayre, or fire. Indeed," he continues, 
 " who can tell all the manner of wayes of a 
 witch's working — that workes jiot only darkly 
 and closely, but variously and versatilly, as God 
 will permit, the devill can suggest, or the mali- 
 cious hag devise to put in practice ?" It must 
 not be supposed that this superstition was con- 
 fined to a few bigoted ecclesiastics, and some 
 scores of ignorant persons in humble life. It 
 pervaded the whole community. Leading men 
 — professors in the universities, eminent jurists, 
 learned Jesuits and cardinals, kings and popes — 
 all, or nearly all, unless they were acknowl- 
 edged infidels, believed in the reality of these 
 possessions by the devil, and the absurd and lu- 
 dicrous antics he incited them to perform. 
 
 The witches " send out their imps or famil- 
 iars," remarks the sage chronicler of these ex- 
 ploits already quoted — and his liistory was 
 deemed authentic and indisputable at the time — 
 " they send out their imps or familiars, to 
 crosse the way, justle, atTront, flash in the face, 
 barke, howl, bite, scratch, or otherwise infest" 
 their victims. On the whole, we do not think 
 it very remarkable, that, considering the age in 
 which he lived, and the universality of the be- 
 lief in witchcraft at that period, so judicious a 
 man as Luther should imbibe the notion that 
 the fiend of darkness made predatory excursions 
 to this planet, which we might deem somewhat 
 beneath the dignity of this personage, and that, 
 in some of his nocturnal visits, he maliciously 
 stole hickory nuts and cracked them against 
 the bed-posts ! 
 
 If a person was suspected of witchcraft, and 
 was brought before the proper tribunal, when the 
 fever was at its height, he was condemned almost 
 as a matter of course, and sent to the stake. It 
 was believed that when the arch-fiend inducted 
 persons into his ser^•ice, he stamped upon them 
 certain marks ; and if an accused individual 
 did not first confess, she was immediately ex- 
 amined for these marks. If they were found — 
 and as they were very various in their form, it 
 was not difficult to find them — that was suffi- 
 cient evidence of guilt, and death was the inva- 
 riable verdict — for witches must not live, of 
 course.* If these marks were not found, tor- 
 ture was resorted to. Confession was frequent- 
 ly the result — the poor victims preferring death 
 to tortures of the Inquisition — and they were 
 led to execution. 
 
 On the Continent, vast numbers were exe- 
 cuted for this imaginary crime. In a single 
 year — that of 1485 — one inquisitor, in the 
 county of Burlia, burned forty-one. In Pied- 
 mont, another inquisitor burned one hundred in 
 a year. In 1524, upwards of a thousand were 
 burned in the diocese of Como, and for several 
 years after that, there were at least a hundred 
 victims. 
 
 In Germany, the fever raged frightfully. For 
 a century and a half after the publication of 
 Innocent's bull, no part of that country was 
 free from the devastating influence of the cru- 
 sade against witchcraft. In a period of little 
 more than two years, from about 1627 to 1629, 
 one hundred and fifty-seven persons were exe- 
 cuted at Wurtzburg. In this list are fourteen 
 vicars of the cathedral. In Lindheim, a dis- 
 trict containing at most, at that time, only six 
 hundred inhabitants, one twentieth of the whole 
 population were put to death in four years. 
 " How dreadful are the results," — we quote 
 from an excellent article in the Foreign Quar- 
 terly Review, — " to which these data lead ! If 
 we take one hundred and fifty-seven as the fair 
 average of the executions at Wurtzburg, the 
 number of the executions there, in the course 
 of the century preceding 1 628, would be ffleen 
 thousand and seven hundred! If Bainberg, 
 Paderborn, Treves, and the other Catholic 
 bishoprics, whose zeal was not less ardent, fur- 
 nished an equal number, and if they vied," as 
 history warrants us in believing they did, " with 
 
 • "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." — Exod. 
 xxii. 18. That command was deemed a suificient 
 warrant in the sixteenth century. 
 
188 
 
 MODERN WITCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 the Catholics, in the extent to which these 
 cruelties were carried, the number of victims, 
 from the date of Innocent's bull," in 1484, "to 
 the final extinction of these persecutions, must 
 have considerably exceeded one hundred thou- 
 sand, in Germany alone !" 
 
 From these bloody scenes, the mind of the i 
 historian turns away in horror. But to what 
 
 oasis in the Christian world, unstained with 
 the gore of victims to this Moloch, shall he 
 retreat? Shall he cross the Channel, and 
 seek for that city of refuge in England and 
 Scotland ? What says the voice of history 
 concerning our fatherland, during the era of 
 witchcraft ? We shall see. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The superstitions of England and Scotland — 
 those which have obtained the strongest hold 
 upon the minds of the people, and which have 
 exerted the most influence — are essentially bor- 
 rowed from the Northmen. They bear indisput- 
 able marks of Scandinavian origin. And just 
 here, we cannot help saying, somewhat irreve- 
 rently, we fear, that the Anglo-Saxons, take 
 them as a race, apart from all modifying and re- 
 deeming influences, are, in our view, the most 
 superstitious people on the globe. Britain, and 
 Scotland especially, was a perfect play-ground 
 of the fairies, from the time that the Saxons first 
 honored the island with their presence until a 
 very recent period. At the beginning of the 
 sixteenth century, and even in the reign of 
 Elizabeth — an era we so love to emblazon with 
 glory— the elves and fairies, if we may credit 
 their history, written by learned scribes at the 
 time, were performing all manner of antics in 
 Scotland, and occasionally riding through Eng- 
 land. They used to have caverns, it would 
 seem, where they manufactifred arrow-heads — 
 elf arrow-heads — with which they and the 
 witches did so much mischief. The arch-fiend 
 used to help them in this business, too — so says 
 the history of the times — finishing up and point- 
 ing the darts, after the elves had roughly 
 formed (hem from the flint. From these caverns 
 the fairies emerged, in the darkness of night, 
 and.mountedon broomsticks, corn-stalks, rushes, 
 and such other vehicles as liked them best, 
 they rode through the country ; and oh, what 
 havoc they made with the cats and dogs, the 
 
 geese and hens, and even the men and women, 
 that they marked out as their victims ! 
 
 We should not, in this connection, allude to 
 these superstitious notions of our ancestors, if 
 they had been confined to a few weak, ignorant, 
 and obscure peasants. They were not so con- 
 fined. The wisest men and women in Scot- 
 land credited these absurdities. With a great 
 portion of the people a notion of the existence 
 and supernatural power of elves, witches, and 
 wizards, was just as much an article of faith as 
 the Apostles' Creed. If, in the age of the fifth 
 James, any persons had dared openly to avow 
 their belief that there were not in the Scottish 
 realm multitudes of elfin spirits, who raised 
 whirlwinds, and shot invisible arrows at men 
 and beasts, they would have been branded as 
 heretics, and, for aught we know, turned over 
 by the Church to the tender mercies of the sec- 
 ular power. The Rev. Robert Kirke, a resi- 
 dent among the Highland Scotch, and the first 
 translator of the Psalms into Gaelic verse, com- 
 piled an essay, which was printed at the time, as 
 an instructive and edifying pamphlet, and has 
 during the present century been reprinted for 
 tlic amusement of those not quite so credulous, 
 entitled, " On tlie Subterranean and for the 
 most part Invisible People, heretofore going un- 
 der the name of Elves, Fawnes, and Fairies, 
 and the like." In this essay, the reverend and 
 learned author describes the fairy people as a 
 race between the human and the angelic. He 
 accuses them of stealing children, and of name- 
 less other crimes ; tells us what kind of litera- 
 
MODERN WITCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 189 
 
 ture they used ; how they proved their arrows, 
 and how they shot them, so as to wound their 
 victims without breaking the skin. But the 
 poor minister had to suffer cruelly — so his suc- 
 cessor informs us it was generally believed — 
 for his rashness in prying into their mysteries. 
 The good man was walking one evening on a 
 fairy mountain in the vicinity of his parsonage, 
 when he sank down in a fit, which the unen- 
 lightened took to be death, while the Scottish 
 sages knew it was a swoon produced by the 
 fairies whose naughty practices he had e.xposed. 
 The influence of a more enlightened religious 
 faith, resulting from the creed, or rather the 
 policy of Elizabeth, went far toward the ban- 
 ishment of those superstitious notions about the 
 fairies, among the more intelligent, at least. 
 But the great mass of the people were as su- 
 perstitious as ever. The change that took 
 place was only in the objects of superstition. 
 Witches were substituted for elves and fairies, 
 in the generally received creed of England and 
 Scotland ; and the new creed was a thousand- 
 fold more mischievous in its practical influ- 
 ence than the old one. A writer during the 
 reign of Elizabeth, or soon after, supposed to be 
 no less a personage than the Bishop of Oxford, 
 has, in an ingenious satire, quoted by Sir Wal- 
 ter Scott in his excellent work on Demonology, 
 fixed the period of the decline of elfism — if our 
 readers will tolerate the word — in the latter part 
 of the sixteenth century. Thus runs one stanza 
 of his satirical song : — 
 
 " Witness those rings and roundelays 
 
 Of theirs, which yet remain, 
 Were footed in Queen Mary's reign. 
 
 On many a grassy plain ; 
 But since of late Elizabeth, 
 
 And later, James, came in, 
 They never danced on any heath 
 
 As when the time hath been." 
 
 There was a good reason enough, apart from 
 the one which the royal bishop would assign, 
 why James did not have much to do with the 
 elf matter ; for if the voice of history is to be 
 credited, to say notliing about some statutes to 
 which his sapient mind gave birth, he was 
 so zealously and piously engaged in a crusade 
 against witches, that he had little leisure to 
 attend to the fairies of his native hills. 
 
 The era of witchcraft in Scotland — to go 
 back a few years — began with this James. 
 There were, it is true, a few executions before 
 him ; but it was reserved for this modern Solo- 
 mon to reduce witchcraft to a kind of science by 
 
 his profound spiritual vision. Catching the en- 
 thusiastic zeal that characterized the heresy- 
 hunters of the Continent some years previous 
 to his day, and not wishing to be behind the 
 Catholics at all in his measures against witch- 
 craft, he early distinguished himself in Scot- 
 land, by throwing all sorts of missiles at the 
 poor witches. And his antipathy to this gentrj' 
 was natural enough, when we come to look 
 at the facts. James honestly believed he was 
 about the wisest and most godly man that ever 
 lived, and that wisdom and piety would both be 
 likely to depart from the world when he died. 
 On this account, he conscientiously thought that 
 his majesty, the arch-fiend, cherished an especial 
 dislike to his majesty, the Scottish monarch, and 
 that the former was determined to dethrone the 
 saint, and hold the reins of government in his 
 own hands as aforetime. Whether James was 
 right in his suspicions touching Satan or not, 
 does not signify much ; but there are those, 
 among whom we must rank ourselves, who 
 think that, contrariwise, the Prince of darkness 
 had little cause for grumbling at the way things 
 were managed either by James the Sixth of 
 Scotland, or James the First of England. That 
 is a mere matter of opinion, however. 
 
 We wonder if the Scottish witches are iden- 
 tical with the weird sisters in INIacbeth ? They 
 seem to be. There is a striking similarity be- 
 tween the dancing of Shakspeare's witches 
 around a boiling cauldron, and some of the 
 capers ascribed to the real witches of history, 
 by those whom James examined, and who used 
 to contribute so much to the " admiration of the 
 king's majestic," to use the phraseology of the 
 times. 
 
 In 1690, James made a tour to Denmark, to 
 make love to the Princess Anne, and to bring 
 her home as a bride. Soon after his return, a 
 most wonderful witch conspiracy was discov- 
 ered, in which persons of considerable distinc- 
 tion were implicated. The witches, according 
 to unimpeachable testimony, tried to drown his 
 majesty on his passage home ; but he was such 
 a shrewd man, and so holy withal — we pre- 
 sume, tliough that is not stated — that he es- 
 caped. 
 
 It is somewhat remarkable that those who 
 were charged with witchcraft, in so many cases 
 confessed the crime. In some instances, doubt- 
 less, it was done under the influence of threats 
 and tortures ; but in others, it appears to have 
 been a voluntary confession. Many individuals, 
 we can scarcely doubt, were so infatuated about 
 
lao 
 
 MODERN WITCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 the matter, that they really supposed themselves 
 possessed by evil spirits. This was true with 
 a woman named Agnes Sampson, wlio lived in 
 Scotland at this period, and who, we believe, 
 was charged with having something to do in the 
 matter of the tempest wlien James was on his 
 way home from Denmark. The king had a 
 long examination of this woman, and even su- 
 perintended the tortures resorted to for the pur- 
 pose of forcing her to confess. Agnes declared 
 that one great object of Satan and his council 
 was to destroy the king ; and that the witches, 
 at his instigation, and under his direction, were 
 m the habit of holding frequent conventions to 
 deliberate upon the best method of effecting 
 their object. She confessed, particularly, that 
 upon a certain night she and other witches, to 
 the number of some two hundred, went to sea, 
 each in a riddle or sieve ; and that the whole 
 fleet, after having a right merry time of it 
 during the voyage, landed at a certain place, 
 where they took hold of each other's hands and 
 danced, singing at the same time a song — 
 which she repeated, but which is too silly to 
 be quoted here. These revelations, in the 
 words of Hutchinson, " made the king in a 
 wonderful admiration," and he had one of the 
 witches '• play the daunce before the king's 
 majestic, who, in respect of the strangeness of 
 these matters, took great delight to be present 
 at these examinations." 
 
 It may be worth a moment's notice, to look 
 into the specific charges against Agnes and her 
 associates, in order to ascertain what it was 
 that so edified the Scottish king, and " made 
 him in a wonderful admiration.^' The records 
 of the court show the following among many 
 other equally important items, in the deposition 
 of witnesses : " Item. She went with the witch 
 of Carrickburn, and other witches, in a boat, 
 the devil going before them, like a stack of hay. 
 Item. The devil, in the shape of a dog, gave her 
 responses concerning her laird's recovery, and 
 endeavored to putawa ano ofthe ladies' daugh- 
 ters. Item. She raised a universal great storm 
 in the sea, when the queen was coming to 
 Scotland, and wrote a letter to that effect to a 
 witch at Leith." For these and similar misde- 
 meanors, poor Agnes Sampson suffered death, 
 of courBe. 
 
 The case of Margaret Barclay, which oc- 
 curred in the early part of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, by no means a remarkable one in the an- 
 nalsof witchcrad, proves conclusively, we think, 
 that the witches themselves were infatuated ; and 
 
 that, occasionally, at least, they supposed them- 
 selves possessed of supernatural powers, de- 
 rived from the spirit of evil. This is an impor- 
 tant fact, tending, we cannot but think, to throw 
 light upon the causes of the universal belief in 
 witchcraft at that time. And here — though it 
 was no part of our intention when wo com- 
 menced this article, to inquire into the philoso- 
 phy of witchcraft, and to attempt, by reference 
 to any of the known laws of mind in connec- 
 tion with the nervous system, to explain the 
 phenomena, confessedly wonderful, exhibited 
 in the cases of many of the witches, otherwise 
 than to resolve them generally into supersti- 
 tion — we must call attention to one of an excel- 
 lent series of letters " On the Truths contained 
 in Popular Superstitions," to be found in suc- 
 cessive numbers of Blackwood's Magazine, 
 recently published. In the letter which appears 
 in the June number, there are some hints 
 thrown out, as to the reasons for the popular 
 belief in witchcraft, which are deserving of 
 serious thought. For our own part, we are 
 free to admit that the reasons of Sir Walter 
 Scott, in his truly admirable work on Demon- 
 ology — reasons generally received as good and 
 satisfactory — have never been sufficient in out 
 own mind to account for the phenomena. But 
 we must not be understood as having unquali- 
 fiedly adopted the theory of the writer in Black- 
 wood. 
 
 Let us probe this matter of Margaret Bar- 
 clay a little. This woman was angry with a 
 certain provost, who sailed for France. She 
 wished to destroy his life. So she, in com- 
 pany with two or three other equally amiable 
 women — thus the evidence runs — made a figure 
 of clay, to represent the said provost, and con- 
 structed a ship in miniature of the saine mate- 
 rial. While the company were engaged in this 
 business, in came the devil, in the shape of a 
 black lap-dog, and assisted them. Then they 
 all went together to the sea-side — this was soon 
 after the provost's vessel left port, recollect — 
 and threw the figures into the sea ; immediately 
 after which the sea raged, roared, aud became 
 red, like the juice of madder! The whole of 
 this, and much more, Margaret confessed. It is 
 scarcely necessary to add, that the unfortunate 
 girl was strangled at the stake, and her body 
 burned to ashes. This was not all. Several 
 other persons, implicated with her, followed her 
 soon after to the stake. 
 
 The persecution continued, though not quite 
 as violently, alter the removal of James to Eng- 
 
MODERN AVITCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 lyi 
 
 land. It must be confessed, too, that it was 
 very active during the era of the Puritans, and 
 tor some time after the Restoration. The last 
 justiciary trial for witchcraft in Scotland, oc- 
 cmred as late as 1772; when an old woman 
 was condemned by David Ross, sheriff of 
 Caithness. It would be difficult to compute the 
 
 exact number of those who, in this countiy, 
 suffered death for this imaginary crime ; be- 
 cause many of the trials, being in obscure dis- 
 tricts, were not matters of record. But the 
 black scroll includes, according to Hutchinson, 
 and others who have inquired carefully into 
 the subject, upwards oi four thousand persons ! 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SINGULAR class of people, take tliem alto- 
 gether, were the English Puritans. But then 
 they lived in singular times. The era of the 
 first and second Charles was a great transition 
 era in the Anglo-Saxon history. No one now 
 pretends to doubt that the order of things which 
 succeeded this era was preferable to the old 
 regime, however severely some may reprobate 
 the character of the men who introduced the 
 change, and the measures they adopted to gain 
 their end ; and as desperate diseases require 
 desperate treatment, we are not sure but the 
 sternness and roughness, the zeal and enthu- 
 siasm, the impatience and recklessness, of the 
 Puritan character, were the only elements 
 adequate to the times. But be that as it may, 
 there was little remarkable in the zeal of the 
 Puritans, either of Old England or New, so far as 
 the matter of witchcraft was concerned. They 
 did not originate the crusade against the poor 
 witches. They helped in carrying it on — there 
 is no disputing that. But by what metamorphosis 
 of history are they made out to be witch-hunters, 
 'par excellence ? It is ordinarily held to be no more 
 than civil, we believe, to " give the devil his 
 due." Common law seems to accord as much 
 to him. But really, some persons treat the 
 Puritans with a great deal less civility than the 
 conventional canons of courtesy concede to this 
 arch outlaw. I^et us throw up a few spade- 
 fuls of English history, and examine it a little. 
 Lot us gee if there was not a pretty formidable 
 army of witches in our fatherland, long enough 
 before Cotton Mather or Oliver Cromwell was 
 thought of. 
 
 It is perhaps of little importance to know at 
 what period, definitely, our ancestors began to 
 regard witchcraft as an ecclesiastical and civil 
 offence, and it would be difficult to ascertain. 
 Doubtless, however, the bull of Innocent, be- 
 fore alluded to, had an influence in rousing 
 public attention to the subject in England, as 
 
 well as on the continent.. At any rate, we 
 know that in the reign of Henry VIII. witch- 
 craft was denounced by severe statutes. Under 
 Elizabeth, too, another statute was framed. 
 But it does not appear that the crime was often 
 punished by death, until after the time of this 
 princess ; though there is at least one case on 
 record, in which, during the reign of Elizabeth, 
 two or three supposed witches were executed. 
 An old man, with his wife and daughter, were 
 tried at Huntingdon, for having bewitched some 
 children. The children, it appears, had fits, 
 and the old man and his family were suspected 
 of using a charm to produce the paroxysms. 
 One of the children was the principal witness 
 in the case. The trial must have been ludi- 
 crous enough. The bewitched child was 
 brought into the court-room in a fit, and one 
 of the accused persons was required to repeat 
 a charm, which, according to the evidence, 
 was the one employed to bring the child out 
 of her fits. The woman repeated the charm — 
 the girl immediately came out of the fit. The 
 sentence of death followed, and the unhappy 
 family were executed, steadily maintaining their 
 innocence, on the 4th April, 1593. 
 
 We come now to the reign of James — " the 
 most high and mighty Prince James, by the 
 grace of God, King of Great Britain, France and 
 Ireland, Defender of the Faith," and we know 
 not what else. As soon as he was comfortably 
 seated on the throne, he began to throw out 
 scintillations of his wonderful mind, to enlighten 
 his new subjects withal. He regarded himself 
 as a great luminary — a sort of Drummond light 
 — with rays of wisdom sufficient to keep the 
 whole nation in a perfect blaze. There is a 
 difference of opinion, however, abroad in the 
 world about this luminary. Some are disloyal 
 enough to think he was little better than a 
 Northern light, with all his pretensions ; and 
 some CO so far as to hint that it would have 
 
192 
 
 MODERN WITCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 been full as well for England, if the light liad 
 never proceeded farther south than Gretna 
 Green and the Tweed. We think ourselves 
 that the English people had not much reason 
 to be proud of the Stuarts. What a pity that 
 Elizabeth, with so much intellect, had so little 
 heart ; that among all the languages she spoke 
 so fluently, she never understood the dialect of 
 love ; and that she did not steal time enough 
 from state affairs to woo or be wooed. But let 
 'that pass. James set his pen agoing at once 
 in framing a new witch code. The old one 
 w IS too indulgent. The trap would not catch 
 all the game. One of the clauses in a statute 
 passed in the early part of the reign of the first 
 Stuart, which he wrote with his own hand, was 
 this : — " Any one that shall use, practice, of 
 exercise any invocation of any evil or wicked 
 spirit, or consult or covenant with, entertain or 
 employ, feed or reward, any evil or wicked 
 spirit, to or -for any purpose, such offenders, 
 duly and lawfully convicted and attainted, shall 
 suffer death." This statute was the fire-brand, 
 that, thrown among the people, already strongly 
 inclined to superstition, made a bonfire of the 
 whole land ; and for more than a century the 
 combined wisdom and piety of the nation were 
 unable to put it out or stay its fury. Hundreds 
 and thousands of innocent men, women and 
 children fell victims to this epidemical frenzy. 
 
 It was not long before witch-finding became 
 a profession in England ; and one Matthew 
 Hopkins, an infamous wretch, was for a long 
 time at the head of this class. The practices 
 of this fiend in human shape, will give some 
 idea of the extent and alarming nature of this 
 superstition, as well as of the silly tests that 
 were depended upon to determine the guilt or 
 innocence of suspected persons. From each 
 town which he visited Hopkins exacted the fee 
 of twenty shillings. This sum was paid into 
 his pocket from the public purse, and he stipu- 
 lated that for this sum lie would clear the town 
 of witches. It was supposed that those who 
 had been inducted into the service of Satan 
 had received in some part of their body a kind 
 of ordination seal. Hence one of the first ob- 
 jects of the witch-finder was to search for this 
 seal. If any unusual mark was discovered, it 
 was taken to be the work of the devil, as a 
 matter of course, and the supposed witch was 
 frequently condemned to death without further 
 ceremony. But sometimes the mark could not 
 bs found. Then pins were tlirust into difTurent 
 parts of the body, in order to discover it. The 
 
 flesh was supposed to be insensible to pain in 
 that spot ; and if the pins did not hurt the 
 wretched prisoners a great deal, it was conclu- 
 sive evidence that they were witches, and they 
 were executed. Another expedient in the 
 witch code of the famous Hopkins, was to tie 
 the great toes and thumbs of his victims to- 
 gether, and to draw them, wrapped in sheets, 
 through ponds of water. That was deemed a 
 meet satisfactory test. It was ingenious, cer- 
 tainly. If they sunk, they were cleared ; if 
 they floated, they were condemned ! If a witch 
 could not shed tears voluntarily, in the language 
 of the creed of Hopkins, or if she hesitated at a 
 single word in repeating the Lord's Prayer, it 
 was a sure sign she was in league with the 
 devil, and she was to be dealt with accordingly. 
 However, the tide of popular feeling at last 
 turned against this wholesale murderer, and he 
 came pretty near being caught in his own trap. 
 After he had pursued his trade for some years, 
 and had turned several hundreds of victims over 
 to the executioner, a party of mischievous fel- 
 lows caught him, and tried his favorite experi- 
 ment upon him. It is said that he escaped ; 
 but, at any rate, nothing was ever heard of him 
 after his ducking. The ardor of his fever 
 seems to have been effectually cooled. There 
 is nothing like water-cure in some diseases. 
 
 Sir Matthew Hale is not altogether unknown 
 to fame. Unless w^e greatly mistake, he is re- 
 garded as one of the most enlightened and 
 eminent of English jurists. But history informs 
 us that this man tried and condemned two 
 women for witchcraft. How many other trials 
 he conducted, we do not know; yet, in 1664, 
 Amy Dunny and Rose Calendar, being accused 
 of the crime of bewitching children, and being 
 brought before Sir Matthew, were adjudged, 
 after a long trial, to suffer death. The children 
 whom the women were accused of bewitching, 
 were brought into court, and on being touched 
 by the witches, fell into fits. Were the arts of 
 Mesmer understood in those times ? Hale — 
 the learned and excellent judge, for such he 
 was, unquestionably — was satisfied that Amy 
 and Rose were genuine witches, and committed 
 them to the tender mercies of the hangman ! 
 
 When North was Chief Justice, he set him- 
 self resolutely against the witch superstition. 
 One piece of imposture which was often prac- 
 ticed by those professedly under the influence 
 of some superior agent of Satan, was that of 
 pin-ro •«77t/i_i>". A nrnle sorcerer stood at the 
 bar of the Chief Justice, and his supposed vie- 
 
.MODERN WITCHCRAFT IN EUROPE. 
 
 193 
 
 tim was in court as a witness, vomiting pins 
 by scores. This magistrate was a shrewd 
 man, and by a little management, discovered 
 that the juggling witness, in her convulsions 
 and contortions, obtained fresli supplies of pins 
 by dropping her head dexterously upon her bo- 
 8<tm, where they were deposited. The prisoner 
 was acquitted. 
 
 It was after this, however, when Holt was 
 Chief Justice, that the first acquittal took place, 
 in the face of all the evidence before regarded 
 as conclusive, and on the ground solely of the 
 absurdity of the thing. This was as late as 
 1694. A woman, accused of witchcraft, was 
 tried by a jury at this time, and found not 
 guilty ; though, according to the creed of Hop- 
 kins, the evidence of her guilt was overwhelm- 
 ing. It must not be supposed, that trials for 
 witchcraft ceased from this period. Such a 
 notion is far from correct, and it is certain that 
 executions, even — a few at least — took place 
 at a much later date. 
 
 In 1711, Chief Justice Powell presided at a 
 trial where an old woman was pronounced 
 guilty. The judge seemed to have been in a 
 humorous vein, and full as much disposed to 
 have a little fun as to make a job for the hang- 
 man. One of the charges against the prisoner, 
 it seems, was that she had frequent interviews 
 with Satan, who transformed himself into a cat, 
 and conversed with the woman in the language 
 peculiar to that tribe of animals — a somewhat 
 unearthly dialect, it must be confessed, and one 
 which we, albeit not remarkably superstitious 
 or imaginative, have at times fancied had a 
 slightly diabolical accent. The judge asked the 
 jury this categorical question : " Do you find the 
 woman guilty upon the indictment of conversing 
 with the devil in the shape of a cat ?" The reply 
 was, " We do find her guilty of that." But the 
 question was put in such a way as to turn the 
 whole thing into ridicule ; and the result was 
 a full acquittal. 
 
 We might very rationally conclude, that the 
 farcical issue of this trial would have had the 
 effect to put an end to the ridiculous era of 
 witchcraft. But, though the fury of the storm 
 had subsided, the muttering of the thunder, as 
 the clouds retired, was heard for several years 
 afterward. It was not until the year 1716, 
 that there was clear sky. Nor are we sure 
 that the sun shone then very brightly. It is 
 
 hard to give up an article in one's creed which 
 he has believed so firmly, and which his ances- 
 tors transmitted to him, from age to age. These 
 heir-looms are sometimes cherished with won- 
 derful affection, just because they are heir- 
 looms. People do not always stop to inquire 
 whether they have any other merit. Indeed, 
 in their estimation, the merit of antiquity is all- 
 sufficient. As late as this year — that of 1716 
 — Mrs. Hicks and her daughter, only nine 
 years of age, were hung at Huntingdon as 
 witches. The charges on which these two in- 
 dividuals were convicted are too remarkable to 
 lie concealed among the rubbish of history. 
 Our readers will please to remember that this 
 trial occurred but a little more than a hundred 
 years ago, in the most enlightened portion of 
 Christendom ! The charges against this woman 
 and her daughter are, that " they sold their 
 souls to the devil, and raised a storm by pulling 
 off their stockings and making a lather of soap.^' 
 The catalogue of executions in England, for 
 the crime of witchcraft, so far as we have been 
 able to ascertain, closes with this ; and it could 
 scarcely have had a more fitting climax. It 
 was not, however, until the middle of the 
 eighteenth century, that the statutes of Henry 
 VIII. and his successors were abolished. 
 
 The list of those who perished in England, 
 as the offerings to this Moloch, is frightful in 
 the extreme. Barrington, in his observations 
 on these statutes, quoted by the excellent 
 writer in the Foreign Quarterly Review, al- 
 ready repeatedly alluded to, does not hesitate 
 to estimate the number at thirty thousand ! 
 
 No one, with tolerable acuteness of percep- 
 tion, can help perceiving that the genius of 
 history, in the matter of withcraft, reads to us 
 some lessons of great value. The one promi- 
 nent lesson, however, for which, we confess, we 
 invoked this genius, was that the Puritans of 
 New-England, in their superstitious sentiments 
 and barbarous measures respecting witchcraft, 
 did no more than echo the sentiments and adopt 
 the measures then current throughout Europe. 
 Would it not be wise, then — to say nothing 
 about the decorum of the thing — for those who 
 must throw sticks and stones at the character 
 of the Puritans — and there are some apostles 
 who appear to think they have a divine com- 
 mission to do so — to select some other missiles 
 tlian the gibbets of the seventeenth century ? 
 
194 
 
 THE ROYAL EXECUTION. 
 
 ei 33as»afle from tje ^Qistorg of 33etiro 1J)C ©cuel, 
 
 By MRS. ELLET. 
 
 It was in the ancient days of Castile, that a 
 young man, who carried on the business of an 
 armorer, stood in the door of his dwelling, in 
 one of the streets of Madrid, late on a summer 
 afternoon, watching, apparently, for some one 
 to pass by. 
 
 He had not waited long, when the person he 
 wished to see came along the street. It was 
 Michael, the goldsmith, who lived near at hand, 
 and was going homeward. 
 
 As he heard himself called by his neighbor, 
 the goldsmith stopped, and, beckoned by the ar- 
 morer, entered his house. The latter, with mys- 
 terious looks, and saying he had something to 
 communicate, led him into an inner apartment. 
 
 " I pray thee, be brief," said Michael ; " I 
 am in haste." 
 
 " What I have to say touches thee nearly, 
 Michael," answered the other, " and may well 
 be delivered with caution ; yet the truth need- 
 eth no preface. Know, then, that the pretty 
 Fatimia findeth pastime more to her taste in thy 
 absence than to sell jewels, or watch, pensive, 
 for thy return." 
 
 " What meanest thou ?" exclaimed the gold- 
 smith. " My wife " 
 
 " Thy wife holdeth converse with a gallant 
 of stately bearing — one of the nobility, belike. 
 At noon to-day I saw him enter the shop. I 
 watched him from the corner : he stayed an 
 hour with Fatimia, and came forth with chains 
 and rings he had bought of her. I saw her in 
 pleasant discourse with him as he left the door, 
 and heard him promise to come again speedily." 
 
 " Villain ! thou beliest her !" cried Michael, 
 in anger. " I know well that thou hast sought 
 favor from Fatimia, and hast felt her scorn !" 
 
 " I ask not belief for words of mine," replied 
 tiie armorer. " Thou may'st see for thyself 
 I have seen the same gallant walking often 
 through the streets, and marked him by his 
 haughty mien. Como to-morrow, at noon ; it 
 may be he will return at that time." 
 
 The goldsmith assented, gloomily, and went 
 to his own house, where his young wife re- 
 ceived him with a cheerful welcome. His 
 unwonted sullenness and reserve, however, 
 checked the flow of her confidence, and she 
 did not tell him, as she meant, all that had 
 passed during the day. 
 
 Fatimia was beautiful — she knew it, and 
 loved admiration. The compliments she re- 
 ceived she regarded only as her proper tributes, 
 and repaid them with bright smiles. Her heart 
 belonged only to her husband. She would have 
 told him all that happened, but his jealousy and 
 quickness to anger often made her afraid to 
 speak openly. 
 
 Michael left home the next morning as usual, 
 saying he should not return till evening. But 
 he went no further than the dwelling of the ar- 
 morer, from the window of which he could see 
 whoever passed along the street. 
 
 At noon, as expected, the unknown visitor 
 of the fair Fatimia was seen to go towards the 
 goldsmith's shop. He was simply dressed, but 
 his aristocratic air and noble features bespoke 
 him a person of rank. As he approached the 
 shop, the lovely face of Fatimia, wreathed with 
 smiles, was seen at the window a moment ; it 
 quickly vanished ; she appeared at the door, 
 and greeted the handsome stranger, who bowed 
 courteously and went in. 
 
 All this was torture to the jealous Michael. 
 His rage was increased by the taunting looks 
 and whispered inuendos of Giacomo, the ar- 
 morer. Unable longer to control himself, he 
 rushed out, and hastened to his own house, 
 muttering threats of vengeance. He was fol- 
 lowed by Giacomo, who wished to see the 
 sport. 
 
 In llie midst of the courtly stranger's flatter- 
 ing speeches to tlie beautiful Fatimia, and her 
 graceful coquetries, the door was flung oj)en. 
 Michael burst in, and seizing the young noble, 
 dragged him towards the door. A violent strug- 
 
THE ROYAL EXECUTION. 
 
 195 
 
 gie ensued ; but it was soon terminated. The 
 str.mger, having freed his right hand, drew his 
 dagger, and instantly buried it in the breast of 
 the goldsmith. The armorer, who had pressed 
 to Ills friend's assistance, shared the same fate. 
 Both fell, and expired, at the stranger's feet. 
 During this frightful scene, Fatimia had filled 
 the air with her shrieks. The neighbors ran 
 towards the place ; the police came up ; and the 
 officer of the guard hastened to arrest the as- 
 sassin. But as they came near, and met his 
 steadfast look, they stopped in amazement. 
 '• The king !'' broke from the officer's lips, 
 while the guard lowered their weapons. " The 
 king !" was repeated from mouth to mouth 
 among tlie crowd, and several hurried away, 
 fearful of being involved in the consequences. 
 The royal offender himself, undisturbed by any 
 one, walked slowly towards the castle. 
 
 Not long after, a decree was sent forth, for- 
 bidding any of Don Pedro's subjects, on pain of 
 death, to speak of the strange event that had 
 transpired in the capital. The same day, to 
 the astonishment of the haughty monarch, he 
 received a citation to appear before the criminal 
 court, to answer to the charge of murder. 
 
 A council was called of the nobles of his 
 court. Don Pedro laid the citation before 
 them, and requested their advice as to his 
 reply. There was a murmured consultation 
 of a few moments, and then one of tliem made 
 answer : 
 
 " We are all of opinion, may it please your 
 majesty, that in serving such a citation, Don 
 Henriquez, the chief judge, is guilty of high 
 treason, and deserveth death." 
 
 " Nay," returned the king, " he shall not die ; 
 but he shall be questioned, whether he hath lost 
 his reason or not, that he dares arraign his sove- 
 reign as a criminal." 
 
 The message was conveyed to Don Henri- 
 quez. His reply was : " The mighty king, Don 
 Pedro, of Castile, hath placed me in office to 
 uphold the laws in his capital of Madrid, and to 
 punish violence and wrong, without respect to 
 the rank of the offender. Don Pedro is guilty 
 of a two-fold murder, and the law is his accuser. 
 He is bound to appear at the tribunal, to hear 
 the accusation, and receive the sentence that 
 may be pronounced. For myself, I am the 
 king's most faithful subject. If he dismiss me 
 from the office I hold, it is well ; but so long as 
 I am chief judge in Madrid, I must do my duty. 
 My life is in tlie hand of God, as is the king's ; 
 and both of us shall answer before Him." 
 
 This message was delivered to Don Pedro, 
 who grew pale with shame and anger as he 
 heard it. There was a murmur of indignation 
 throughout the whole court. " Let the traitor 
 be hanged, and that instantly !" exclaimed many 
 voices. 
 
 The king rose, and commanded silence ; then 
 called his first chamberlain. 
 
 " Go," he said, " to the chief judge, even Don 
 Henriquez. Say to him, that Don Pedro will 
 obey his summons, and will appear before the 
 tribunal." 
 
 The day of trial came. The king appeared 
 in person at the tribunal, stern and proud in 
 demeanor, but prepared to submit to what the 
 law required. The chief judge addressed the 
 subordinate judges and the accuser, and ad- 
 monished them that they were not to permit the 
 rank of the criminal to influence their judg- 
 ment. "It is not for those," he said, " whom 
 God hath appointed to administer the laws, to 
 violate them with impunity. The king stands 
 not before you ; it is but the Tnan, accused of 
 taking the lives of his fellow-beings." 
 
 The accuser then came forward, and boldly 
 made his charge. Don Pedro's clandestine 
 visits to the goldsmith's shop, and his attempts 
 to win the favor of the goldsmith's handsome 
 wife, were detailed ; also his encounter with 
 Michael, wlien*he came to expel the intruder, 
 and vindicate the honor of his house ; with the 
 assassination of both the goldsmith and the ar- 
 morer. 
 
 At the word " clandestine," a slight move- 
 ment of the king's features was seen, and he 
 cast an angry glance at the speaker, but said 
 nothing. The accuser went on to describe the 
 scene of blood, painted the horrors of the crime 
 with fearful fidelity, and concluded by calling 
 upon the judges to avenge the deed, and pun- 
 ish the murderer, according to the law of Cas- 
 tile. 
 
 The chief judge then called upon the accused 
 for his defence. Don Pedro preserved a sullen 
 silence. A pleader was authorized to speak 
 for him, and he put forth his best efforts in be- 
 half of his royal client. But the proof the crime 
 was clear. The chief judge then pronounced 
 sentence upon Don Pedro, found guilty of two 
 murders. He was sentenced to have his head 
 struck off in the public market-place. " But," 
 concluded Don Henriquez, " inasmuch as Don 
 Pedro is our anointed sovereign, and his person 
 is sacred, our sentence must be executed upon 
 
198 
 
 RAMBLES IN WALES. 
 
 BY THE EDITOH. 
 PENRYNN QUARRIES— HOMEWARD BOUND— SCOTCH BOY— STORM AT SEA— HOME, 
 
 The north coast of Wales is studded with old 
 castles — some of which are in ruins, and others 
 in a good state of preservation. Many a fierce 
 struggle and wild tale they could tell, could they 
 but reveal their history. Cromwell's army has 
 thundered against their walls, and England's 
 chivalry dashed over their battlements; and 
 deeds of daring, and of darkness too, stained 
 every stone with blood. Our road lay right 
 along the base of one, with old towers still 
 standing, and the ancient drawbridge still rest- 
 ing on its ancient foundations. A little farther 
 on, the whole breast of the mountain seemed 
 converted into a modem castle ; for ramparts 
 rose over every ridge, and turreted battlements 
 stretched along every precipitous height. 
 
 Nothing can be more bleak and desolate than 
 the north coast of Wales. The rocky shores, 
 treeless, shrubless mountains, and ruined cas- 
 tles, combine to render the scene sombre and 
 gloomy. At length we reached Bangor, from 
 whence I made a visit to the slate quarries of 
 Mr. Tennant. This gentleman was ail Eng- 
 lish Colonel ; but being so fortunate as to marry 
 the only daughter of the owner of these exten- 
 sive quarries, he threw up his profession, and 
 (settled down in Wales. Becoming sole heir to 
 Penrynn Castle, on the death of his father-in- 
 law, he improved it by additions and renova- 
 tions ; till how, with its extensive and beautiful 
 grounds, it is well worth a visit. The quarries, 
 however, were more interesting to me than the 
 castle, for they are said to be the largest in the 
 world ; yielding the proprietor a nett income of 
 nearly one hundred thousand dollars per annum. 
 Tlie whole mountain, in which these quarries 
 are dug, is composed of slate. At the base of 
 it the miners commenced, and dug, in a semi- 
 circular form, into its very heart. They then 
 blasted back and up a terrace all around the 
 space they liad made, some thirty or forty feet 
 from the bottom. About the same distance 
 above this terrace, they ran anotlicr around. 
 
 until they terraced the mountain in the form of 
 an amphitheatre, to the very top. Around each 
 terrace runs a railroad, to carry out the slate ; 
 while small stone huts are placed here and 
 there, to shelter the workmen when a blast 
 occurs near them. These terraces are filled 
 with workmen, who look, from below, like so 
 many ants crawling over the rocks. Taking 
 one of these as a guide, I rambled over the 
 quarries, in a more excited state than one 
 usually views so plain and practical an object ; 
 for the blasts, that occur every few moments, 
 keep the mountain in an uproar. The amphi- 
 theatre is so far across, that a person need not 
 fear a blast from the opposite side ; but one 
 from the terrace he is on, or from the one 
 above or below him, is always more or less 
 dangerous. To prevent accidents, just before 
 a blast takes place, the man who is to fire it 
 steps to the edge of the terrace, and halloos, 
 " he hoo /" at which all in the neighborlioodrun 
 for the stone cabins, like prairie dogs for their 
 holes. Again and again was I compelled to 
 dodge into one of these coverts ; when, after a 
 moment's pause, there would follow a heavy 
 explosion; and the next moment the loose 
 stones would be rattling like hail on the roof 
 above me. Several times I measured, with con- 
 siderable interest, the thickness of the covering 
 above me, and calculated how heavy a rock it 
 would require to crush through it. When out 
 on the open terrace, the constant reports, like 
 the rapid discharge of cannon in various parts 
 of the mountain, keep one constantly on the 
 look-out. The depot of the finished slates is also 
 a great curiosity. They are piletl in huge rows, 
 according to their size and value : tliey are ' 
 named Dukes, Marquesses, Counts, &c., to de- 
 signate their respcctivf worth. AH sorts of 
 ornaments are made 'jy the workmen in tlieir 
 leisure momenta, which are sold to travelers ; 
 several of which I brought away with me. It 
 was a bright day when I visited the quarries ; 
 
THE WAYFARING l4ABORE% 
 
 197 
 
 impunity. All hail to our just king, who has 
 atoned for his crime, and sliown us, by his ex- 
 ample, what reverence we all owe to the majes- 
 ty of law." 
 
 So spoke Don Henriquez ; and he was an- 
 swered with shouts that rent the air — " Long 
 live our righteous king, Don Pedro the Just !" 
 The shouts swelled into deafening acclama- 
 tions, till the very earth beneath the vast city 
 trembled with the sound. 
 
 All this time Don Pedro sat motionless, his 
 pale face shaded by his hand. When silence 
 was restored, he looked up, and beckoned the 
 chief judge to come near him. Don Henriquez 
 obeyed ; and the chamberlain followed, with the 
 purple mantle, which he offered, kneeling, to 
 the king. 
 
 Don Pedro rose, and embraced Don Henri- 
 quez. " Receive my thanks," he said, " noble 
 and faithful servant of thy sovereign. If I am 
 praised that I submitted to the laws, what 
 honor is due to thee, who hast had courage to 
 uphold the righteous cause against a king 
 whom men call the Cruel ? I bid thee hail, just 
 judge ; and wear this purple mantle in thy offi- 
 cial duties, in remembrance of what has passed 
 this day." 
 
 Thus speaking, Don Pedro himself flung the 
 mantle over the shoulders of the chief judge. 
 The other judges were also rewarded ; and the 
 executioner received rich gifts, and was elevat- 
 ed to the rank of a noble. The beheaded image 
 was buried, by the king's order, in front of the 
 
 altar in the royal chapel ; while the head was 
 carved in stone on the wall at the corner of the 
 street in which the two-fold murder had taken 
 place. Some aver that it may be seen to this 
 day. 
 
 The foregoing story is taken, in every par- 
 ticular, from the life of Don Pedro, and may, I 
 suppose, be relied on as a piece of genuine his- 
 tory. It is recorded of that monarch of Castile, 
 that he had not long filled the throne of his 
 illustrious ancestors, before his people discov- 
 ered that he deserved not so much the title of 
 the Cruel, as that of the Just, or the Inexora- 
 ble. He had violent passions, it is true ; and 
 woe to those who crossed him in his moods of 
 anger ! but when calm, he showed a strict 
 sense of justice. An anecdote related of him, 
 may illustrate this quality : — 
 
 A young priest, who was both vain and pas- 
 sionate, in a fit of rage, for some trifling cause, 
 slew a poor shoemaker. The king would have 
 given up the criminal to the secular courts ; but 
 the clergy interfered, and by their influence 
 over the superstitious people, prevented this, 
 punishing the young priest only by suspension 
 from the sacred office for one year. The son 
 of the murdered shoemaker, indignant at this 
 lenient sentence, not long after assassinated the 
 priest. The clergy demanded of the king that 
 the assassin should suffer death. 
 
 " Nay," replied Don Pedro ; " I follow your 
 example, and condemn him to make no shoes 
 for a year." 
 
 BY REV. C. H. A. BULKLEY. 
 
 Noble is he who treads the paths of earth, 
 Poor and unknown, to gain his daily bread, 
 Or delves with spade and plough its turfy bed. 
 
 I love the man ! his life is better worth 
 
 The love of all, his soul of nobler birth. 
 
 Than his who, reckless of the toils and tears 
 
 Of poverty, will pass luxurious years. 
 
 Feasting on fruits that humble effort yields. 
 
 Plod on, lone traveller, bear upon thy back 
 
 A weight of labors with thy scanty pack ; 
 
 Traverse with lightsome step the open fields ; 
 
 Thy toil is honor, let thy heart be free 
 
 Who does not know that labor influence wields ? 
 
 I leave the rich and turn my love to thee ! 
 
198 
 
 RAMBLES IN WALES. 
 
 AMIBILIiS Um WA3LIiS 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 PENRYNN QUARRIES— HOMEWARD BOUND— SCOTCH BOY— STORM AT SEA— HOME. 
 
 The north coast of Wales is studded with old 
 castles — some of wliich are in ruins, and others 
 in a good state of preservation. Many a fierce 
 struggle and wild tale they could tell, could they 
 but reveal their history. Cromwell's army has 
 thundered against their walls, and England's 
 chivalry dashed over their battlements; and 
 deeds of daring, and of darkness too, stained 
 every stone with blood. Our road lay right 
 along the base of one, with old towers still 
 standing, and the ancient drawbridge still rest- 
 ing on its ancient foundations. A little farther 
 on, the whole breast of the mountain seemed 
 converted into a modem castle ; for ramparts 
 rose over every ridge, and turreted battlements 
 stretched along every precipitous height. 
 
 Nothing can be more bleak and desolate than 
 the north coast of Wales. The rocky shores, 
 treeless, shrubless mountains, and ruined cas- 
 tles, combine to render the scene sombre and 
 gloomy. At length we reached Bangor, from 
 whence I made a visit to the slate quarries of 
 Mr. Tennant. This gentleman was art Eng- 
 lish Colonel ; but being so fortunate as to marry 
 the only daughter of the owner of these exten- 
 sive quarries, he threw up his profession, and 
 iscttled down in Wales. Becoming sole heir to 
 Penrynn Castle, on the death of his father-in- 
 law, he improved it by additions and renova- 
 tions ; till how, with its extensive and beautiful 
 grounds, it is well worth a visit. The quarries, 
 however, were more interesting to me than the 
 castle, for they are said to be the largest in the 
 world ; yielding the proprietor a nett income of 
 nearly one hundred thousand dollars per annum. 
 Tlie whole mountain, in which these quarries 
 are dug, is composed of slate. At the base of 
 it the miners commenced, and dug, in a semi- 
 circular form, into its very heart. They then 
 bjasted back and up a terrace all around the 
 space they had made, some thirty or forty feet 
 from the bottom. About the same distance 
 above tljis terrace, they ran another around, 
 
 until they terraced the mountain in the form of 
 an amphitheatre, to the very top. Around each 
 terrace runs a railroad, to carry out the slate ; 
 while small stone huts are placed here and 
 there, to shelter the workmen when a blast 
 occurs near them. These terraces are filled 
 with workmen, who look, from below, like so 
 many ants crawling over the rocks. Taking 
 one of these as a guide, I rambled over the 
 quarries, in a more excited state than one 
 usually views so plain and practical an object ; 
 for the blasts, that occur every few moments, 
 keep the mountain in an uproar. The amphi- 
 theatre is so far across, that a person need not 
 fear a blast from the opposite side ; but one 
 from the terrace he is on, or from the one 
 above or below him, is always more or less 
 dangerous. To prevent accidents, just before 
 a blast takes place, the man who is to fire it 
 steps to the edge of the terrace, and halloos, 
 " he hoo /" at which all in the neighborhood run 
 for the stone cabins, like prairie dogs for their 
 holes. Again and again was I compelled to 
 dodge into one of these coverts ; when, after a 
 moment's pause, there would follow a heavy 
 explosion; and the next moment the loose 
 stones would be rattling like hail on tlie roof 
 above me. Several times I measured, with con- 
 siderable interest, the thickness of tlie covering 
 above me, and calculated how heavy a rock it 
 would require to crush through it. When out 
 on the open terrace, the constant reports, like 
 the rapid discharge of cannon in various parts 
 of the mountain, keep one constantly on the 
 look-out. The depot of the finished slates is also 
 a great curiosity. They are piled in huge rows, 
 according to their size and value : they are ' 
 named Dukes, Marquesses, Counts, &,c., to de- 
 signate their respcctivr worth. All sorts of 
 ornaments are made 'jy the workmen in tlieir 
 leisure momenta, which are sold to travelers ; 
 several of which I brought away with me. It 
 was a bright day when I visited the quarries ; 
 
RAMBLES IN VVAl^S. 
 
 199 
 
 and, as I turned away, I paused, and looked 
 back on tliat excavated mountain. It was a 
 curi )us spectacle — those terraces, rising one 
 above another, sprinkled all over with human 
 beings, like mere spots on the spire of a church. 
 
 From Bangor I went to Caernarvon, to visit 
 tlie ruined castle there, so famous in the 
 ancient history of England. I clambered up its 
 spiral staircase — looked out of its narrow win- 
 dows — plucked the ivy from its massive and 
 immensely thick walls, and then went to a 
 neighboring eminence to have the whole in one 
 coup d'ceil. It is an impressive ruin, indepen- 
 dent of the associations connected with it. It 
 was my design to cross the island of Anglesea 
 and take steamboat for Dublin, where I expect- 
 ed to meet my friend, who left me at Liverpool ; 
 but that afternoon a storm set in which fright- 
 ened me back. I had had some experience in 
 the British channels, and concluded I had 
 rather not see Dublin than again be made as 
 deadly sick as I had been. I went back to 
 Bangor ; roamed over the island of Anglesea ; 
 saw the stone block, once a sacrifice stone of 
 the ancient Druids ; stood on the Menai bridge, 
 next to that of Frybourg, the longest suspension 
 bridge in the world ; And finally set sail for Liv- 
 erpool. Waiting here two weelis, till I could 
 get a state-room to myself, I at last embarked 
 on board the packet England, and dropped down 
 the channel. Rounding the southern coast of 
 Ireland we stood out to sea, and soon the last 
 vestige of land disappeared behind the waters ; 
 and, homeward bound, we were on the wide 
 Atlantic. 
 
 There v/as an incident occurred on leaving 
 port which interested me exceedingly. With 
 the departure of almost every vessel, some poor 
 wretches, without the means to pay their pas- 
 sage, secrete themselves aboard till fairly out 
 to sea, when they creep forth from their hiding- 
 places. The captain cannot put back for them, 
 and he cannot see them starve on board his 
 sliip ; and so they get a free passage to this 
 land, where every man can find work. So 
 common has this become, that an officer is 
 always hired to ransack the vessel while she 
 is being towed out of the harbor. Several 
 were found hid away in ours, whom I saw 
 shoved" over into the " tug," as the tow-boat 
 is called, without the least feeling of commis- 
 eration. They were such hard, depraved look- 
 ing cases, that I thought it no loss to have them 
 kept back from our shores. But at length tlie 
 officer drew forth a Scotch lad about seventeen 
 
 years of age, who seemed unlike his compan- 
 ions. Dirty and ragged enough he indeed was, 
 but a certain honest expression in his face, 
 which was covered with tears, interested me in 
 him immediately. I stopped the officer and 
 asked the boy his name. " Robert S.," he re- 
 plied. " Where are you from ?" " Greenock. 
 I am a baker by trade, but my master has broke, 
 and I have come to Liverpool to get work." 
 " Why do you want to go to America ?" said I. 
 " To get work," he replied in his strong Scotch 
 accent. He seemed to have but one idea, and 
 that was tcork! The object of his ambition, 
 the end of his wishes, was the privilege of 
 working. He had wandered around Liverpool 
 in vain ; slept on the docks, and lived on the 
 refuse crumbs he could pick up ; and as a last 
 resort determined, all alone, to cross the Atlan- 
 tic to a land where man is allowed the boon of 
 working for his daily bread. I could not let 
 him go ashore, and told the captain that I 
 would see that liis passage was paid. The 
 passengers joined with me, and I told him he 
 need not be alarmed, he should go to America. 
 I was struck with his reply : said he in a 
 manly tone, " I don't know how I can pay 
 you, sir, but I will work for you." I gave him 
 clothes, and told him to wash himself up and 
 be cheerful, and I would take care of him. In 
 a short time he became deadly sick, and at the 
 end of a week he was so emaciated and feeble 
 I feared he would die. I said to him one day, 
 " Robert, are you not very sorry now you start- 
 ed for America ?" " No, sir !" he replied, " if 
 I can get work there." " Merciful God !" I 
 mentally exclaimed, " has hunger so gnawed at 
 this poor fellow's vitals, and starvation stared 
 him so often in the face, that he can think of 
 no joy like that of being permitted to work !" 
 
 Days and weeks passed away, wearisome 
 and lonely, until at length, as we approached 
 the banks of Newfoundland, a heavy storm 
 overtook us. It blew for two days, and the 
 third night the sea was rolling tremendously. 
 The good ship labored over the mountainous 
 billows, while every timber, and plank, and 
 door, seemed suddenly to have been endowed 
 with a voice, and screeched, and screamed, 
 and groaned, and complained, till the tumult 
 without was almost drowned by the uproar 
 within. It did not seem possible that the 
 timbers could hold together for an hour, so 
 violently did the vessel work. I could not 
 keep in my berth, and ropes were strung along 
 the deck to enable the sailors to cross from one 
 
200 
 
 RAJIBLES IN WALES. 
 
 side to another. I crawled to the cabin door, 
 and holding on with both hands, gazed out with 
 strange feelings upon the wild and ruinous 
 waste of waters. We had a host of steerage 
 passengers aboard, whom the captain was com- 
 pelled to drive below, and fasten down the 
 hatches over them. The sea was breaking 
 madly over the shrinking, shivering ship, as if 
 determined to crush it down ; and at every 
 shock of the billows, as they fell in thunder 
 on the deck, the poor wretches below thought 
 themselves going to the bottom, and kept up a 
 constant wailing, screaming and praying, at 
 once pitiful and ludicrous. Still I could not 
 blame them, for to one unaccustomed to the 
 sea the rush and roll of waves on the trembling 
 pianks overhead are anything but pleasant 
 sounds. One moment, as we ascended a billow, 
 the jib-boom of our vessel seemed to pierce 
 mid-heaven — the next moment, in her mad and 
 downward plunge, it would disappear in the 
 sea, and tons of water come sweeping with a 
 crash over our decks. Once the second mate, 
 who was forward, was caught by one of these 
 furious seas and borne backward the whole 
 length of the deck, against the after-cabin. As 
 the ship pitched again he was carried forward, 
 and the second time borne backward, before he 
 could feel the deck, although the water was 
 running in a perfect torrent from the scuppers 
 the while. Oh ! it was a fearful night — the 
 clouds swept in angry masses athwart the 
 heavens, and all around was tjie mountainous 
 deep over which our groaning vessel strained 
 with desperate eiForts and most piteous com- 
 plaints. I turned in, sick of the sea, but I 
 could not sleep, for one moment my feet would 
 be pointing to the zenith, and the next moment 
 my head, and immediately after, head, body, and 
 legs, would be lying in a confused heap on the 
 state-room floor. As a last resort, I stretched 
 myself on the cabin sofa, which was bolted to 
 the floor, and bade the steward lash me to it 
 with a rope ; and strange to say, in this posi- 
 tion I dropped asleep and slept till morning. It 
 was the soundest night's rest I ever had at sea. 
 But it is startling to be waked out of sleep by 
 the creaking of timbers and roar of waves ; and 
 tbe spirits feel a sudden reaction that is painful. 
 I staggered on deck, and such a sight I never 
 beheld before. The storm had broken, and the 
 fragmentary clouds were flying like lightning 
 
 over the sky, while the sea, as for as the eye 
 could reach, was one vast expanse of heaving, 
 tumbling mountains — their bases a bright pea- 
 green, and their ridges white as snow. Over 
 and around these our good ship floundered like 
 a mere toy. On our right, and perhaps three 
 quarters of a mile distant, (though it seemed 
 scarcely three rods,) lay a ship riding out the 
 storm. When we went down and she went up, 
 I could see the copper on her bottom ; and when 
 we both went down together, the tops of her 
 tallest masts disappeared as though she had 
 been suddenly ingulfed in the ocean. The 
 sun at length emerged from a cloud and lighted 
 up with strange brilliancy this strange scene. 
 It was a sublime spectacle, and I acknowledged 
 it to be so, but added mentally, as I clung to a 
 belaying pin and braced against the bulwarks 
 to keep ray legs, that I thought it would appear 
 much belter from shore. 
 
 Days and nights passed away, until at length 
 a bird came and lighted on our rigging, and then 
 I knew we were near my father-land. I could 
 have kissed it. The last night came on with rain 
 and storm, and we flew on before the gale with 
 our white wings spread, thankful that it bore us 
 homeward. At noon next day the clouds broke 
 away, and soon after we took on board a pilot. 
 The sun went down in beauty, and the moon 
 sailed up the golden sky, and the stars came 
 out and smiled on the sea, and all was lovely 
 and entrancing ; but soon other lights flashed 
 over the waters that far outshone both moon 
 and stars — the lights from Sandy Hook. My 
 heart leaped up in my throat at the sight, and 
 an involuntary burst of joy escaped my lips. 
 No bay ever looked so sweet as New-York bay 
 the next morning ; and when my feet pressed 
 my native land, I loved her better than ever. 
 
 * ***** 
 
 I will only add that my protege, the Scotch 
 boy, was taken care of, and proved worthy of 
 the interest I had taken In him. He is now on 
 the fiiir road to wealth and prosperity. 
 
 The good packet England, a few months 
 after, left Liverpool for New.- York, and was 
 never heard of more. A better officer than her 
 captain never trod a deck, and her first mate 
 was also a fine man. He had been lately mar- 
 ried, and went to sea because it was his only 
 means of livelihood. Alas ! the billows now 
 roll over them and their gallant ship together 
 
Q 
 
 9 
 d 
 9 
 
 y 
 
THE MEDICAL STUDENT. 
 
 201 
 
 IPHIg MlgHDIKDAIL Sf nUDIgHIP. 
 
 BY W. J. PRIME, M.D. 
 
 In looking over my notes to select some one 
 case out of the many I have collected, which 
 would interest the readers of the series I am 
 now writing, as I turned leaf after leaf, I found 
 between two an open letter : it instantly brought 
 to my mind the incidents connected with, and 
 subsequent to, its reception, with all the vivid- 
 ness of scenes which took place only yester- 
 day. I could probably write them out as they 
 occurred, although many years have passed 
 since, and the subject of them has long ago 
 passed away. But I prefer to confine myself 
 to the history recorded at the time, both for 
 the sake of brevity, and also to take from it the 
 air of fiction, which is apt to hang about the 
 striking incidents of any one life, when collect- 
 ed and written. So much truth is there in the 
 latter reason, that we often have it said of us 
 that our scenes and descriptions are over- 
 wrought, simply because they are gathered 
 into one body, and meet the eye in hurried suc- 
 cession ; whereas, had they been seen only as 
 they happened, at inter\-als of more or less 
 length, their force would have been very much 
 diminished. There are passages in the life of 
 every one, possessing the highest and most ex- 
 citing interest of romance ; which, at the same 
 time, if written out, would not be recognized by 
 him who had been the subject of them, because 
 tliey are grouped together instead of at the dis- 
 tant periods of time at which they transpired. 
 It was because I appreciated this truth, that I 
 began, in the early part of my professional life, 
 to record, for my own entertainment, the scenes 
 and incidents which I am now giving to my 
 readers. 
 
 Before proceeding to relate the incidents of 
 the case, I must give a brief history of the 
 young man who is the subject of it. 
 
 In the early life of George W s there 
 
 was nothing remarkable. At school he was 
 not more industrious, nor more of a scholar, 
 than most of his fellows ; his only pre-eminence 
 was in his physical powers, which were rapidly 
 developed, and he excelled in all the sports 
 and pastimes of his age. But when he had 
 completed his preparatory studies, and had 
 entered college, his mind seemed to acquire a 
 sudden vigor; and he devoted himself, with 
 wonderful zeal and untiring diligence, to the 
 pursuit of knowledge. His exercise of body 
 was entirely neglected ; and day and night he 
 was found poring over his books, or walking 
 his room in deep meditation. At first there 
 was no particular aim in his studies — that is. 
 they were not confined more to one branch ot 
 science than to another. It was knowledge 
 that he sought — knowledge for itself alone; 
 and if the mission of Truth ever had a faithful 
 and unwearied votar}' upon earth, he was found 
 
 in George W s. It was wonderful with 
 
 what ease and facility he acquired his lessons : 
 they seemed but the sport of his powerful intel- 
 lect — toys, that his mind played with, as a child 
 with the trifles that amuse him; and at a 
 glance he made the ideas of his authors as fa- 
 miliar as if they had originated in his own 
 mind. The powers of his mind seemed to in- 
 crease more rapidly than he advanced in his 
 studies. It seemed as if there \i-as a new force 
 within, a sort of innate vigor springing daily 
 into more full activity, and reaching forth con- 
 tinually for aliment upon which to feed its 
 accumulating strength. 
 
 It was necessary that this power should have 
 some aim, some director to point it to some par- 
 ticular destination, lest in roaming over the wide 
 fields of science it siiould become bewildered 
 and lost. His friends proposed numerous plans, 
 but he rejected them all, because he could not 
 
202 
 
 THE MEDICAL STUDENT. 
 
 choose. All knowledge was the same to him. 
 It was for itself he sought it ; not for its xitili- 
 ty — not for the power it gave him over others, 
 nor for the sake of ambition : it was selfish, if 
 there was any active motive in his heart, and 
 continued so to the end. 
 
 It was during the last term of his college life 
 that his mind became fixed upon the study 
 which occupied him till near the end of his life. 
 This was Chemistry. Some trifling phenome- 
 non first arrested his attention ; and its investi- 
 gation led him on from one to another. The 
 immense field comprised in this science was 
 opened before him ; his room became a perfect 
 laboratory; and his eagerness and zeal were 
 not surpassed by the alchemists from whom the 
 science had its origin. A world of new beauty 
 and order was exposed to his view, and he 
 trod its paths with untiring delight. 
 
 I have said nothing of his social powers. 
 They were of the highest order. Once draw 
 him away from his studies, and he became one 
 of the most entertaining of companions. He 
 had a bold and fine imagination, coupled with a 
 rare originality of conception, which gave a 
 wonderful charm to his conversation. With 
 this character, it was strange that he did not 
 become visionary in his early life ; or that, in 
 the scientific studies which occupied him at a 
 later period, he did not run into the wild dreams 
 of the alchemists, in their search for the philos- 
 opher's stone. But he did not. 
 
 Of his personal appearance I need say little. 
 His form was singularly erect; his forehead 
 high and bold ; his face pale ; his lips always 
 forcibly compressed, and his eye black, and ex- 
 ceedingly bright, which was probably in part 
 the elFect of its contrast with his very pale 
 complexion. The general expression of his 
 face was calm and contemplative ; but when 
 excited by argument or conversation, it awoke 
 with great animation, and every feature seemed 
 to speak. Such is a brief description of the 
 character and person of the subject of the fol- 
 lowing sketch, ' 
 
 His life, till he reached the age of thirty-one 
 years, was one of intense study. At this time 
 I lost sight of him ; and when I next saw him 
 he was awfully changed : he was a drunkard ! 
 Sunk and wallowing in the very depths of this 
 loathsome vice, he had lost all the nobility of 
 his personal beauty ; and his mind had suffered, 
 if possible, in a worse degree. He had re- 
 turned to my neighborhood, the scene of his 
 early life, as if to exhibit to those who had Uien 
 
 known liim, the fearful eft'ccts of intcmpciam-o. 
 How he had fallen into this habit I never 
 learned. The fact that he had not been a man 
 of great fondness for company seemed to con- 
 tradict the impression tiiat he had acquired it 
 by associating with those who would lead liiin 
 into it. And indeed, at this lime, lie was not a 
 social drinker. It was in solitude that he gave 
 himself up to it ; and alone, in his own room, 
 he would drink himself into insensibility. But 
 I pass on to the end. I wish I could stop here, 
 or had not begun, for I loved him as my own 
 brother, and labored hard to restore him to 
 his reason ; and I fain would cover up the errors 
 of one so dear, and the fall of one so gifted. 
 
 I think it was in the darkest midnight I ever 
 knew, that I was called out of my bed to see him. 
 He had been for several days in a constant state 
 of intoxication, and often, during this time, 
 wandering through the streets, in a condition 
 bordering on madness. I followed the messen- 
 ger to a miserable hovel in the outskirts of the 
 village ; where, in the corner of a filthy room, 
 in a squalid and miserable apology for a bed, I 
 
 found George W s. The following is the 
 
 history of his case as I recorded it at the time. 
 
 March 6. — I have just left the bedside of 
 George W s — a young man of most re- 
 markable character in his early life, but now a 
 victim to intemperance. How strange it is 
 that so many men of brilliant intellects are 
 overcome by this vice. And most of all am I 
 surprised at this one, when it seemed that there 
 was no temptation to lead him into it. I found 
 him lying upon a miserable bed, in a miserable 
 hut, to which, I was informed, he had wandered 
 in the early part of the evening, and begged 
 that he might be suffered to stay all night. 
 Upon obtaining permission he had thrown him- 
 self upon the bed, and sunk at once into a pro- 
 found sleep. During the evening he had 
 continued to sleep soundly ; but towards mid- 
 night he had groaned much, as if in pain ; and 
 tlie inmates of the place, fearing that he was 
 very sick, and might die in their house, had 
 sent at once for me. He has a high fever, and 
 is stupid and insensible, and cannot be aroused. 
 This may be owing to his excesses of yester- 
 day ; and nothing can be determined as to his 
 condition till to-morrow, but 1 fear the worst. 
 How he is changed from what he was a few 
 years since ! Instead of his erect and manly 
 form, he is now bowed and bloated ; and his 
 face, formerly pale and thin, is puffed up, and 
 flushed with the brand of the drunkard. Better 
 
THE MEDICAL STUDENT. 
 
 203 
 
 now that he should die as he is, than live longer 
 such a life of wretchedness and shame. 
 
 Although I w^as with him nearly the whole 
 of the night, I called at an early hour this 
 morning, but he had not yet waked from his 
 lethargic sleep. I sat by him more than an 
 hour, thinking, with intense bitterness of heart, 
 on the humiliating condition of my patient. At 
 that time he suddenly woke ; and turning his 
 burning and bloodshot eyes upon me, ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " Drink ! — drink ! — give me drink. I am 
 burning — consuming. Oh ! this fire — this con- 
 suming fire ! Give me drink, I say. Not 
 water," he cried, as a glass of it was held to 
 his lips ; " no water for me ! Give me strong 
 drink — ^brandy, sir, brandy — quick, or I shall 
 die." 
 
 He had not seemed to recognize me before 
 this, but 'as I now spoke to him, and told him it 
 was not proper for him to have brandy in the 
 condition in which he then was, he looked me 
 steadily in the face for a moment, and then said : 
 
 " Doctor, are you here ? But you can do 
 nothing for me. I know as well as you that it 
 is wrong, but I must have brandy." 
 
 " It will only increase 5'our pain, George," 
 said I. 
 
 " Let it kill me then," he said, " but I must 
 have it. I cannot resist ; I must have it if I 
 die, and I shall die v/ithout it. Oh, Doctor ! 
 give it to me, for 1 am consuming." 
 
 It was with much difficulty I could induce 
 him to take a draught of cold water, which 
 produced a temporary relief of his suffering. I 
 was then able to make such inquiries of him 
 as to form some opinion of his condition. 
 There is every evidence of a high state of 
 inflammation of his stomach, perhaps in some 
 degree the same as that which exists in that 
 organ in every drunkard, but in this case in- 
 finitely more active. Here is constant and 
 intense pain, which he describes as a consum- 
 ing fire, under which he writlies in agony, only 
 relieved by an occasional swallow of water or 
 ice. This he takes with loathing, begging at 
 the same time most piteously for strong drink. 
 Afler having bled him freely from the arm, and 
 made such applications and prescriptions as 
 his case required, I left him to try and procure 
 for him more comfortable accommodations. It 
 was with considerable difficulty that I at length 
 succeeded. Every one was unwilling to open 
 the door to such a wretch, till I mentioned my 
 . difficulty to our minister's wife, who, after con- 
 
 sulting with her husband, provided a room in 
 her house, and all requisite comforts, and he 
 has been removed there. 1 have al.«o written 
 to his sister, who lives in a town some hundred 
 miles distant, where George has also been re- 
 siding since he left this place, some years since. 
 Why is it that the poor victim of intemperance 
 is so shut out from the sympathies of his fel- 
 lows ? Surely none need more the friendly 
 hand and counsel of the unenslaved — none 
 surely deser\'e it more. Yet they are thrust 
 out and despised as an unclean thing, and left 
 to be the laughing-stock of every inhuman 
 heart 
 
 ItJi. — My patient seems better this morning, 
 or perhaps I should rather say easier, yet his 
 demand is incessantly for brandy. I urged 
 him to resist the desire, but he answered me — 
 
 " I cannot. I am consumed with the appe- 
 tite. It does -not seem to be the mere sense 
 which requires it, and if it were I think I could 
 easily combat the wish. It is the mind, or as 
 your physiologists would say, the brain. I feel 
 a constant and uncontrollable desire for it, and 
 I could not resist if I would. I have never 
 recovered from a fit of drunkenners — for I know 
 I am a drunkard — without feeling intense shame, 
 and wishing from the bottom of my heart that 
 I could deny myself and become free. And if 
 it were the mere sensual appetite that demand- 
 ed the stimulus, I know I could resist it. But 
 my mind craves it — my whole being seems to 
 long for it. I cannot tell you why. It is in- 
 explicable even to myself. I have not been 
 an hour free from the influence of it in three 
 years." 
 
 Seeing his mind so rational on the subject, I 
 laid before him every inducement to reform, 
 and used every argument which my reason or 
 my friendship for him could suggest. He heard 
 me wnth patience, and even at times with evi- 
 dent feeling, for the tears rose in his eyes and 
 he turned away to hide them. But he replied : 
 
 " I know and feel all you say. Doctor, is true. 
 But it is nothing new to me. During every 
 rational hour of my life since I have been a 
 drunkard, I have used to myself the same reason- 
 in o". I carry about in my bosom the same moni- 
 tor I had when I was free, and it reproaches me 
 bitterly ; yet it is only an additional inducement 
 for me to drink deeper to drown its voice. No 
 — you can tell me nothing I do not feel continu- 
 ally, and yet I am the unwilling slave you see 
 me. I hate and despise myself, and when I 
 stop for a moment to compare myself with what 
 
204 
 
 THE MEDICAL STUDENT. 
 
 I have once been, I am filled with confusion 
 and shame. Under such feelings I have made 
 the sternest resolutions, that I did not keep one 
 hour. Last night I craved the drink to quench 
 the fire in my stomach. To-day I am mostly 
 free from that bodily desire for it, if I may call 
 it so, and now I feel a mental wish, which is 
 equally strong and irresistible. I am not 
 master of myself. I would drink if I knew 
 that immediate death would be the conse- 
 quence." 
 
 I believe he spoke the truth. His whole 
 being seems to be under the influence of this 
 passion. His mind to-day is comparatively 
 clear and calm, yet he is restless, and his eye 
 wanders unsteadily and anxiously, as if want- 
 ing something to fix upon ; but it is all the effect 
 of his burning desire for the stimulus he has 
 been accustomed to. I have firmly refused to 
 allow him anything of the kind, although he, 
 at times, raves like a maniac. 
 
 10th. — For three days past my patient has 
 continued in much the same condition as on 
 the 7th, professing to feel an intense anxiety to 
 be free from the curse that hangs upon him, 
 while he has no resolution to fight against it. 
 At times, he walks his room rapidly and ner- 
 vously, and moans like a sick child ; and then 
 again he becomes almost furious in his demands 
 for brandy. It is pitiable to see a man of his 
 fwwers of mind so utterly under the dominion 
 of this loathsome vice, while he is perfectly con- 
 scious of his whole degradation. It is singular 
 that, till this morning, he has not questioned any 
 one as to why ho is detained here in his room, 
 for he is well enough to be abroad. But when 
 I entered his room, he was walking the floor in 
 great agitation, and immediately stopped, and 
 demanded of me why he was kept like a prisoner 
 in his cell, with a guard over him ? I soon suc- 
 ceeded in quieting him, and told him plainly my 
 reasons ; and then he wept like a child. 
 
 " It is of no use. Doctor," he said, at length. 
 " I tell you, my dear sir, if I were chained to a 
 rock for life, it would not quench this burning 
 thirst. I would struggle against my chain till 
 I broke it, or died in the strife. You will find 
 it so ; and though now I submit, yet I chafe and 
 rage against it, and the time will come when, 
 in my agony — for it is nothing less than agony 
 — I shall break away. It is a desire that over- 
 couies shame and reason; mid sensible as I am 
 of my ruin, I would choose death this moment 
 rather than self-denial." 
 
 I attempted to lead hiui away from his 
 
 thoughts, by talking of his former studies ; 
 and for a time he conversed freely and nat- 
 urally. He told me all that he had done 
 since he had been absent, and seemed inter- 
 ested in the relation. But he soon became 
 restless and wandering, and it was evident that 
 he could not fix his mind for any length of time 
 on any subject. Here was the worst part of 
 the ruin, and I can see no hope, unless the 
 warmer affections of his heart may be wrought 
 upon ; and I wait anxiously for the arrival of 
 his sister. She is a gentle and warm-hearted 
 girl, and he has always been very much at- 
 tached to her. 
 
 Four o'clock. — All is lost ! An hour ago, I 
 was called in haste to see him, and found him 
 again raging with fever, and insensible. He 
 had made an attempt, about noon, to leave his 
 room, but was persuaded by his attendant, who 
 is a firm but kind man, to remain. Me com- 
 menced walking the floor of his room rapidly, 
 and apparently under great excitement, and 
 talking to himself. 
 
 " Fool that I am — cursed fool — why am I 
 thus ? Why cannot 1 be as other men ? Why 
 did I not die before it came to this ? Why was 
 I born into the world ? I am not a man. If I 
 were, I could trample upon this hellish lust, 
 and crush it in the mire, and rise up again to 
 be what I have been, and what I ought to be. 
 But I cannot. It gnaws at my heart, and burns 
 in my brain, till the desire for drink is greater 
 agony than the pain it produces. I must have 
 it. Away, sir ! — stand out of my way. I will 
 not be kept here like a chained wild beast. 
 Give me brandy, I say, or let me pass !" 
 
 He rushed for the door, and being repulsed 
 by his attendant, he seized him by the throat, 
 and with the strength of a giant, hurled him to 
 the floor, but did not remit his grasp. He 
 would have strangled him in a moment more, 
 had not his reason seemed partially to return, 
 when he sprang from his victim, exclaiming : 
 " Oh, no, not blood, unless it be my own !" He 
 rushed from the house. When he was found, 
 he was lying upon the floor of one of the lowest 
 and vilest " hells" in the place, in a worse con- 
 dition than when I first saw liim, and was 
 again removed to iiis lodgings at the parsonage. 
 I have done what I can for him, but there is no 
 hope in his case. 
 
 1 l//i. — Although there is no alteration for the 
 better, yet he is this morning sensible, and filled 
 with the deepest shame, but says still that he 
 cannot resist liis thirst. He is in great pain, 
 
THE MEDICAL STUDENT. 
 
 205 
 
 v.luch does not yield to profuse bleeding, nor 
 any applications which have been made. 
 
 When I reached home, after having made my 
 round of calls, I was told that a lady had ar- 
 rived, and was waiting for me in the parlor. 
 
 Supposing it was the sister of George VV s, 
 
 whom I was looking for to-day, I immediately 
 went up. I found a beautiful girl, of apparent- 
 I}'^ twenty years, wlio rose and advanced as I 
 entered the room. Her eyes were very red 
 with weeping, and her voice was broken with 
 
 sobs, as she inquired if I were Doctor P ? 
 
 I told her I was, and asked her if she was the 
 lady I was expecting. 
 
 " You were looking for George's sister," she 
 replied ; " but she is very ill, and could not come. 
 Your letter alarmed us exceedingly, while, at 
 the same time, it relieved us of a dreadful 
 anxiety. George left home a few weeks since, 
 and we had not heard from him till your letter 
 informed us he was here. And how is he, 
 Doctor — is he very ill ?" 
 
 1 hesitated & moment, not knowing how to 
 reply, when she continued : 
 
 " You need not hide anything from me. Doc- 
 tor ; I am prepared to learn the worst. Tell 
 me all the truth; for I am come to see him die, 
 if it must be so, only I have hoped to see him 
 changed from what he was !" and she hid her 
 face in her hands, and wept bitterly. 
 
 I perceived at once that there was no neces- 
 sity for hidhig anything from her, and I told 
 her all I knew of him since he had come to this 
 place, and the condition in which he then was. 
 She insisted on going immediately to see him, 
 and I accompanied her. 
 
 I cannot describe, if I would, the heart-rend- 
 ing scene that occurred there. She threw her- 
 self upon his neck, in a burst of agonizing 
 grief, in which he joined her, with apparently 
 as deep and sincere feeling as her own. It is 
 the strangest feature in his case, that he feels 
 so fully his whole humiliation, and the vileness 
 of his indulgence, and looks upon it with as 
 much disgust and abhorrence as any one, yet is 
 utterly unable to follow out the impulses of his 
 reason. It seems that the lady is his wife, to 
 whom he has been married about two years. 
 After the first burst of grief liad subsided, he 
 removed her gently from his embrace, and look- 
 ing her in the face with an expression of most 
 pitying love, he said, in a tender but somewhat 
 reproachful voice : 
 
 " Why are you here, Mary ? Was it not 
 enough that I have been a shame and sorrow to 
 
 you for these two years past ; and now, when I 
 had fled from you, to rid you of my loathsome 
 presence, you must still search me out !" 
 
 " Do not say so, George," she replied. " You 
 know that you never wronged me, and that I 
 loved you with all my soul. Why should I not 
 be here, to comfort you now in your sickness, 
 and try to raise you up ? Who so fit as I ?" 
 
 " No, no, Mary," he said, " you must not talk 
 of my getting up again. I shall never recover. 
 I feel certain that I am dying, and that very few 
 days remain to me ; and I am glad for your sake 
 it is so. I do not wish to live, dearly as I love 
 you, and have loved you in all my guilt. Life 
 to me would be only a scene of shame, and 
 filled with constant self-reproach ; and to you, 
 Mary, what would it be but bitterness and 
 grief?" 
 
 It is strange how the conflicting emotions in 
 his mind give place to each other, or rather, 
 how the better feelings and thoughts are con- 
 tinually active, but cannot subdue the earthly 
 passion. I left them to themselves, with a faint 
 hope that she might be able to direct his mind 
 away from his ruling desire, and that his heart 
 may be led to look upward for strength. 
 
 1 llh. — For several days past I have made no 
 
 notes of the case of George W s. He has 
 
 been in continual and severe pain, and describes 
 his feelings as a consuming fire within him. He 
 writhes in agony for hours, and then, worn out 
 and exhausted with the distress, he sinks into 
 a broken and uneasy slumber. Mary does not 
 leave his side, but day and night is his affec- 
 tionate and untiring nurse. In his paroxysms 
 of pain, he begs her most piteously for his fa- 
 vorite drink, but is always kind to her, and 
 yields to her persuasions. But the thirst is not 
 to be controlled. It seems to be, as he often 
 describes it, a thirst of his mind. Such is the 
 power of this vile habit, that it bends the whole 
 soul under its influence. Remedies seem to be 
 powerless, and he is hourly drawing nearer to 
 death ; and he feels this, and looks upon it as a 
 desirable event. He has often conversed with 
 the clergyman in whose house he lies ; and 
 though his .views of religion are eminently 
 clear and correct, he professes no hope for the 
 world to come. 
 
 " How can I hope," he says, " with the truth 
 continually in my mind, that no drunkard can 
 inherit the kingdom of God ? What is all my 
 remorse of soul, when I feel that with the first 
 opportunity I should immediately wilfully do as 
 I have done before ? My whole mind is now 
 
206 
 
 BEFORE THE WIND. 
 
 awake, and as active as it was years ago ; and 
 still I feel that 1 have no power to resist my ap- 
 petite." 
 
 18th. — Last evening, about nine o'clock, he 
 experienced a sudden and entire cessation of 
 pain, which he felt to be the precursor of death. 
 He called his wife to his side, and conversed 
 wit!i her calmly of the event, and endeavored 
 to prepare her mind for it. She was already 
 prepared, yet she was overwhelmed with pro- 
 found sorrow. In all his fiults she had clung 
 to him with the unfailing fervor of woman's 
 love, hoping against hope, to the last. What 
 if he was a drunkard ! What if he was de- 
 spised by men ! Was he not her husband, and 
 did he not love her yet, as he had loved her 
 when they were first married ? 
 
 It is remarkable, that with the cessation of 
 the pain, tliere was also an end of his control- 
 
 ling appetite. This he spoke of, and wondered 
 at the change. At the same time returned to 
 him, with the clearness and distinctness of later 
 days, all his former hopes and prospects of the 
 future. It seemed as if in his dying hour his 
 spirit was being freed from its sensual bonds, 
 that he might look up again like a man, and see 
 the light of truth that he had loved and gloried 
 in in other days. At twelve o'clock he died. 
 
 Note to the Reader. — The case detailed above 
 occurred many years since, before any associated 
 effort was made to stay the torrent of intemperance 
 in iliis'ocuntry. It is a truth of very recent discov- 
 ery, that the most abandoned and hopeless drunk- 
 ard may be reformed, not by his own resolution 
 entirely, but by the aid he derives from being asso- 
 ciated with others who are sunk in tiie same mire. 
 Un.ler these influences, it is not impossible but 
 
 George W s might also have been rescued, and 
 
 raised to the position from which he had fallen. 
 
 IBlf®mi fMl WIEM 
 
 BY BEV. 
 
 BULKLEY. 
 
 At sea ! at sf a ! the waters free 
 Fpeak from their myriad lips of life, 
 
 While o'er them creep, like dreams in sleep, 
 The sunbeam's feet in lustrous strife. 
 
 Oh ! bright they flash, as on they dash, 
 Like glancing swords in combat fierce ; 
 
 Tliey strike each wave, till ocean's crve 
 Tells how its peaceful depths they pierce. 
 
 Far glistening round th' horizon's bound, 
 A gauze-like haze hangs on the air. 
 
 Like curtains high for earth and sky, 
 Their bridal union to declare. 
 
 The soft cool wind floats right behind, 
 Our sails swell full and fair to see, 
 
 Like lily breast of maid at rest. 
 In dreams of love's pure ecstacy. 
 
 We scarcely heed, as swift we speed, 
 The airy step that follows fast ; 
 
 For on the wing of breathing spring 
 We seem to^fly in equal haste. 
 
 As in a grot, where winds blow not. 
 Our lips disturb some springlet's pool ; 
 
 We quaff" this air, that floweth near, 
 As if 'twere born of waters cool. 
 
 Our spirits bound, like many a hound. 
 Just loosed to join the stirring chase. 
 
 While we seem fanned by some soft hand. 
 That o'er us waves with airy grace. 
 
 The billowy gems make diadems, 
 Our vessel's life-like brow to crown ; 
 
 And hymnings sweet about us meet, 
 In harmonies which heaven might own. 
 
 Oh ! from our hearts the deep tide starts, 
 At grateful sights and sounds like these ; 
 
 And thoughts flow up, from life's full cup, 
 As fresh to God as falls his breeze. 
 
 Who could be sad, while nature, glad, 
 Would touch the spirit's deepest strings, 
 
 To make them chime the notes which time 
 Far to eternal regions flings ? 
 
LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 207 
 
 ILIgA¥IgS 
 
 FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 BT PHILIP PHILLIPS, ESQ. 
 
 £eaf 1. 
 
 THE MUBDEBEB. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 The spring flowers were but just blooming 
 in the glen, on the warmer side, where the 
 sunshine fell with kindliest caress, and the 
 leaves had only shown on the willow tree by 
 the spring, while all the forest was still in dry, 
 leafless coldness. It was as fair a day as the 
 sunshine ever brought to the south side of old 
 Long Island; and the birds were beginning 
 their summer music in the ti'ees. From afar 
 off' came the dull, deep roar of the ocean, 
 brought up by the south wind, that shook the 
 branches of the old elm over the cottage, and 
 occnsionally rattled a shingle against its side. 
 All but the wind was peaceful, calm, even 
 holy ; and the wind was not unholy, but its 
 voice was rather threatening than otherwise ; 
 so much so, that the old man, who was stand- 
 ing, with bis pipe in his mouth, in the door of 
 the cottage, looked wistfully up into the sky, 
 and said : " It will blow a gale before to-mor- 
 row ! I'll go down to the bay, and get the 
 boats in ;" and so started, on foot, down the 
 side of the brook, to the bay, which is pit)- 
 tected by the great South Beach of Long 
 Island. 
 
 Had you been seated, half an hour later, 
 on the bank of that little stream, facing the 
 door of the cottage, you might have seen it 
 open, and a girl of sixteen summers step out 
 on the stone ; and had she seen you seated 
 
 there, she would Lave gone back more swiftly, 
 for she was a timid child, and the sudden flut- 
 ter of a bird's wing in the forest often startled 
 her. You might think her, at the first glance, 
 of Spanish blood ; and yet the outline of the 
 forehead, and especially its height, and the 
 massive appearance of the eyebrows, indicated 
 northern parentage. That she was eminently 
 beautiftil, might not be denied, and her youth 
 gave promise of still greater beauty when it 
 should be matured. 
 
 Her history was simply this. A schooner 
 came ashore on the South Beach, and went 
 to pieces. All on board, save two, were lost ; 
 and when their bodies came rolling up on 
 shore, they buried them, with simple rites, 
 and marked their resting-places with hewn 
 stakes. Yet in that fearful night a mother 
 and her child survived the storm, and, being 
 lashed to a broad plank, floated shoreward, 
 and finally came in, through the inlet, with a 
 tremendous surge. But before morning dawn- 
 ed the mother died, in the cottage of the old 
 farmer ; and the child, a girl of two years old, 
 was playing merrily before the hearth fire, 
 heedless of her mother's clay. That mother's 
 last moan (for she did not speak after she was 
 found) changed into an exclamation of joy, as 
 she opened her eyes just long enough to see 
 her bright-eyed girl laughing gaily in old Mar- 
 
208 LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW- YORK LAWYER. 
 
 tha's arms ; and smiling on the child — a smile 
 that lingered around her pathway all her life 
 long — she died. The child called herself 
 Can-ie. Other than this, none knew her 
 name or parentage ; but some months after- 
 ward, it was said that the schooner had sailed 
 from England, with six passengers, among 
 whom were two ladies, each having a child 
 entered on the list ; but which was Carrie's 
 mother none could tell ; and so, not knowing 
 what name to call her, the old man gave her 
 his own name, and Carrie White was the pet 
 of the south side. No gi-eat place to be pet- 
 ted, indeed, but still among those hardy men 
 there were warm hearts, arid companionship 
 enough for her till she grew older. Then she 
 sought company in the ocean and the sky ; 
 and learning from Martha (Martha was the 
 wife of old Robert White) that the cross of 
 wood in the little graveyard marked the grave 
 of her mother, she had a fancy for sitting 
 there, and looking off into the sea. How 
 deeply, soundly, sweetly, slept the dead by 
 the sea-side ! nor woke in tempest, nor turned 
 restlessly when the surf-thunder shook their 
 couches ! 
 
 Martha taught her to read, and I gave her 
 books, and taught her French, German, and 
 Latin. I — oh, 1 forgot that I have not told 
 you how 1 came to know her. In one of my 
 summer rambles, fishing and boating, just after 
 I graduated at Princeton, I had met her in 
 the graveyard. She was a faiiy child then, 
 of nine or ten ; and I was so struck with her 
 appearance, that I inquired her history, and 
 learning it, I made it an object to assist her in 
 her study, for I found she had a taste for it 
 not often equaled. Every summer, for seve- 
 ral years, I passed some weeks here ; and as 
 Carrie grew up, she learned to love me as a 
 father. She grasped knowledge with avidity, 
 and I was especially struck with the ease with 
 which she mastered the difficulties of Ger- 
 man. During my absence, I sent her books ; 
 and during my stay near the cottage, I direct- 
 ed and planned all her studies for the year to 
 come. So, time flow along; and at lengtli I 
 was established in my office, in Nassau-street. 
 And now, by your leave, we will return to the 
 spring morning, of which I spoke some time 
 ago. 
 
 She came out of the cottage, and taking her 
 way up the glen, crossed the brook at tlie lit- 
 tle log bridge, so well known to trout-fishers 
 of that day ; and passing out of the forest into 
 
 the road that crosses the hill, just above the 
 bridge, walked hastily up to the village. I have 
 followed her path thus, simply that you may 
 have an idea of its locality, as we sliall have 
 occasion to refer to it again. 
 
 In the village, her errand was at the store ; 
 but she was surprised, on entering, to find two 
 young men there, one of whom was an ac- 
 quaintance — I might say more than an ac- 
 quaintance ; for when I brougltt Frank Nich- 
 olson, then a student in my office, down to the 
 beach with me to fish, I had no sort of idea of 
 allowing him to fall in love with my pretty Car- 
 rie. But he did ; and she had, very naturally, 
 returned the love of the handsomest and wit- 
 tiest man she had ever met, albeit she was only 
 sixteen, and Frank lacked two years of his ma- 
 jority. Altogether itwasaromanticaf!air,and I 
 only regret that I have not the time nor room to 
 tell you all the particulars. When I first heard 
 of it, I sent Frank up to the city, with a pack- 
 age of blank papers, sealed in an envelop, and 
 a note to my partner, asking him to give Frank 
 as much to do as possible, and not allow him to 
 come down again on any account. A week 
 afterwai-d, I was in the stoi"e in which the post- 
 office was kept, while the stage was waiting 
 for the mail to be overhauled. There were just 
 six letters in the mail — four for myself, one for 
 a farmer, who seized it instantly, and the sixth, 
 as it lay on the counter, bore legibly the scrawl 
 of Frank Nicholson. I had seen it too often on 
 the back of bills and pleas, to mistake that cai'e- 
 less scratch ; and I gave up to Frank the in- 
 stant I read, " Miss Can-ie White, care of Mr. 
 Robert White, E , L. I." I went to New- 
 York myself, called Frank into my private 
 room, asked him what he meant to do, and 
 received his candid reply, that he never had 
 thought of it. I asked him to think seriously 
 whether he would be willing to mairy Carrie 
 White, and answer mo the next day. He an- 
 swered me as I had expected ; and I called on 
 his father. A reasonable old gentleman was 
 Mr. Nicholson ; and I had the satisfaction of en- 
 tering into an agreement with him that Carrie 
 should bo the wife of Frank, in case she con- 
 sented ; which she did. 
 
 One of the young men in the store was 
 Frank, and the other a stranger, who Avaa at 
 the moment in earnest debate with Frank. 
 Carrie was not a little rt>joiced, in place of the 
 letter she liiid come for, to find Frank himself, 
 who had but just left the stage at the store, and 
 was inquiring in as roundabout a manner as he 
 
LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW- YORK LAWYER. 
 
 209 
 
 could of Mr. W., whether the old folks at the 
 cottage were well, and all the rest. This had 
 led to a discussion of the weather, and the 
 best weather for fishing, and the best manner 
 of taking blue fish ; and finally, the entrance 
 of Carrie interrupted them, and PVank sprang 
 to her side. She forgot her errand and every- 
 thing else, (what cared she to ask for a letter 
 now ?) and in five minutes they were strolling 
 down the path together. 
 
 You will now pardon me if I narrate what 
 may seem to be unimjwilant particulars of 
 this tale, for thus far it has been of no impor- 
 tance as regards the matter of the murder, 
 which is to make its chief incident. As they 
 turned from the road down the slight descent 
 into what makes, on Long Island, a glen, they 
 were overtaken by the young man who was 
 in the store when Canie entered. 
 
 CHAPTER II, 
 
 He was a noble-looking feljow, with a 
 keen black eye and lithe form, but far from 
 equaling in weight or symmetrical strength 
 the matchless build of Nicholson. His voice, 
 however, was modulated with admirable skill, 
 and although they were at the first an- 
 noyed at his presence, yet his conversation be- 
 came of much interest ; and there was so much 
 of the polish of the world united with frankness, 
 when he handed Nicholson his card and apolo- 
 gized for attaching himself to them, inasmuch 
 as he was seeking the way to one Robert 
 White's cottage, and was told they were going 
 Uiere, that after all they had no such great ob- 
 jection to his company. Frank said he should 
 not have cared so much, but he half believed he 
 had seen him touch his lips to Carrie's when 
 they first entered the woods, as he came up but 
 a few moments later. They walked on to- 
 gether, however, and he, after an introduction 
 to Carrie in formal style, as thus — " Miss 
 White, this is Mr. Burritt," entered so merrily 
 into conversation, that they all laughed together 
 a dozen times within ten minutes. " By-the- 
 way, Mr. Nicholson, I ought to know you : you 
 graduated at Yale two years ago, did you 
 not ?" " I did." " I was one class behind you." 
 " Is it possible ?" " Yes ; but I was a Linonian. 
 You belonged to the other society, I think." 
 *' No, I was a Linonian also."' " Is it pos- 
 sible ? I had forgotten it. But no wonder we 
 nevei met ; you were somewhat exclusive, I 
 remember." Strange that my favorite and pe- 
 culiarly sharp-witted Frank should have swal- 
 lowed so readily this last compliment ; for no 
 greater compliment can be paid to a student 
 nsoally than to tell him he was exclusive in his 
 
 company. The ability to be exclusive in col- 
 lege implies a high position. Frank was de- 
 ceived, and so was I afterward. Burritt had 
 never been at Yale. 
 
 He was a student at law also, in Philadel- 
 phia. He had come on to find Robert White, 
 and tell him that by the death of an old brother 
 in Philadelphia, he was sole heir to some ten 
 thousand dollars in stocks, and five thousand 
 more in real estate, all lying in New-York city. 
 
 I will now pass over a week, during which 
 Burritt stayed at E., fishing and shooting with 
 Frank, and visiting Carrie under pretence of 
 seeing Robert. Frank became annoyed at his 
 continual presence, and at length they had 
 some harsh words in the cottage. That same 
 evening, on his way up the glen, at eleven 
 o'clock or thereabouts, Frank met him. 
 
 He was sitting on a rock near the bridge of 
 logs, and when Frank approached he rose and 
 said : 
 
 " I wish to say something to you, Mr. Nichol- 
 son. You have used words to me in that cot- 
 tage to-right that I cannot have used to me 
 alone, much less before others. And now I 
 swear by — (I omit his oaths) — that I will have 
 revenge for that. Not now^ — not now. Don't 
 stand with your rifle raised so. But I tell you 
 here, my friend, I love that girl myself, and I 
 
 will marry her, and you " (Here followed 
 
 a succession of oaths.) 
 
 Burritt left in the morning stage, and Frank 
 forgot all this in a week's stay. The next 
 month Robert White was in possession of hia 
 fortune, but he stayed in the cottage. Indeed, 
 he needed no better home. It had four large 
 rooms in it: what need of room had they? 
 
210 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW- YORK LAWYER. 
 
 But Carrie, by my advice, was now sent away 
 to school in Connecticut. A year passed, and 
 nothing of importance had occurred. In one 
 of Carrie's letters to nue she had spoken of liav- 
 ing been surprised at meeting Mr. Biirritt in 
 the house of an old lady near the school, and 
 that she understood he was entirely a different 
 man, and was studying for the ministry. Slie 
 had, however, refused ipo see him when he called 
 at the seminary and sent up his card. This 
 item is important, inasmucli as it formed one of 
 the chain of facts which rendered the terrible 
 passion he afterwards exhibited more probable 
 than it might have been. I paid no attention 
 to it at the time, for his name had never been 
 mentioned to me by Frank or Carrie. Anotlier 
 year passed as the first one at her school, and 
 during that time two or three incidents took 
 place that are to be recorded. In a vacation, 
 while she was in New- York, she had met Bur- 
 ritt in the street, and he had turned and walked 
 some blocks with her. At parting he bowed 
 politely, and begged the privilege of calling on 
 her. She had already often repented what she 
 fancied had been rudeness in the refusal to see 
 
 him at H , and therefore handed to him, as 
 
 she supposed, one of half a dozen cards on 
 which she had penciled her name and the 
 number of tlie house at which she was staying 
 with a school-mate. But it seems she had a 
 card of my sister's in her hand, which was 
 penciled in the same way. That evening the 
 servant answered the door-bell, and I was at 
 the front window. I heard the reply, " No 
 such person has been here, sir — don't know the 
 name." The door shut, and as the visitor 
 came within my view I saw his face under a 
 street lamp. Its expression was demoniacal. 
 I rang instantly and inquired who called. " A 
 gentleman called for Miss White, sir. I told 
 him Mr. Phillips lived here, but I didn't know 
 any Miss White." The incident passed from 
 my memory entirely. Subsequent events re- 
 called it. 
 
 One other fact, and I pass over this year. One 
 pleasant evening in summer Frank left the 
 seminary, where he had been to call on Carrie, 
 and was walking slowly toward the hotel, when 
 he again met Burritt. He had not seen him 
 since that night in the glen, and scarcely knew 
 him. 
 
 " I have not forgotten you, Mr. Nicholson. 
 By Heaven, sir, you shall suiTer for that insult." 
 
 Then followed oatba and execrations in- 
 namerable. 
 
 " My dear sir," said Frank mildly, " you are 
 mad — let me talk to you." 
 
 " No, no ! I want no word from you. You 
 shall never marry that girl — never." 
 
 Frank was so impressed with the fiendish 
 expression of his face, that he returned to the 
 seminary and begged Carrie not to leave the 
 house without company after nightfall on any 
 errand whatever. But they saw no more of 
 Burritt until the following winter. 
 
 One dreary afternoon, wlien the surf thun- 
 dered loudly on the beach, Carrie was walking 
 down the glen to the cottage. She had changed 
 much, and looked as she never had before, 
 wholly out of place in that dull forest. Her 
 step was queenly, and her face lit with a smile 
 of perfect joy. She had a letter from Frank in 
 her hand, and the wedding-day was set. After 
 crossing the log bridge she paused and rested, 
 and looked around her. As she sat there 
 Burritt advanced to meet her. At first sur- 
 prised, yet not alarmed, she raised herself up 
 with dignity as he addressed her in low, earnest 
 tones. She had been taught by Frank to re- 
 gard him as a maniac, and she now wondered 
 at his calmness. I have not space to detail 
 this conversation. Suffice it to say, he asked 
 her to marry him, was refused ; he threatened, 
 and was treated with scorn ; and in the midst of 
 violent imprecations he was interrupted by the 
 arrival of old Mr. White, and hastened away. 
 I have now to hasten through the particulars of 
 a trial for murder, and you will have my story 
 complete. 
 
 Mr. Nicholson moved from New-York to a 
 beautiful countr}'-seat on tlie bank of the Hud- 
 son, some distance from the city. Across the 
 river and three miles above his residence was 
 the mansion of Col. Davis, whose family were 
 intimately connected with the Nicholsons. One 
 winter evening a large party were assembled 
 at Col. Davis's house, and the wine and the 
 dance made merry hearts yet merrier. Frank 
 was there, of course. At midnight he was 
 about to go home, and went out upon the porch 
 and drew on his boating coat — a licavy brown 
 coat — preparatory to starting. But at that in- 
 stant Col. Davis came out and persuaded him 
 to remain all the night. He returned to the 
 hall, called in his servant, who was waiting for 
 him, and gave him directions to return and say 
 he should not be at home that night. He also 
 gave him this coat to carry home, and then re- 
 joined the gay party in the lighted rooms. 
 
 The next morning this servant was found in 
 
LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 21 i 
 
 the woods, not far from the river, with Frank's 
 coat on, dead. A ball had been sent through 
 his head from ear to ear, and his face was so 
 blackened, that it was evident the pistol must 
 have been pressed close against it. The whole 
 country-side was roused to detect the murderer, 
 but every clue failed ; and, a month afterward, 
 the incident seemed to be forgotten. Three 
 months afterward I was at Mr. Nicholson's 
 residence, and a man called to see me, with a 
 request that I would go over to the jail and see 
 a man who had been arrested for the murder 
 of the servant of Mr. N. I went and found 
 him in prison, his clothes torn and his face in- 
 jured by blows he had received when arrested. 
 But I never saw a calmer face, or one more 
 perfectly expressive of innocence. I had not 
 then the experience I now have in detecting 
 the hypocrisy of men, but I do not believe at 
 this moment I should pronounce that face the 
 face of any other than a wronged man. 
 
 I will not linger now on the evidence against 
 him. It was overwhelming. He had been 
 seen the night of the murder at a small tavern 
 on the river's bank. He had pistols. The 
 landlord, looking with impertinent curiosity 
 through his key-hole, had seen him loading 
 them with care, and when he left the tavern at 
 ten that night, his face was muffled up in a 
 huge tippet and his step was peculiarly nervous. 
 He returned after midnight ; slept apparently 
 on his bed without undressing ; and the mud 
 which his boots had left on the coverlet could 
 have come from no place but near the scene of 
 the murder, as there was a foot of snow all 
 over the ground elsewhere. He left early in 
 the morning, and the landlord had kept track of 
 him, waiting for a reward to be offered, and 
 then disclosed his suspicions. Careful measure- 
 ment had been made of the foot-prints in the 
 snow, and they had been traced to the nearest 
 road, but, of course, no farther. After his arrest 
 his boots were found to fit the foot-prints exactly. 
 A man, who had seen him go on board a sloop 
 the next morning, swore to the fact of his hav- 
 ing gloves on, and that the left glove had a red 
 stain on it, which he noticed particularly as he 
 took hold of a barrel to help lift it on board. 
 The captain of the sloop had seen him throw 
 those gloves overboard, and, expressing sur- 
 prise, was told that they were badly stained. 
 Fifty similar facts were proved, and yet tliere 
 was lacking the one great evidence in a mur- 
 der case, and that was a moth''. 
 
 The young man arrested was rMnoved across \ 
 
 the river to the jail in county, and to my 
 
 surprise, he offered me a large retaining fee. 
 Expressing my doubt of his ability to pay me 
 so liberally, he replied by requesting me to mail 
 a letter for him to Philadelphia and wait a re- 
 ply. In the course of the next week he re- 
 ceived a tnmk of clothing, and a letter came 
 under inclosure to me containing a certificate 
 of deposit of one thousand dollars in a Phila- 
 delphia bank, to the credit of James Judsonj 
 Esq., and subject to his order. In brief, I be- 
 lieved my client to be exactly what he repre- 
 sented himself — a young man of wealth and 
 good family in the South, unfortunately in- 
 volved in very suspicious circumstances. And 
 I confess that for two months I had little hopes 
 of saving him from the gallows. However, a 
 gentleman appeared at the end of tliat time, 
 who was ready to testify to his character and 
 standing in society, and with the assistance of 
 other witnesses to the tame effect, I began to 
 hope for success. 
 
 As firmly as I believed him innocent, I had 
 made up my mind as to the guilt of another 
 man, and that man was the landlord before 
 mentioned. To collect testimony to that effect 
 was my greatest labor, and then to plan tlie 
 proper manner of introducing it. I determined, 
 at length, to do it by impeaching the witness 
 for the prosecution, and showing him interested 
 to convict the prisoner. After long delays, 
 which I succeeded in interposing, I amassed as 
 strong a case of evidence against him as could 
 be found against the prisoner, and then suffered 
 the trial to come on. Within a week of the 
 day of trial, his sister arrived from the far 
 South. He had refused to write to her, but 
 some friend had written, and she came to .stand 
 by him. The instant I saw her face I felt al- 
 most sure of my verdict. Such a face in 
 court was worth a dozen witnesses of good 
 character. 
 
 The day after her arrival she came down to 
 the city to my office, and I had a long conver- 
 sation with her. Said she, " You will pardon 
 my brother, Mr. Phillips, for having deceived 
 even you in one respect. His name is not 
 Judson, but Burritt. He feared that if you 
 knew it, it might by some accident reach these 
 newspaper reporters, and he would not have our 
 old father know of his situation for the world. 
 It would kill him." 
 
 I was not surprised, though somewhat sorry 
 to learn that he had not placed as much confi- 
 dence in me as I supposed. But the name, 
 
^12 
 
 LEAVES FROxM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 which you recognize as that of Frank Nichol- 
 son's enemy, had never been mentioned to me 
 then, and I knew nothing of what you know 
 now. I was ready for trial now, and went up 
 to county to attend the Oyer and Termi- 
 ner sittings of the Court. Two or three cases 
 of larceny were disposed of the first day, and 
 the second we commenced the impanneiing of 
 a jury. I had then, as now, but little practice 
 in criminal causes, my business lying in civil 
 practice almost wholly. I had associated with 
 me, therefore, the best counsel that the city 
 could afford, and we went into the trial without 
 fear for the result. 
 
 I need not pause to relate the careful manner 
 in which we studied our jury. Nor did we oc- 
 cupy more than one day in the labor of getting 
 one. The first pannel answered our purpose, 
 and we selected twelve men whose characters 
 I knew thoroughly. Three of them were 
 young men, the stout sons of farmers, not mar- 
 ried, intelligent, and having open faces. Three 
 more were young married men, whose wives 
 would be in court. The remaining six were 
 farmers and villagers, with intelligent counte- 
 nances and clear discernment. One of them, 
 however, I looked to with more interest than 
 any of the others. He was an old man, of large 
 wealth and great influence, and, I felt sure, 
 would have more influence over the other eleven 
 than any one of them. I hesitated for some 
 time as to challenging him, but learning that 
 he had within the three months previous buried 
 a daughter, a sweet child of ten years old, and 
 had now only a boy of eight, the son of his 
 buried wife, whom he idolized for the sake of 
 that wife's memory, I thought no more of chal- 
 lenging him. 
 
 The court-room was crowded to the utmost 
 with people from the neighborhood, and as 
 usual in the country, the females in court were 
 many more than the males. The prisoner was 
 calm, and I had directed him to assume no 
 countenance whatever, but to look as he always 
 had to me. His sister was beyond all descrip- 
 tion beautiful, and her face had no need to be 
 moulded by art to produce an effect. Its earn- 
 estly beseeching look, as her eyes met the eyes 
 of each separate juror, was a plea that seemed 
 irresistible. I never saw such beauty and 
 agony mingled in one face. Her eyes wan- 
 dered slowly over the court-room, from judge to 
 jury, and then toward the prosecuting attorney, 
 and then toward us ; and then as they rested on 
 her brother, who sat by my side, a mournful 
 
 smile fell on her face, and at times her deep 
 blue eyes would fill with tears, and she would 
 drop her veil and bow down her head in her utter 
 desolation. It was no acting, and I had no 
 wish that she should vary her conduct. She 
 was a nobie girl, and had her brother's high 
 spirit. Until the third day of the trial, she did 
 not know or think that anytliing she could do 
 would help him. She felt utterly useless to 
 him, and that seemed to be a great cause of her 
 agony. But when I told her that there was one 
 man on the jury whom she could move to her 
 brother's good, she sprang at the idea, and I 
 feared her earnestness would betray all my 
 plan. Yet she managed it coolly and to perfec- 
 tion. He was a young man whom I had reason 
 to think somewhat prejudiced against the pris- 
 oner. I made inquiries as to iiis character, and 
 found that he was well educated, but disposed 
 to a sort of misanthropy which had made him 
 unpopular in the village, especially among 
 young ladies. I thought a simple incident 
 might avail, and tried it. The next morning as 
 the jurors were coming into court, Miss Burritt 
 rose as if faint, and walked towards t]ie door. 
 As she met this young man her foot caught in 
 the carpet, and she would have fallen, had not 
 his hand been instantly proffered to support her. 
 She caught it and regained her footing grace- 
 fully, and looked up into his face with a sad 
 smile, as her silvery voice murmured in a broken 
 but musical tone, " Thank you — tliank you, 
 sir ;" and she passed on. 
 
 It was enough. I was sure of his verdict 
 when I saw his eye rest on her an hour after- 
 ward, as she returned to court. 
 
 Wlien my associate counsel rose to open, the 
 eyes of a)) the crowd in the court-room were 
 fixed on him. His argument was clear and 
 masterly. Hinting, at first, at the proof to be 
 adduced of the guilt of another, he proceeded to 
 state the prisoner's history, and to speak of the 
 testimony to be offered in regard to his charac- 
 ter. I had left the minds of most of the jurors 
 wholly to his management, and his coolness 
 and experience soon had their effect. An ex- 
 change of glances between some of them 
 showed that his words were telling, and before 
 he closed I was satisfied that a majority were 
 with us. We then proved what I have intima- 
 ted, and our evidence to criminate the landlord 
 was astonishing. It was clearly a surprise to 
 the prosecuting attorney, as well as all present. 
 We proved old quarrels with the murdered man, 
 tlireats, and actual exchanges of blows. And 
 
LEA^^:s from the register of a new-york lawyer. 
 
 213 
 
 thei his own anxiety to con\ict the prisoner, 
 and his silence until weeks after the murder, 
 operated strongly against him. And then we 
 surprised oui^elves by pronng by his own son 
 tliat his father left the house that night, (prob- 
 ably to follow the prisoner, but he must have 
 lost the trace of him,) and did not return till 
 midnight or later. The fact that the father had 
 concealed this, (fearing, of course, that suspi- 
 cion might attach to himself,) operated heavily 
 against him. On inquiry being made for him, 
 we replied that he was in custody of the sheriff, 
 charged with this murder ; and on being brought 
 into court he was so confused, and explained 
 his absence from home so illy, as to prejudice 
 all against him. 
 
 But there were two men on the jury whose 
 faces indicated a settled determination against 
 the prisoner on trial. These were, the old 
 gentleman I have mentioned before, and one of 
 the young married men. I ascertained that 
 the latter had not yet been married a month, 
 and his wife was pointed out to me as a very 
 pittty girl in the gallery, who occupied the 
 same seat every day. Toward these two men 
 I determined \^ direct my summing up, for 
 on them I was assured the verdict hung. 
 
 I asked the prisoner, the evening after the 
 evidence had been concluded, whether he had 
 ever loved a woman. His reply was, in a 
 bitter tone, " I have — once." " Is she living ?" 
 "She is." Forgetting his tone entirely, and 
 only thinking that I had a point in his history 
 now to use to good effect, I went into court the 
 next day prepared to make a last effort, and 
 feeling confident of complete success. 
 
 It has perhaps seemed strange, thus far, that 
 Frank Nicholson has not appeared at all in the 
 trial of a man for the murder of his ser\'ant. 
 His father was in court every day, but Frank 
 was on the south side, with Carrie. This last 
 morning, however, he came up from the city 
 with letters, &c., from my office, and walked 
 into court with me. As we entered the court- 
 room and took our seats at the table, I leaned 
 my head forward on it, and for an instant felt 
 oppressed with a tremendous load. I had not 
 yet learned to hold a fellow man's life in my 
 hands with as much coolness as my experienced 
 associate. He sat picking his teeth, and chat- 
 ting coolly and laughing with the prosecuting 
 attorney. As I raised my head I saw Miss 
 Burritt's eyes fixed on him with an expression 
 of horror, that he could be on such terms with 
 the man who was endeavoring to bang her 
 
 brother. A thousand thoughts flashed through 
 my brain, and I was about to drop my head 
 again, when I saw Frank's eyes fixed on tlie 
 prisoner with an expression that puzzled me ; 
 and while I was trying to solve it, the Judge on 
 the bench said, " We are ready, Mr. Phillips," 
 and I rose to sum up the cause for tlie defence. 
 I have no time to go over my argument, or 
 to give you any idea of my appeal, which was 
 some three hours in length. Ridiculing the 
 idea of condemning a man to death upon such 
 evidence, ridiculing the evidence and the wit- 
 nesses, taking especial care to present to the 
 jury the weakness of testimony, one important 
 link in which rested on the shape of the sole of 
 a boot on the prisoner's foot, three months aft^r 
 the footprints in the snow, &-c., I proceeded, 
 for two hours or more, urging especially the 
 absence of all motive on the part of the pris- 
 oner, to murder this ser\'ant of Mr. Nicholson. I 
 then fixed my eyes on the old man of whom I 
 have spoken, and began to speak of the prison- 
 er's history ; of his boyhood in the sunny 
 South ; of his bright boyhood and that fair girl's 
 childhood with him. I spoke of the sports of 
 those days ; their rambles in the green fields, 
 listening to the music of the water-brooks, and 
 birds, and winds. I spoke of their return home 
 at night, to meet their mother's holy love and 
 hear her blessing. I described a scene in that 
 sw^eet girl's childhood, when death was near 
 her, and her lips were parched with the fever, 
 and her little heart was throbbing wildly like a 
 bird fluttering in its prison. At this instant I 
 found my old juror was listening intently. I 
 described a scene that had been told me as 
 taking place in his house, two years before : 
 the brother throwing himself on her bed, and 
 winding his arms around her neck, and dis- 
 pelling the fever flush with his balmy kisses. 
 The old man wept in his juror's chair. I went 
 on to say, that God gave back that sister from 
 the grave's verge, to bless her brother with her 
 angel love, (she had left the court, but came 
 in again heavily veiled, ten minutes after- 
 ward;) and that, kneeling with her fair boy 
 and girl beside her, that mother thanked God 
 with choking words, that God heard in heaven, 
 though no man heard them, and besought Him 
 to keep that bond of love forever bright between 
 them ; to keep them hand in hand in heavenly 
 love all their lives long, and bring them both to 
 her at last. Then she died — passed away 
 from watch and ward over her children ; and, 
 blessing them with her last words on earth. 
 
214 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 left them to their old father, to one another, and 
 to God. That mother's voice comes to them 
 in the holy sunlight to-day as they sit yonder 
 side by side, perhaps, for the last time. O 
 God ! the last time ! Who could separate 
 them now ! 
 
 Then 1 spoke of their father, who was now 
 in his far-off home, utterly ignorant of all this 
 liorrid tale. I spoke of his thoughts of those 
 children, his pride in tliem, his treasuring with 
 idol love the memory of their sainted mother. 
 And when I spoke of that lonely old man, the 
 juror I was addressing all this to sobbed out 
 once aloud. A death-like stillness ensued in 
 the court, and I paused an instant, for that 
 silence was eloquent. I then went on, in a 
 low tone, to speak of the faithful love of that 
 brother and sister — they were all in all to one 
 another. Yet two had been admitted to that 
 holy bond, and now four hearts throbbed in 
 agony, awaiting the verdict of this jury. I 
 spoke of the prisoner's love in low tones till I 
 caught the eye of the recently-married man, and 
 found he was attending to every word. Then 
 turning from him I caught the eye of his pretty 
 wife, and describing the scenes of their love, 
 the flush of youthful joy, the high and glorious 
 hopes which they had cherished — " Who shall 
 carry to her the tidings of this day ? Who 
 could look on the desolation of her broken heart ? 
 Look at yonder gallery, gentlemen of the jury : 
 from those fair faces select the fairest; and 
 snppose that all her hopes, her joy, her heaven 
 on earth, rest on one to whom her young heart 
 is bound in love that springs to life from heaven. 
 Bring him to this court-room^ — place him on 
 yonder seat — deliberately convict him of mur- 
 der — hang him. Then go and tell her young 
 heart that the night of its desolation has come. 
 Can you do it ? Gentlemen, the heart that is 
 capable of loving, the heart that could win the 
 
 love of a heart underneath as pure, as inr^cent 
 a face as that you behold yonder, is incapable 
 of the guilt of such a crime as this !" 
 
 I had my man secured, and with a brief close, 
 sat down. I have omitted, of course, the whole 
 argumentative portion of my defence, and dwelt 
 simply upon the means to which we at times 
 resort, to move a jury to think with us. 
 
 The prosecuting attorney rose to close the 
 case, and while he spoke, Frank Nicholson 
 came across to me and told me all that you know. 
 I was thunderstruck ! The face of my client 
 changed as he saw Frank speaking with me. 
 Up to that instant it had been calmly the same. 
 I rose, and urged him to conceal his face. He 
 did so. An hour afterward the jury brought in 
 a verdict of not guilty, and I had the satisfac- 
 tion of having saved from the gallows as great 
 a scoundrel as ever went unhung. His sister 
 never knew his guilt until six months after- 
 wards, when her brother died. In some wild 
 revel he had burst a blood-vessel, and after 
 lingering a few days, indited a letter to me, 
 and then slept the deep sleep of death. He had 
 mistaken the servant that night for Frank, and 
 had returned to the country to carry out his 
 fiendish plans, when he was arrested. He was 
 a consummate scoundrel, and the world was 
 better that he was dead. 
 
 My register has a pencil mark made after the 
 notes of the case, " James Judson ads. Tlie 
 People," dz,c., which I made for memory's 
 sake, thus: "May 2d, 18—. Frank signed 
 marriage settlements with C. W. ;" and an- 
 other mark thus : " Md, May 3d. ;" which 
 means, that Frank and Carrie were married. 
 
 Years have passed since then, and now soine 
 time when you are passing down Nassau-st., 
 you may happen to see a sign thus : — 
 
 PHILLIPS &, NICHOLSON, 
 
 COUNSELLORS AT LAW. 
 
LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 215 
 
 LEAF II. 
 
 MARY SPRAQUE 
 
 ^ My Dear Phil : — 
 
 " Will you be so kind as to call at the 
 Mansion House, at your earliest convenience, 
 and see me ? I r.eached the city last night, at 
 11 o'clock, and am too unwell to leave my 
 room. If you can call and spend an hour with 
 me tliis P. M., I will esteem it a great favor, as 
 I have business of urgency to be attended to ; 
 which, indeed, has brought me to the city. 
 
 "Yours, alway, F. S. 
 
 "N. Y. C, May 4th, 18—. 
 
 " P. S. Jeannie is with me, and desires her 
 love, &c., and will be as happy to see you 
 as L " 
 
 The above note was thrown upon my table 
 at a moment when I was most busily engaged 
 in drafting*a bill ; but I pushed aside every- 
 thing on the instant, and hastened to the Man- 
 sion House, to see my old friend and his beau- 
 tiful and lovely wife. We had been boys to- 
 gether, and when I left home for college, his 
 father doubted, for a long time, whether he 
 should or should not send him to Princeton also ; 
 but concluded, finally, to place him in business 
 in the city. I went from home, and heard little 
 from Fred Sprague personally, for he was not 
 much of a letter-writer. But we met frequent- 
 ly, and always with no slight joy, until I grad- 
 uated. I then boarded at the same hotel with 
 him in the city, while pursuing my studies, and 
 we were, of course, devoted friends, until his 
 father removed to Buffalo, and the son went 
 into business with him. 
 
 In a short time they amassed fortunes, and 
 Fred married a cousin of my own, whom 
 he had known and loved from babyhood. 
 Through her I now more frequently heard 
 from him than formerly, and at the date of 
 the note which heads this article, we had not 
 met in nearly two years, if I now remember 
 aright ; certainly not since a visit I had made 
 them at Buffalo, some time previous. 
 
 Time had changed us all, in many respects. 
 We were no longer the gay, laughter-loving 
 youths of fifteen years before ; our faces were 
 even somewhat wrinkled, (Fred's and my own, 
 not Jeannie's ; hers was as sunny and bright 
 as in the olden time ;) and we had both strug- 
 gled with the world so long that we had ac- 
 quired much of its formality, if not some of its 
 cold-hearted ness. Yet I confess to a very sud- 
 den start of joy as I read that note, and a 
 glance of pleasure at the clock, when I saw 
 that it was already three in the afternoon, and 
 I might expect no further calls of importance 
 that day. 
 
 In ten minutes I had grasped Fred's hand, 
 as he sat in a large chair, before a grate, (for 
 it was a chilly day, and an invalid needed fire 
 even in May,) and inquired for Jeannie and 
 the family. Even as I asked after her she 
 entered the room ; and I was somewhat aston- 
 ished when she introduced to me Miss Sprague, 
 a young lady by her side — astonished, I say, 
 inasmuch as I remembered her as a child of 
 five years old, the daughter of Fred's imcle. 
 Fifteen years had made a mar\-ellous change in 
 her, and she might well be called beautiful. 
 She was dressed in deep mourning, as I un- 
 derstood, for the death of her father. After a 
 conversation of half an hour the ladies left the 
 room ; and Fred proceeded to state to me the 
 business upon which he had come to the 
 city. 
 
 And here I will take the liberty of pausing a 
 moment, to say, that in this, as in many other 
 of the sketches I may give from my memory, 
 aided by my register, my own appearance in 
 the story, professionally at least, will not be of 
 any great importance. I purpose rather giving 
 histories of life with which I became acquaint- 
 ed, than the more immediate history of legal 
 practice. In the daily pursuit of our profes- 
 sion a thousand scenes are opened to us in the 
 
21(5 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK liAWYER. 
 
 volume of human nature, which are, as it were, 
 mere by-plays in the scenes which most con- 
 cern the lawyer. Of consequence, I may Jbe 
 led to write a story out, in which my profession 
 will not appear at all, exceptinnf as I became 
 acquainted with ihe facts through its medium. 
 Now to return to Fred's statement, which was 
 briefly as follows : — 
 
 " My father had only one brother, as you know. 
 He died two months ago, leaving his wife 
 and daughter surviving him. To our surprise, 
 his fortune, supposed to be very large, proved 
 to be considerably involved ; and his family 
 appeared to be without support. In an exami- 
 nation of his estate, which I found in a condi- 
 tion of almost perfect settlement, I was glad to 
 find it capable of paying all his debts, and 
 leaving to my aunt and Mary, at least, his 
 name not dishonored. 
 
 " But, in his will, occurred a reference to a 
 right of reversion, or something of that kind, 
 to a certain property here in New York ; and, 
 on making further inquiry, I ascertained the 
 facts to be these : When he married, his wife 
 had a certain property in New- York, or on the 
 outskirts of the city, secured to her and her 
 heirs forever. So at least 1 understood it, but 
 may be wrong, as I know little of legal matters, 
 and do not even know whether it was possible 
 for her to hold such property. The property 
 was of little value at that time ; and, shortly 
 after her marriage, my uncle was waited on by 
 a gentleman from New-York, a friend of his 
 and of his wife, who wished to purchase this 
 property for some manufacturing purposes. 
 My uncle referred him to my aunt, as sole 
 manager of her own property. She objected to 
 the transfer of it, saying that it was the only 
 memento of her father which was left to her. 
 The gentleman urged it so strongly, that she 
 inquired his object in obtaining it, and ascer- 
 tained that it was for a purpose which struck 
 her as being just as easily attained by giving 
 him a life interest in the property ; and having 
 some absurd notions in regard to keeping land- 
 ed property in the family, she proposed to him 
 to take a lease or life interest in the land. 
 After some reflection, he consented to this ; 
 and she intrusted it to him to have all the pa- 
 pers drawn, and when they were ready she 
 executed them, supposing she had given him a 
 life interest in tiie land ; in return for which 
 she received a small matter of a hundred and 
 fifty, or a hundred and seventy-five dollars, 
 which probably paid for her next ball dress ; 
 
 and she forgot the whole matter. The next 
 year they removed to Boston, where they re- 
 sided until three years ago, when they came to 
 BuflJalo. 
 
 " It now appears that this gentleman— Jones 
 was his name — died within five years past, and 
 his heirs have taken the property, which I am 
 informed is now worth some two hundred thou- 
 sand dollars. It also appears, that the deed 
 given by my aunt was not, as she supposed, a 
 mere life interest, but was made by Jones, 
 either by mistake of his counsel, or whoever 
 drew the deed, or by an intentional fraud, a 
 quit-claim to the property } or, as I think it is 
 called, a deed of the land in fee, without re- 
 serve of any sort. Had she really intended to 
 convey the property in fee, I am told it was then 
 worth at least fifteen hundred dollars. My ob- 
 ject in coming to the city is to ascertain whether 
 I cannot in some manner recover this property. 
 Those who hold it now are, as I am informed, 
 immensely wealthy, aside from this land, and 
 well able to part with it, or pay an equivalent 
 for it. There is a friend of my aunt's, now living 
 in New-York, who was with her at the time 
 she made the agreement with Mr. Jones ; and 
 who was with her also the next day, when he 
 called witli the papers, and a commissioner, for 
 her execution of them ; and who will testify, if 
 necessary, that the understanding was, that 
 she was merely signing a life lease, or some- 
 thing of that sort ; for many playful remarks 
 were made about it, and a conversation ensued 
 on entailments, and so on." 
 
 Thus much for my friend's statement of the 
 case. It was very clear, and I made but few in- 
 quiries before I had it perfectly in my head, and 
 was forced to tell him that the prospect was 
 dark for any recovery. But I shall not weary 
 my reader with accounts of legal proceedings 
 instituted in the case. I shall now give him 
 some particulars of a history which came to 
 my knowledge, entirely separate from profes- 
 sional duty. I may as well say that part of 
 this I derived from a conversation with my 
 cousin Jeannie, and the rest from personal ac- 
 quaintance with the facts, and participation in 
 the incidents, 
 
 Mary Sprague was a queenly girl. There 
 was a firmness in her step, that convinced one 
 instantly that she had a mind unaccustomed to 
 hesitation. She was tall, and, as I have before 
 remarked, beautiful ; but there was a shade of 
 sadness on her face when I met her in New- 
 York, which I attributed to the recent death of 
 
LEAVES FROil THE REGISTER OF A NEW- YORK LAWYER. 
 
 217 
 
 her father. It was partly owing to this, and 
 partly to another cause. 
 
 Two years previously, she had met at Niag- 
 ara with a gentleman from New- York, to whom 
 she was introduced by a mutual friend, and 
 who became one of a party which remained at 
 the Clifton during the whole season. Moon- 
 light strolls on that west bs^nk, and long day 
 rides about the country, threw Mary continu- 
 ally in the way of Mr. Whitney, and their 
 minds proved remarkably similar in tastes and 
 emotions. If he was worthy of her he must 
 have been above the ordinary run of young 
 men ; for she was far above the medium of her 
 sex in everything that could ennoble or exalt 
 the female character. 
 
 In brief, then, they loved one another ; and 
 yet parted, at the end of the summer, without 
 any exchange of promises or vows. Yet they 
 knew well their position, and met again with 
 mutual joy, in the winter, in the gorgeous 
 saloons of the cit)', where Mary spent two 
 months. This time they parted with an expla- 
 nation. It was understood that Whitney was 
 as yet unable to marry, but was engaged in a 
 promising business, in which, through the influ- 
 ence of his father, he anticipated speedy suc- 
 cess. So they parted engaged; and a mutual 
 consent, on the part of the parents of each, fol- 
 lowed. In this position they remained, ex- 
 changing letters weekly, or oflener, until the 
 winter previous to the visit of my friend Fred 
 to the city. In that winter a gentletftan in 
 Buffalo addressed Mary, and begged her hand 
 in marriage. She, with a very keen percep- 
 tion, satisfied herself that his designs were to 
 marry her father's heiress, and not Mary 
 Sprague, and coolly and quietly dismissed him. 
 He ascertained the cause of his dismissal, and 
 her engagement to Whitney ; in what way I 
 know not, for it had been kept very secret. He 
 set himself to work, however, to circulate re- 
 ports injurious to his rival ; and, even at that 
 distance from New- York, managed to convey 
 to Mr. Sprague most foul and false ideas of 
 Whitney's character. He brought means to 
 bear upon Mary, and caused reports to reach 
 her ears that her lover was a celebrated fortune- 
 hunter, and had boasted of his success with the 
 wealthy Mr. Sprague's daughter, in Buffalo. 
 
 I need not tell you that she placed no sort of 
 confidence in these rumors, but, with true and 
 holy faith, never doubted him. She wrote all 
 that she heard to him, and he was half mad- 
 dened by it, but could not leave the city, and 
 
 was forced to content himself with repeatedly 
 assuring her, in his letters, by a thousand varied 
 protestations, and entreaties, and adjurations, 
 that he loved her, and her only ; and then 
 finally assuring her, that he trusted her so 
 faithfully, that he could not, and would not, 
 take the trouble to repeat his vows. And she 
 believed him, wholly, faithfully. Oh, noble 
 heart ! There be sometimes such on the earth, 
 but, I have oftentimes feared, very few. 
 
 3Ir. Sprague died suddenly, and the news- 
 papers announced, three weeks afterward, that 
 
 the wealthy Mr. S ,of Buffalo, who, it was 
 
 supposed, had left half a million, had died insol- 
 vent ; and his family had given up their estab- 
 lishment, and removed to the residence of his 
 brother. 
 
 The announcement reached New- York, and 
 from the day it was published Mary had not a 
 word or line from Whitney. During the suc- 
 ceeding four weeks she wrote again and again 
 to him, and received no answer. Still she did 
 not yield to doubt, nor suffer an instant's mis- 
 trust of him to enter her mind ; but had fears, 
 terrible fears, of his sickness or his death. She 
 accompanied her cousin to New-York, and the 
 morning of their arrival, dispatched a note to 
 his place of business, informing him of her 
 arrival, of the probable miscarriage of his let- 
 ters, and begging him, if he were sick, to let 
 her know instantly of it. She was waiting a 
 reply to this note when I saw her. 
 
 We will now change the scene of our story 
 to a room in a house not far from East Broad- 
 way, in this city. The date is one week later 
 than that of the commencement of the story. 
 The hour is twilight ; the room a sick cham- 
 ber ; a man is lying on the bed, with vacant eyes 
 fixed on the ceiling. At his side sits a hired 
 nurse, and watches closely his coimtenance 
 until his eyes close, and the heavy breathing 
 speaks of sleep. The door, leading into the 
 next room stands half open, and now opens 
 wholly, but noiselessly ; and a lady, young, 
 and very beautiful, crosses the room, and looks 
 earnestly at the sleeper, till her blue eyes 
 fill with tears, and a sob, vainly suppressed, 
 breaks from her lips. But, regaining her self- 
 control, she turns to the nurse, and asks if 
 there has been any change within the few 
 minutes she was absent 
 
 " None, Miss — only he opened his eyes." 
 " Did he ! It's the first time since day before 
 yesterday." As she spoke, the sleeper turned 
 restlessly, and awoke. There was a gleam of 
 
218 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEVV-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 light in his eyes, as he opened them, that spoke 
 of the return of reason, which had now been 
 many weeks absent from its throne. 
 
 " Fanny, is that you ? Where am I ? What 
 has been the matter ? Where is father ?" 
 
 " Hush, Edward, don't talk ; you have been 
 very sick — many weeks. Thank God ! thank 
 God ;" and she sunk down by his bed, in ex- 
 haustion, but drew his hand to hers, and pressed 
 it to her hps, as she knelt by him. A sister's 
 love is holy ! An old man advanced now from 
 the next room, and joined in the joy of return- 
 ing health, as they all fondly imagined the new 
 symptoms indicated. Instant quiet was ordered ; 
 but the sickr man (it was Edward Whitney) 
 demanded of his sister, what had been heard 
 from Buffalo since his sickness. 
 
 " Here are four letters," replied his sister, 
 " and a note. I wrote to Mary when you were 
 first taken sick, and promised to write as long 
 as you remained so, at least as often as any 
 change took place ; but I am surprised she has 
 not written to me. All her letters are directed 
 to you, as if she did not know you were sick ; 
 and this note has no postmark. I have written 
 to her twice since my first letter, but " 
 
 " The note, the note — open it. Why did you 
 not open all ?" 
 
 " Of course I would not, my dear brother ; 
 but I will read you the note, if you wish." 
 
 My readers will know the contents of the 
 note, and may suppose that no delay was had 
 in informing Mary of his critical situation. In 
 an hour she was with him, and for weeks 
 watched by his side while he slowly recovered, 
 or seemed to recover. It was soon explained that 
 Fanny had misdirected each of her letters, and 
 they doubtless lay dead in the Buffalo post- 
 office. Mary had never known Fanny inti- 
 mately, and had not dared to write to her in 
 regard to her brother, for she was not sure that 
 she knew of their engagement. 
 
 A scene of hope is easily changed into a 
 scene of sadness. The physician informed 
 the friends of Whitney, that his disease had 
 assumed a new phase ; that he might live some 
 months, or even some years ; but that he was 
 liable to immediate death. The blow fell heav- 
 ily on the happy group, and the scene in that 
 bed-chamber was a solemn one, as the physi- 
 cian announced the truth to them all together. 
 For an instant there was an agony in all their 
 souls. Tiie father bowed his head and sobbed 
 aloud. Fanny fixed her eyes on the physician, 
 and fell back fainting. Mary, who sat holding 
 
 the hand of him she loved so well, pressed it 
 calmly, and he calmly returned the pressure. 
 None but God saw the wild tide of sorrow that 
 rushed across those high hearts, sweeping be- 
 fore it the fairest, purest, holiest hopes that 
 had ever gladdened their beautiful gardens. 
 They looked to one another — one long, long 
 look of love — and then to God, where both their 
 trusts were resting. It was but an instant that 
 passed thus, and Mary sprang to assist the 
 nurse in removing Fanny, 
 
 But I am lingering too long on this story, 
 and can but give the outlines of it. That same 
 evening, Edward asked Mary to be his wife 
 without delay, and she referred her consent to 
 her friends for approval. 
 
 It was the saddest wedding I ever attended. 
 When, two weeks after this, I drew an ante- 
 nuptial agreement, having reference to the 
 wreck of her father's property, for Mary and 
 Edward to sign, and took it with me to the resi- 
 dence of Mr. Whitney, Mary refused to sign 
 it. She said that if she had one farthing of 
 property left from her father's estate, it should 
 be his, not hers. In vain he argued that he 
 was now wealthy. She said she had made a 
 vow, when she once heard him called a fortune- 
 hunter, that with her, he should have every 
 cent she had on earth, and she was so deter- 
 mined. Having drawn the papers at Mr. 
 Whitney's request, I now took the liberty of 
 destroying them, and they were married. 
 
 It would now be in accordance with good 
 story-telling, to say that Whitney recovered 
 after all this ; but I cannot. I will, however, 
 hasten briefly to the conclusion of my history. 
 
 I made a very thorough investigation of the 
 title to the property, which has been mentioned 
 before in this account, and had scarcely com- 
 pleted my searches preparatory to filing a bill 
 in chancery against the holders of the property, 
 when Mrs. Sprague died. 
 
 This affliction to Mary was not so great as 
 it miglit have been. Her mother's mind was 
 naturally weak and frivolous, and since the 
 death of her husband had been much more so. 
 Death seemed to remove her from a life in 
 which she had already entered the incipient 
 stages of insanity. Within the next year 
 Whitney died. Previous to his death, I hiul 
 the satisfaction of paying into his hands ovit 
 seventy-five thousand dollars, whicli was tlie 
 fair valuation of the land, which had become 
 Mary's, as sole heiress of her mother's property. 
 I was not obliged to proceed in equity against 
 
LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 219 
 
 the heirs of Jones, for they took good counsel, 
 and were glad to find as honorable a man as ray 
 friend Fred to deal witli, as executor of his un- 
 cle's estate. They paid the value of the land, 
 although, had we proceeded, we might have re- 
 covered the land together with all the buildings, 
 &c., on it, which would have made the prop- 
 erty more valuable by one hundred per cent. 
 I spare my readers the account of legal pro- 
 ceedings, by which this end would have been 
 brought about. Suffice it to say, that additional 
 testimony was procured, which all counsel 
 agreed was sufficient to establish our claim. 
 
 Long used to look for the hour of desolation, 
 Mary bore up nobly when it came ; and after 
 burying her husband, set herself to prepare 
 to meet him again in the land whither she knew 
 he had gone. Her heart kept mournful vigils 
 over tlie memory of days that were not to be for- 
 gotten. A severe cold contracted the following 
 winter, resulted in consumption. She heard 
 the announcement with calmness, and I have 
 been inclined to think, with joy. The physi- 
 cians recommended a warmer climate ; and 
 she, willing to do all that was duty, went to 
 Havana and passed a winter. But the spring 
 found her gradually failing, and she returned to 
 New-York. 
 
 A message came to my office in May, just 
 three years after the receipt of the note from 
 Fred Sprague, with which I commenced this 
 story. It was a note brought by a pilot, whom 
 I had known in an admiralty case, and was 
 brief and startling. A trembling band had 
 written it thus : — 
 
 " Mr. Phillips : — I have reached New- York 
 again, and fear I am dying on ship-board. Can 
 you come to me ? The man will tell you where i 
 I am. Mart Whitsey." 
 
 I went instantly with my guide to the foot 
 
 of Dover st., where the brig was lying, 
 
 and found our once beautiful Marv. She 
 
 smiled when she saw me, and said in a clear 
 low voice, " This looks sad, does it not, Mr. Phil- 
 lips ? But I am so glad I shall die in New- York, 
 so that I may be buried by him. I was afraid 
 tliat I should die at sea ; and I prayed God to 
 let me remain away from Himself and Edward 
 a little longer, so that this body his arm has 
 so often embraced, might sleep by his side." 
 
 She was removed from the ship to the resi- 
 dence of Fanny Whitney's uncle, with whom 
 Fanny and her father now resided. Again 
 my professional services were rendered in pre- 
 paring a will, in which she gave all her prop- 
 erty to Fanny, except a few legacies of endear, 
 ment. 
 
 One calm spring night, she was lying on her 
 lounge sustained by pillows, when she suddenly 
 asked Fanny the day of the month. •' It is the 
 thirtieth," said she. " Fanny, it was this day 
 the doctor told us he must die. Do you re- 
 member it ?" And then she went on to speak 
 of him, and then of heaven. A silence ensued, 
 and she rose and with Fanny's assistance 
 walked to her bed, on which she lay awhile, 
 and then spoke in a low whisper : " Fanny, call 
 father — I am dying." Fanny sprang to her 
 father's door. He had not yet retired, but came 
 into the room. " I am going to him, fatlier. He 
 was here just now — he was here, and looked at 
 -me, and his lips touched my forehead. I felt them 
 — it was no dream. Fanny, dear Fanny, give 
 me a kiss to take to him ; and you, father, kiss 
 me. Again, Fanny — put your arm around my 
 neck — so. It's dark, dark — now it's light — 
 oh ! how light — he is here again — he speaks 
 of God, of Calvary, of heaven. Yes, yes, dear 
 one. Let my coffin touch his, father, will you 
 not ? Again that glorious vision — no, no vision 
 — GJod — God!" And with uplifted hand and 
 gleaming eye, she smiled serenely and was 
 gone. 
 
 We buried her by him as she wished, and in 
 the resun'ection they two will rise together. 
 
 LEAF III.— THE FATHER 
 
 Joseph Baker had adaughter and two sons. 
 The youngest son was his pet. The other chil- 
 dren he seemed to hate. They were his by his 
 first wife. She had died, and, some said, of gi'ief. 
 He was a stern, unfeeling husband, and she left 
 him — left him with those two children, and he 
 hated them. He had married again, and again 
 
 his wife was taken. Her child he loved ex- 
 actly in proportion as be hated the others. Em- 
 ma had grown to be a beautiful girl, and was at 
 the head of his household . Her brother George 
 was her only companion, rnd neither of them 
 had ever seen their fnther ?ir"Op on them. It 
 is needless to say that they hcto-ed him with 
 
220 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 the lifeless honor due to a parent who could win 
 no love. 
 
 Year after year passed on, and Joseph Baker 
 grew gray and cold, his heart harder, his hand 
 heavier, his soul more lost to holy memories. 
 How green the spring once was to him ! 
 How beautiful the summer! How pleasant 
 the golden fruits of autumn ! And now he 
 walked out when the blue sky of the spring 
 morning was above him, heedless of sunshine 
 and air. His youngest son, now twelve years A 
 old, was growing like his father. The boy was 
 like the shadow of the man, always with him, 
 and looking coldly on Emma and on George, 
 even as his father would. Few words were 
 spoken over their table, when they gathered at 
 meals, and they had no evening fire by which 
 they sat and talked of the by-gone or the beau- 
 tiful. They were like two families. 
 
 In the summer of 18 — , I escaped for a fort- 
 night from office duties, and accepted the invi- 
 tation of my friend and client, Mr. Wheaton, to 
 visit his family on the bank of the Hudson, 
 where they were passing the summer in their 
 elegant house. His family consisted of himself 
 and Mrs. W., and a son and daughter. His 
 son was a fine fellow, in every sense — a capi- 
 tal shot, a keen hunter, a good fisherman, and 
 an elegantly educated man of twenty-three. 
 His daughter was a beautiful and uncommonly 
 interesting lady of about nineteen, and her 
 brother's chosen ally in all his employments 
 wliich admitted of her companionship. They 
 rode and walked together, sailed together, read 
 together, and were company and amusement 
 the one always for the other. 
 
 The second evening after I reached their 
 residence we were all seated on the front 
 piazza, which commanded a view of the river 
 for many miles. The house stood on a point 
 of land which jutted out some hundred yards 
 into the river. At about a mile south of this 
 spot 1 observed a fine-looking place, and inquired 
 its owner's name. 
 
 " Joseph Baker," replied Mr. Wheaton. 
 
 " Joseph Baker ?" I repeated, " Joseph Ba- 
 ker ? I don't remember to have heard the name 
 before. Who is he ?" 
 
 " I know nothing about him. He keeps him- 
 self very close. Harry here can tell you more 
 about him." 
 
 I turned to Henry for a reply to my query, 
 but he simply said, " I know little more than 
 father does of them." Miss Wheaton laughed, 
 and said : 
 
 " Mr. Phillips, I'll tell you about it. Harry 
 was riding on horseback, alone, tlie other day, 
 down the river. He had not done me the honor 
 to ask my company, and thus not having his 
 standard of beauty with him, he was more read- 
 ily led to admire a tall, slim maiden, that he 
 met, walking alone near Mr. Baker's avenue 
 gate. Considerably interested in the pale 
 cheeks and heavenly eyes of this maiden, (How 
 could you, Harry, when mine are so black — 
 my eyes, I mean — and my cheeks so red, and 
 myself altogether so different ?) he stopped at 
 the little tavern at the cross road, and asked 
 who she was. Atid, lo ! she was the daughter 
 of Mr. Baker ; and Mr. Baker has two sons, as 
 he learned, and this daughter, and has been 
 living six years in that house, and we never 
 knew them. And now Harry is teasing us 
 continually to go and call on them, and mother 
 is ashamed to go and tell them we never heard 
 of them ; and so we are in a quandary, wishing 
 to oblige Harry, but not wishing to compromise 
 ourselves." 
 
 Providence introduced them within the next 
 hour. We had seen a boat sailing up the 
 river, some two hours previously, and now it 
 was returning. But as it came off the point, 
 the wind lulled to a dead calm. The boat was 
 too large for one man to row against the tide, 
 which was running up ; and there appeared 
 but one man in it, and one lady. They let go 
 their anchor, within a hundred yards of Mr. 
 Wheaton's boat-house. We could see, with a 
 glass, an expression of disappointment on the 
 face of the lady ; and when Henry looked 
 through the glass, he exclaimed, " Good, good ! 
 How fortunate !" 
 
 " What now, Harry ?" 
 
 " Mr. Phillips, what say you to a row by 
 moonlight ?" 
 
 " With all my heart ; but which way, and 
 wherefore ?" 
 
 " Walk down here, and I'll tell you." 
 
 So we walked down to the boat-house, and 
 while he arranged the oars, &-c., he explained 
 that the lady in the becalmed boat was Miss 
 Baker, and he proposed to offer them the use of 
 his boat, to reach home. 
 
 " A good idea, my boy." 
 
 " Stop a minute, Mr. Phillips. I'll ask them 
 to come ashore, and say I'll send them down in 
 the carriage. That will introduce them to 
 mother and Mary, and that will fix the whole 
 trouble." 
 
 " Capital, capital !" said I, as we pushed out 
 
LEAVES FROM THE REGISTER OF A NEW-YORK LAWYER. 
 
 2-21 
 
 toward them. A few strokes brought us to 
 their boat, and Harry introduced himself and 
 then me, and in turn we were presented to Mr. 
 and Miss Baker. The former was George 
 Baker, now about seventeen. They gladly 
 accepted Harry's invitation, as frankly as it 
 was offered, and Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton, and 
 Mary, were no less delighted than surprised 
 witli their visitors. With the infonnal freedom 
 of the countrj', and especially that section of 
 it, they remained something more than an hour 
 on the piazza, and after eating some fruit, and 
 drinking a cup of coffee, they rose to leave, in- 
 sisting on walking home, but at length yielded 
 to Mary Wheaton's urgent entreaty to allow 
 us to take them in the boat, and we had a 
 moonlight sail on the glorious Hudson. You 
 may date from that night the love of Harry 
 Wheaton for Emma Baker. 
 
 But the course of true love ran no smoother 
 in their case than in Romeo's. I could not 
 understand the cause of Joseph Baker's opposi- 
 tion to Emma's marriage with Wheaton, until 
 after the lapse of two years. When Mr. 
 Wheaton, Sen., called on him to open the mat- 
 ter, he met a brief, rude, and decided negative. 
 No explanation was given, nor could he obtain 
 one ; but becoming excited, in his turn, at the 
 roughness of a man with whom he had held no 
 intercourse, farther than to bow when they met 
 in the road, he used as high words, though not 
 so roughly, as Baker ; and they separated, hav- 
 ing decidedly marred the prospect of a union 
 between their children. From that time, Emma 
 Baker was forbidden to receive Harry, and he 
 met a closed door when he next called. They 
 contrived meetings, however, through the as- 
 sistance of Mary, and continued to love hope- 
 fully, until better times. 
 
 At about a year from this time, a gentleman 
 entered my office, one morning, and introduced 
 himself as " Mr. Baker." He wished me to 
 draw his will, and I took minutes of liis desires 
 in that respect. It was not until he named 
 property on the Hudson, in his enumeration, 
 that I found out who he was, and did not then 
 intimate to him that I had ever heard of him. 
 His will de\ised property to the value of some 
 fifty thousand dollars to his daughter Emma, 
 provided she remained unmarried, and the same 
 amount to his son George, on the same condi- 
 tion. But if they married, then the property 
 was to go to his son Joseph, to whom the re- 
 mainder (its value being over a hundred and 
 fifty thousand dollars) was devised. 
 
 I drew the will, and he signed it. These 
 were the main features of it. It was deposited 
 in my safe, and I never saw him again. 
 
 Within the year, I saw Harry Wheaton. He 
 told me that George Baker had died, and that 
 Emma was now very lonely. She had been 
 sick, very sick. He had not seen her in three 
 months then, but there were strange rumors of 
 her father's unkindness. Poor girl! The 
 only companion she had on earth was gone, 
 and her home might well be desolate. 
 
 It was not six months after this, that Mr. 
 Baker died. God forbid that my death-bed 
 should be like his ! It was in the night that 
 the destroyer came. He was alone, and alone 
 he grappled with his agony. Who can tell 
 what visions were his then ? Who can tell 
 what strength was his to pray ? The thousand 
 petty sins, the giant crimes, grown big by years 
 of gloating over them, and magnified ten-fold 
 by a remorseful memory, were there. His 
 tyrannous wrongs, his grinding hardness, the 
 cold-heartedness of half a century, a lifetime, 
 all were with him. Mayhap other, holier vis- 
 ions maddened him. The mild eyes of his 
 last and best-loved wife, her angel eyes, looked 
 on him in the gloom. The patient smile of 
 his sweet daughter haunted him. He strove 
 to fly, and could not ; he struggled, but those 
 heavy sins weighed him down. He wanted to 
 shriek, but the phantom of a hideous wrong 
 pressed its cold hand on his mouth, and he was 
 dumb. He would raise his hands, but George 
 held them down. He would pray, but his 
 murdered wife stood between him and God. 
 He would look to heaven then, but even as 
 he strove to look, a horrible memory inter- 
 posed, and a shudder ran over him, and he was 
 dead. - 
 
 A note in his desk informed them where his 
 will was, and I was sent for. I went, and 
 read it in the presence of his daughter and son, 
 and the executors named in it ; and that daugh- 
 ter blushed for the memory of such a father. 
 As I finished the reading, I saw her rise and 
 walk into the next room, with a calm smile. I 
 followed her. 
 
 " Miss Baker " I commenced. 
 
 " Mrs. Wheaton," said she, with a smile, in- 
 terrupting me. 
 
 " I beg pardon," I stammered ; " but when 
 were you married ?" 
 
 " About tliree months ago ; did you not hear 
 of it ? My father, you remember, opposed our 
 marriage. His usage "of me after George's 
 
222 
 
 THE ROMAN CHILDREN. 
 
 death became such as to absolve me from all 
 duty as a child, and I accepted an asylum at 
 Mr. VVheaton's. Harry is now waiting in the 
 carriage, outside. He would not come into the 
 house." 
 
 I found, on subsequent inquiry, that her 
 father had indeed absolved Jier from her duty 
 under the fifth commandment. My own mind 
 is firm in the belief that only the utmost wrong 
 will justify a child in disobedience. But it was 
 clearly the object of Mr. Baker to kill his 
 daugiiter. My readers will regard this as an 
 awful phase of human nature. It was so. 
 The love of gold will ruin the noblest soul. 
 I will now explain briefly the causes of this 
 hatred of Baker towards his children. 
 
 I was investigating the title to a piece of 
 property in New York, when I came across a 
 will of one Stephen Granby, which I had the 
 curiosity to read. To my surprise, it was the 
 will of the father of Joseph Baker's first wife, 
 and its contents were astounding. He devised 
 a large amount of property, naming and de- 
 scribing it so that I recognized the very prop- 
 erty devised by the will of Baker, who had died 
 only some six months previously, to Emma 
 Granby Baker, wife of Joseph Baker, during her 
 lifetime ; at her death, to go to her eldest son. 
 
 The whole truth flashed across my mind. 
 Baker had married Emma Granby for her 
 money, and was enraged to find himself with 
 only a life-interest in a large realty. He had 
 undoubtedly tried to influence her father to give 
 him entire control of this property, and in his 
 disappointment had resolved to persecute her 
 and her children. He married again, and by 
 some strange perversity of mind, his whole life^ ; 
 seemed bound up in the son of his second wife, 
 whom he loved just in proportion as he hated 
 Emma and George. On the death of his first 
 wife, the property, of course, became George's. 
 
 The father then conceived a plan of defrauding 
 his infant son, which he was strengthened in 
 by his subsequent marriage, and the birth of a 
 son whom he could love. Concealing entirely 
 from the world and from his children the true 
 condition of his property, and being wholfy 
 ignorant of the most common matters in legal 
 practice, he fancied that seventeen years of 
 possession in this manner had destroyed all pos- 
 sibility of discovery. 
 
 I imagine, that on the death of George, 
 which event he had always been anxious for, 
 he thought that, as heir-at-law of his son, he 
 had now a perfect right to the disposal of the 
 property. But under the statute, which is 
 a common law rule reduced to a statute, Emma 
 had the right of reversion ; and the bill which 
 we filed in the case had a speedy issue, and, 
 without difficulty or delay, was brought to a 
 decree. The son Joseph had still, under the 
 will, a very respectable property. I have had 
 the pleasure of passing many summer weeks 
 with my friend Wheaton and his family, in the 
 same house which was the scene of Emma's 
 trials. 
 
 My readers may suppose that the character 
 of Joseph Baker is overdrawn, and that none 
 such exist ; but I can assure them that it is a 
 mild phase of humanity, compared with some I 
 have seen in my practice. Within the week 
 last past I have seen an instance, in which a 
 husband, who had loved in her girlhood, and 
 married in youth and beauty and loveliness, a 
 beautiful daughter of wealthy parents, who had 
 proved false, and fled with another, sell, actu- 
 tually sell her to her second lover, for gold ! — 
 consenting to keep silence on the subject, for a 
 consideration, and giving a release, in full of all 
 demands, of whatever nature — a printed blank, 
 filled out — which might be styled the bill of sale 
 of his once worshipped wife ! 
 
 fiaig m(DMiAM (BiEiinLiiDiaigM, 
 
 Amid all tho charms of Italy, and they are 
 many and potent, few more powerfully excite 
 the admiration of the artist than the groups of 
 youth and children be meets with in that land 
 
 where the sun shines all day, and retires at 
 night with a promise of shining again on the 
 morrow. But it is not in the cities where we 
 see the real laughing phenomena of Italy — not 
 
THE ROMAN CHIIDREN. 
 
 223 
 
 in Rome, where they, meagre and haggard, 
 question you about quattrini in the name of 
 some holy martyr ; nor at Florence, where, 
 with sickly complexions, they boldly ask for a 
 paolo for the poor blind, for assuredly there is 
 no city in the world where there are so many 
 whose eyesight has been destroyed by excess 
 of light ; as if the sacrifice exacted by'the 
 glorious sun of that luxuriant land was — that 
 the victim should not "again look upon him. 
 The subject of the engraving is one of those 
 happy groups to be met with, not in the cities, 
 but in the by-ways ; and the artist has most 
 faithfully pictured the character of Italian chil- 
 dren of the age represented. In the cities, the 
 picturesque lies in portions of the cities them- 
 selves ; but in the country, the picturesque of 
 the landscape is far outdone by that of the 
 inhabitants, and of those the children are most 
 moving to the painter's heart. They live in 
 the air and grow brown and ripen in the sun ; 
 and all laugh with the hearty truth of genuine 
 nature, whether they prattle in thick Neapolitan 
 or poetical Tuscan ; in short, it seems that as 
 in art generally no picture is really charming 
 without the climax of female beauty, so no 
 picture, descriptive of Italy, is perfect without 
 children. It cannot be surprising that the cos- 
 tumes of Italy are so captivating to the eye of 
 the painter. Without perambulating the coun- 
 try, as artists necessarily do, the best opportu- 
 nity of seeing an assemblage of the country 
 people occurs in Rome upon the occasion of 
 the celebration of particular religious ceremo- 
 nies ; and then it is that the pilgrims, assem- 
 bled from various districts, present the most 
 striking characteristics of feature and costume. 
 Those considered the eminenti among them, 
 wear short velvet smallclothes, w'aistcoat, and 
 round jacket of the same material, ornamented 
 with silver buttons, a parti-colored girdle, and 
 large silver buckles. Their ample steeple 
 hats are usually ornamented with medals and 
 peacock's feathers ; some of the men carry 
 their coquetry so far as to wear a small bou- 
 quet in their hair. White stockings are indis- 
 pensable, and in the pocket of their small- 
 clothes, despite the police regulations, they 
 carry a large knife, to be employed as occasion 
 may require — for defence or revenge. The 
 
 dress of their wives is yet more remarkable : 
 their hair is dressed with a silver comb of mod- 
 erate size, and often very large, and shaped like 
 a diadem. Their short gown is highly orna- 
 mented, and their petticoat, which is always of 
 a brilliant color, is tastefully ornamented w-ith 
 velvet or lace ; their apron is of muslin, elabo- 
 rately embroidered, and large shoes of red or 
 blue velvet, surcharged with silver buckles of 
 extraordinary size, complete the female cos- 
 tume. Upon certain occasions tliey wear men's 
 hats, ornamented with flowers, plumes, or rib- 
 bons, and more frequently a net-work of green 
 silk depending from behind, like a purse. 
 
 On the other hand, by no means less striking 
 is the costume of the neatherd. If we would 
 compare the child of the neatherd with those 
 presented in the plate, we find him but little 
 changed since even the days of Hesiod. He 
 is enveloped in a sheep-skin, and his feet are 
 covered in the manner of those of the sculp- 
 tures of the Lower Empire. His legs are 
 naked, he carries a sickle under his girdle, and 
 his head is covered with a large straw hat of 
 domestic manufacture; place but a kid under 
 his arm, and we are at once reminded of Ho- 
 mer, and tempted to look for Ulysses' dog. 
 
 The education of the youth of the Papal 
 State is carefully watched, so far as tliis is 
 practicable. In order to direct them, in their 
 amusements, to a moral, or at least an inno- 
 cent end, tliere are establishments to which 
 young people voluntarily repair, where every- 
 thing is provided for their recreation. There 
 are gardens and play-grounds, in which there 
 are arenas for gymnastic exercises, and where 
 they are rewarded with distributions of fruit or 
 cakes. Those who have been most constant 
 in their attendance at these reunions receive, at 
 certain periods, clothes, books, or other pre- 
 miums suitable to their age and condition. It 
 is especially about the period of the carnival, 
 in the month of October, that these rewards are 
 distributed, in order to induce their attendance 
 at times when they might be tempted by other 
 games less rational. Thus, in Rome, parents 
 contemplate the approach of these festivals 
 with less inquietude than they are accustomed 
 to be regarded in other countries of the Conti- 
 nent. 
 
2-24 
 
 ADELAIDE. 
 
 AUDHlLAIIlDIg. 
 
 BY ELIA. 
 
 She stole into our hearts: the love and trust 
 Of a sweet guileless infant wins its way. 
 E'en to the inner folds of many a heart 
 That seems devoid of love and tenderness. 
 
 Her home was near to ours, and ere the suns 
 Of two bright summers shone upon her head, 
 Or she could lisp the first familiar words 
 So sweet and musical, her tiny feet 
 Learned to play truant from her father's door. 
 And follow on the little winding path 
 That led to ours. How oft we smiled to see 
 The little culprit slily peep behind, 
 So fearful of pursuit, then strain each nerve. 
 And clamber up the rugged steps, to spring 
 To our embrace and nestle, while her heart 
 Quick fluttered, like a little wild bird caged, 
 In her small bosom. 
 
 Oft from mom till eve. 
 Amused with quiet plays and stories told. 
 She seemed too happy to remember home. 
 And gathered closer to my mother's side 
 Whene'er she heard ii little brother's voice 
 Inquiring for the lost one ; hushed she shrank 
 From his approach and 6ager grasp, but yet 
 A few kind words, and with a pleasant smile 
 And parting kiss to each, she homeward turned 
 With a light step again. 
 
 Her little heart 
 Was touched with kind and generous sympathy 
 For one, a pale and suffering invalid, 
 To whom sweet salutations first were given : 
 If resting on a couch, she nestled close 
 And laid a cheek to hersj or if she sat. 
 Bird-like upon the easy chair she perched, 
 And gently prattled there in whispered tones. 
 Striving with all her winning ways to please. 
 If o'er that face pain cast a shade, she gazed 
 So pitiful, and gently soothed with kiss 
 And kind caress ; with little hand in hers 
 She tried to keep her tinkling feet in pace 
 With those slow faltering footsteps. Happy she 
 If to her special trust a message given 
 From the sick favorite's lips ; how danced her eyes 
 And glowed her rosy cheek, as oft she brought 
 A little basket freighted with a gift 
 " For poor Minerva." 
 
 Pleased to win a smile, 
 .Sometimes her hand well filled with violets crushed, 
 Or apron full of dandelions shed 
 Into her lap, was love's sweet offering made. 
 Nor sun nor shower withheld her; oft we heard 
 Her Bweet voice callin/^ at the outer door, 
 And took her in, as Noah did his dove. 
 
 With a glad welcome, when the bright rain-drops 
 Glittered like jewels in her sunny hair. 
 
 If round the board, 'twas beautiful to see 
 (For all untaught) her gentle downcast eye. 
 And small hands folded with a reverent air. 
 While over all a blessing was implored. 
 
 Thoughtful beyond her years, her busy tongue 
 Plied through the livelong day a ceaseless round 
 Of curious questions with an earnest tone, 
 For which 't would puzzle wiser heads than ours, 
 To frame an answer that would fitting be 
 To bear the test of future reference. 
 
 But most of all she loved the story long; 
 With round cheek resting on her dimpled hand, 
 And fixed and earnest gaze, she closely pressed 
 To the narrator's side, as if she read 
 Each several sentence e'er it passed the lips. 
 When ran the tale of injury or wrong, 
 Her cheek would mantle with indignant flush. 
 And deep blue eyes flash with unwonted fire ; 
 Then as the theme grew tender, swelling tears 
 Gam.e forth and trembled on the long dark fringe 
 That rested on her cheek ; and if at last 
 All ended well, a bright and sunny smile 
 Broke like a glad beam through a summer shower. 
 And with a long deep breath, her burthened heart 
 Was lightened of its load ; and then so soft 
 The sweet lips whispered, " I'ellsome more," that oft 
 The moments were to long hours spun, until 
 The weary story-teller found the task 
 No sinecure. 
 
 If e'er on those she loved. 
 True as the magnet to the pole, there were 
 A shade of mischievous aspersion thrown. 
 Or raillery, then to its utmost height 
 Her little form drew up, and one small foot 
 Was firmly planted, while with gesture warm 
 Each charge against a dear and absent friend 
 Was quickly and indignantly repelled, 
 W hen with calm brow she sought her play again. 
 
 Four summers now have smiled upon her head ; 
 Her home is distant now, and yet she comes, 
 Though at long intervals; and still she seems 
 Almost our own, for she is very dear. 
 Oh ! that the trails of her small infancy 
 Might ever flourish there, unchanged by aughl 
 Of chilling influence from this world of sin. 
 May He who reigns above, keep that dear heart. 
 E'en us a garden, from the nsxious weeds 
 Of pride and selfishness, that else will root 
 Within, and by their shadow blight the tender buds 
 That open now so full of promise fair. 
 
THE ST. REGIS INDIANS. 
 
 225 
 
 iPiEiig S!Po mig©3s irniDirAns. 
 
 BY THE EDITOH. 
 
 This engraTing, fiom American Scenes, re- 
 minds me of many a wild bivouac in the forest 
 with one of the St. Regis tribe of Indians. It 
 is not my design to give a history of the tribe, 
 which is now nearly extinct The relics of it 
 are mostly in Canada, though now and then 
 one may be found around the lakes of northern 
 New-York, where it used to dwell. Those 
 vast hunting gromids, and lakes and rivers 
 filled with the most delicious trout, were once 
 their own. But they have met the doom of the 
 red man of tliis continent — gradually melted 
 tiway like the snows of spring. Three years 
 go, I went through a large portion of the 
 jathless wilderness which lies between Lake 
 Champlain and the river St. Lawrence, ex- 
 tending northward almost to the Mohawk. 
 Here is a tract about four hundred miles in 
 circumference, or more than a hundred miles 
 through, either way, spanned by no road — not 
 even a path — and navigated by no boats except 
 those of tlie hunter or adventurer. There are 
 but two or three settlements in this entire re- 
 gion, and those consisting only of a few log 
 huts, surrounded by small patches of cleared 
 land. Through these vast solitudes, made 
 gloomier by lofty mountains, and precipices, 
 and deep gorges, the moose, and deer, and 
 panther, and bear, and wolf stray in great 
 numbers. 
 
 At the outset I plunged fifty miles into the 
 very heart of this vrildemess, where I found 
 one of the St Regis tribe, whom I immediately 
 engaged as a guide and companion. He was 
 rather short, but stoutly built, with straight 
 black hair, black eyes, and that grave, almost 
 solemn expression, so peculiar to the Indian. 
 Taciturn and silent, he seldom spoke unless 
 spoken to, while his laugh never ventured be- 
 yond a smile. Cool and prompt, no danger 
 found him unprepared, and no object escaped 
 the searching glance of his keen black eye. I 
 never shall forget the first night we camped 
 out together. A large fire had been built in 
 the open air, and we lay down on the ground 
 
 with our feet to it — our only covering a few 
 strips of bark that leaned against a horizontal 
 pole, which we had placed on a couple of up- 
 right crotched sticks. Our trusty rifles leaned 
 against ounrnde shanty. Our boat was drawn 
 up on the lake shore below, and all was still 
 and solemn around us as the majestic pine 
 trees, through whose lofty tops not a breath of 
 air was straying. The smoke of our camp 
 fire ciu-led slowly upward, and its cheerful 
 blaze threw into striking relief tl)e dark trunks 
 that receded away into the night like the col- 
 umns of a boundless cathedral. Side by side, 
 
 " Like brothers true and tried," 
 we stretched ourselves out before the fire, and 
 were soon lost in slumber. About midnight I 
 was waked by the chilliness of the air, and lo, 
 the camp fire had burnt itself nearly out A 
 few flickering embers still threw their fitful 
 light on the swarthy visage of my sleeping 
 companion, and I gazed on his manly form 
 stretched there on the leaves, and around on 
 the g)oomy scene, with new and strange emo- 
 tions. Suddenly I heard a low, crackling 
 sound, like that of an animal crushing bones 
 between his teeth. It came from a thick clump 
 of bushes in a little ravine a few yards distant 
 Taking my rifle in my hand, I crept stealthily 
 towards the spot, when I found that what I had 
 taken for a bear or wolf was the Indian's dog, 
 slowly munching the head of a deer we had 
 killed the day before. I turned back to our 
 camp fire, and having rekindled a cheerful 
 blaze, sat down and gave myself up to musing. 
 The wind had risen, and the tree-tops were 
 rustling and murmuring overhead ; the ripples 
 of the lake fell on the beach like the rattling o!" 
 a silver chain, while far away on its placid 
 bosOTi came, at intervals, the lone and lonely 
 cry of the loon. The luminous stars looked 
 britrhtly down — ^the only cheerful objects amid 
 that solitude. I crept again to the side of my 
 Indian friend, and was soon forgetful of alL 
 Towards morning I was awakened by a sense 
 of sufibcation, as if an enormous pressure were 
 
226 
 
 THE ST. REGIS INDIANS. 
 
 on my breast, and a low growl. I had scarcely 
 time to open my eyes, before the Indian was on 
 his feet, and gazing steadily upon me. That 
 low growl had started him from his sleep like 
 a peal of thunder. His dog had crawled on 
 my breast, and with his huge form stretched 
 upon me and his nose close to my mouth, had 
 uttered the growl which had aroused us both. 
 In an instant I heaved him from my body, and 
 was on my feet. " What does this mean ?" I 
 exclaimed to the Indian. Without changing a 
 muscle, he replied, " He was watching you ; he 
 scented danger near." What it was we never 
 discovered. Day was breaking, and soon the 
 sound of our axe awoke the echoes of the 
 forest, as we began to prepare for breakfast. 
 
 This was but the beginning of our acquaint- 
 ance. For two different seasons have we 
 threaded tlie forest together, and a truer friend 
 and a better companion I never found. Re- 
 epectful, considerate, and kind, he in his silent 
 way did everything I could desire. I never in 
 all my intercourse with him heard him use a 
 rough expression but once, and that was when 
 his huge dog, jumping from a rock into our 
 frail boat, upset it, throwing him and his rifle 
 into the lake. 
 
 One day we started on an expedition to a 
 beautiful lake I had never visited. Taking a 
 birch-bark canoe, we paddled some ten or 
 twelve miles up the lake on which we had been 
 encamped, and entered the inlet. Slowly stem- 
 ming the stream, we made our way through 
 the deep forest, until suddenly the roar of a 
 cataract met our ears. Soon after, its white 
 descending waters appeared through the leaves, 
 and we steered for the shore. Here my ftiith- 
 ful Indian lifted the canoe from the water, and 
 turning it over his head, strode through the 
 forest, while I with a rifle in each hand, and 
 the camp kettle and other utensils strung over 
 my shoulders, followed after. Ascending be- 
 yond the cataract, we again launched our frail 
 craft, and toiled on. In a short time we came 
 to a succession of rapids two miles in length, 
 around which we were compelled to carry our 
 canoe. Thus riding in our little vessel, and 
 letting it ride us, 'we proceeded, until at lengtl), 
 late in the afternoon, we emerged into the lake 
 we were seeking. It was a glorious afternoon ; 
 the Bun was bright and clear, and going like 
 a monarch to his rest amid the purple moun- 
 tains that towered away in endless succession 
 in the heavens. A strong west wind swept the 
 bosom of the lake, and the miniature waves 
 
 came flowing like wreaths of gold around our 
 boat. Not a sign of human civilization was to 
 be seen. Mountains of green folded in this 
 beautiful sheet of water, while little green 
 islands, tufted with lofty pine trees, dotted it in 
 every direction. Nothing disturbed the solitude 
 of the scene save the slow flight of the vulture, 
 as he moved lazily over our heads, or the 
 scream of the fish-hawk alarmed for its young. 
 At length, just before sundown, we went 
 ashore, and pitched our camp amid a clump of 
 dark fir trees. Wearied and hungry I sat 
 down for a while, and then asked the Indian if 
 we could not get some trout for supper. " We 
 can try," he replied ; and so cutting some rude 
 poles, we rigged our lines, and pushed for the 
 inlet to the lake. As we were proceeding 
 slowly along, a sudden " Hist !" from the Indian 
 made me drop my head. " Stop," said he ; " I 
 see a deer coming out to feed on that marsh 
 yonder." Nothing but his head had yet ap- 
 peared, but the quick eye of that Indian would 
 have detected it, if only an ear had projected 
 through the leaves. " Shoot him," said he. 
 " I cannot," I replied ; " I am too tired to hold 
 my rifle steady — shoot over me." In a moment 
 his rifle was to his shoulder, and as suddenly 
 dropped again, while he bent almost double to 
 conceal himself. With his eye fixed warily on 
 the deer, that seemed to snuff danger in the air, 
 he rose as the animal commenced feeding, and 
 then as it lifted its head he would drop liis own. 
 At length he seemed satisfied with his observa- 
 tions, and, standing perfectly erect, he drew his 
 rifle to his shoulder, where it rested but a mo- 
 ment, and then the quick, sharp report rung 
 through the forest, and the bullet passed directly 
 over my head. The noble deer leaped convul- 
 sively into the air, and, wheeling, darted for the 
 woods. The Indian had shot more than a 
 hundred yards at arm's length, and standing 
 upright in a frail bark canoe. On rowing to 
 the spot, no traces of the deer could be dis- 
 covered. At lengtii, however, the quick eye 
 of my companion detected a single blood spot 
 on a spear of grass. He pointed it out to me, 
 yet it was with the utmost difficulty I could 
 descry it. " He is hit hard," he said, " or he 
 would have bled more." The next moment ho 
 was lost in the woods. In a short time I heard 
 the crack of his rifle, followed by a slirill 
 whistle, and on hastening to the spot I found 
 the noble deer stretched in death, and the In- 
 dian standing over him. We dragged him to 
 the boat, and, returning to camp, soon had a 
 
THE SUICIDE. 
 
 '^27 
 
 portion of him roasting on the coals. That was 
 a dark and gloomy night ; our fire went out, 
 and the drenching rain came down, and the fog 
 from the lake enveloped us in its thick cover- 
 ing, giving to the solemn fir trees a sombre and 
 ghost-like appearance. 
 
 This Indian had married a white wife, and I 
 spent several days with him in his hut. During 
 my stay, his aged father, one of tlie oldest of 
 his tribe, visited him. With his daughter, some 
 twenty-two years of age, the old man, now 
 verging on ninety, had come a hundred and 
 fifty miles from Canada in his bark canoe. 
 His daughter paddled tlie boat up the streams, 
 carried it around the rapids, built the camp fire 
 at night, cooked the venison, and accompanied 
 him in all his hunting and fishing expeditions. 
 She was a handsome squavv, and her long 
 black hair fell in waving tresses far below her 
 waist. I never could get her to speak to me, 
 not even to answer a question ; but she would 
 sit and talk with her brother, in her native 
 tongue, in a low musical tone which charmed 
 me. The old man's head was covered with a 
 mass of white hair, and shook constantly with 
 the palsy. He would sit by the hour and mutter 
 to himself in French and Indian. He was a 
 large, powerful man, but the sands of life were 
 well nigh run. As I looked upon him, I could 
 not but think of the long journey he had per- 
 formed through the wilderness — of the tender 
 care this solitary girl had taken of him — and 
 
 of the affection with which she watched over 
 his feeble age. The eye of the hunter had 
 waxed dim, and the muscular arm lost its 
 steadiness, so that he had been compelled to 
 change his trusty rifle for the fowling-piece. 
 He had a dog with him — half dog and half 
 wolf — which was the quickest, sprightest ani- 
 mal I ever saw. His motions were like light- 
 ning, and when he leaped to your caress, so 
 sudden and fierce was his spring, that it seemed 
 as if he were about to tear you in pieces. 
 
 The last time I saw this strange couple, I 
 met them on a lonely lake on their return 
 journey to Canada. The old man sat in the 
 bottom of the canoe, while his daughter, bare- 
 headed with her long black hair filled with white 
 water-lilies, which were also scattered pro- 
 fusely over her form, paddled the frail craft 
 through the w'ater. 1 watched them as they 
 receded in the distance, with emotions of pity 
 and admiration. Some night that old hunter 
 would lie down by his camp fire, never to rise 
 again, and that young Indian girl would watch 
 beside him alone. Thus in the still forest would 
 she see him die, without one heart to sympa- 
 thize with her, or one voice to cheer her soli- 
 tude, then drag his lifeless form to the canoe, 
 and seek with it the graves of her tribe. 
 
 I shall never forget the last look I had of that 
 old Fndian and his daughter, and shall long re- 
 member those relics of the St. Regis tribe. 
 
 TPiaig SiCriKDiiiDig. 
 
 There was much that was perplexing to his ' i 
 
 physicians in the case of Colonel O n, for ^ 
 
 many years of his life; and his sudden and un- 
 expected death, at the age of fifty years, fell 
 like a thunderbolt upon his family and friends. 
 A sort of periodicity in his illness early mani- 
 fested itself, though at long intervals, some- 
 limes of about three months, at other times of 
 
 double that length of time ; yet he was never 
 sick for more than a few days, and then never 
 so as to be confined to his bed, and not often to 
 his house. The symptoms of this periodical 
 ailing were uniform and unvarying, and as med- 
 icines seemed to have no effect upon them"==-V 
 fact rendered certain by the experience of miny 
 years — he finally desisted from all attempts to 
 
228 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 be relieved in this way, and left the attacks to 
 take their own course. They commenced 
 when he was about tiiirty years old, shortly 
 after he was married ; and iiad they occurred in 
 a woman, they would have received the title 
 which very many medical practitioners are in the 
 habit of bestowing upon anomalous complaints 
 iti that sex, or tliose which they can find no 
 other name for — hysterics. They might have 
 even called them by that name in some men ; 
 
 but with Colonel O n they could not take 
 
 that liberty, and therefore confessed their igno- 
 rance, and let it rest so. The most acute read- 
 ens of symptoms might, and probably would, 
 have been obliged to do the same thing. He 
 knew what ailed him and could have settled the 
 question for them at once, as it turned out in 
 the end ; but this, for the best of reasons, he 
 d id not choose to do. He knew, from the com- 
 mencement, that whatever it was, it was be- 
 yond the reach of medical skill, but preferred 
 to seem to be utterly ignorant of it, and to leave 
 his medical attendants to puzzle their brains 
 and exhaust their ingenuity over his case with- 
 out even giving them a clue to it. It may appear 
 strange to some that, under such circumstances, 
 while twenty years were passing away, nothing 
 should occur to excite their suspicions that he 
 was not dealing candidly with them. But to 
 those who knew him there was nothing strange 
 about it. He was a man of great personal dig- 
 nity, enhanced in no small degree by his re- 
 puted wealth and splendid style of living. He 
 was candid and straightforward in all business 
 matters, and never known to practice even the 
 slightest prevarication upon any occasion. So 
 upright a man could not be suspected without 
 some good reasons, and these he was cunning 
 enough to never suffer to appear. 
 
 As I am not writing a medical essay for the 
 profession, I need not enumerate the symptoms 
 of his case. There was one, however, which 
 may be mentioned as the unvarying precursor 
 of his periodical attacks, and which always ac- 
 companied them to the end. This was an ex- 
 ceeding nervous restlessness and uneasiness. 
 lie was apparently alarmed at the least sound. 
 If he sat down for a few moments lie would 
 ptart suddenly from his chair and walk rapidly 
 about his room, so that his heavy footfall — he 
 was a large man — seemed to shake the house ; 
 or he would seize his hat, and thrusting it forci- 
 bly on his head, would leave the house and 
 walk hastily to his place of business, noticing 
 no one by the way, not even his most familiar 
 
 acquaintances. Here he would not remain long, 
 but return soon in the same hurried and ab- 
 stracted manner. The same thing would occur 
 at night after he had retired to bed, where he 
 would lie turning for hours in nervous sleep- 
 lessness, or spring from his bed and pace his 
 room hurriedly. This state, I said, continued 
 through the whole period of each attack, but 
 after a few days seemed to be under his con- 
 trol, so that by a strong mastery of himself be 
 was able to transact business with the utmost 
 apparent coolness and correctness. The end of 
 the fit, if I may call it by the popular appellation, 
 was always sudden. He would return to his 
 house after an absence of a few hours, entirely 
 free from all his symptoms. For the last few 
 years of his life he had been in the habit, about 
 the time of the crisis in the attack, of going to 
 the city of , where he w^ould remain a sin- 
 gle day, and return well. 
 
 Do I describe an imaginary disease ? I am 
 perfectly conscious that it may appear so to 
 many of my readers, and yet the case of Col. 
 
 O n seemed to his physicians, and to me 
 
 for the last year of his life, during which I at- 
 tended him at times, as real disease as any 1 
 ever saw. The knowledge of his exact condi- 
 tion was confined mostly to his family and his 
 medical advisers, who were fur a long time dis- 
 posed to apprehend some form of derangement 
 of mind. But the periodicity of the attack, and 
 the suddenness and entireness of its close, 
 leaving him cheerful and clear in mind, after a 
 few years quieted all apprehensions of this 
 kind, and they felt no uneasiness on account of 
 it. Indeed, it is true, that towards the close of 
 his life, there was a development of symptoms 
 indicative of disease of the heart, and his com- 
 plexion assumed that characteristic appearance, 
 which, to a practiced eye, is evidence enough 
 of structural lesion of that organ. But this 
 was a matter entirely of recent date, and not 
 apparently connected with anything long ante- 
 cedent, although the physician would be able 
 to trace its connection with his previous condi- 
 tion should I give a full account of his symp- 
 toms, and more especially when he becomes 
 acquainted with the sequel. 
 
 During one of his periodic attacks, which oc- 
 curred in the month of December, 18 — , in 
 stepping hurriedly out of his own door, one 
 cold, drizzling morning, he slipped on the icy 
 step and fell. lie was unable to rise, and upon 
 being assisted into the house, he found that he 
 had received a severe injury in his ankle joint. 
 
THE SUICIDE. 
 
 2-2'J 
 
 I was sent for, and when I arrived, he was 
 chafing furiously at the accident, and, at the 
 same time, groaning with the pain. I inquired 
 as to the nature of the accident. 
 
 *• The cursed door-step," he replied. " I had 
 but set my foot out of the door when I slipped, 
 and here I am, laid up for — I don't know how 
 long. And just at this time — it's intolerable !" 
 
 " What is intolerable ?" I asked, smiling ; « the 
 pain ?" 
 
 " No !" said he furiously ; " the accident. I 
 beg your pardon. Doctor — I did not mean lo 
 speak so. But this accident is so unlucky — 
 so annoying, just at this juncture — and you 
 will make allowance for my mood just now. 
 There, examine the injury, and tell me how 
 long you think it is going to lay me up." 
 
 The ankle was swollen enormousl)', and in- 
 tensely painful. He cringed and shrunk as I 
 examined it. 
 
 " It is not out of joint, Doctor ?" he inquired. 
 
 •* No ; it is only severely sprained." 
 
 " Only ! It might as well be broken, for all 
 the consolation that affords. And how^ long 
 must I sit here and hold my foot on a cushion, 
 as if I had the gout ?" 
 
 I told him the injury was more tedious than 
 serious, and would confine him to the house for 
 some length of time. He received the infor- 
 mation with another burst of rage, and added : 
 
 " It must not be. I must go to town on the 
 third day from this, and you must get me ready 
 if possible by that time. If you cannot, I must 
 have some one who can, and there's the end of 
 it." 
 
 I assured him that he might send for all the 
 doctors in Christendom, but they could not en- 
 able him to walk on that limb in three days. 
 He again apologized for his incivility — cursed 
 his foot — plead the annoyance of the accident 
 as an excuse for his rage, and at the same time 
 seemed to feel perfectly conscious that there 
 was no excuse at all for it. I bandaged his 
 ankle, and prepared the proper applications, and 
 went home. 
 
 I make no pretensions to extraordinary acute- 
 ness in the detection of disease, and I acknowl- 
 edge cindidly that I was puzzled and at a loss 
 
 to account for the condition of Col. O n. 
 
 At first I was inclined to attribute it to disorder 
 of intellect, but at length came to the conclu- 
 sion that I was at fault here. If it had occur- 
 red but once or twice, I might have considered 
 it some mere effect of trouble or anxiety of 
 mind. But he was, by reputation, vastly rich, 
 
 J and under no embarrassments. For many years 
 he had relinquished the business in which he 
 had been employed, and recently his only care 
 was in the management of the only bank in 
 the place, as president, and that institution was 
 in a flourishing and prosperous condition. 
 There was nothing then to furnish a clue to 
 his affliction. I then looked for disorder of the 
 liver — then of the stomach — and last of all, 
 fixed upon the spine as affording the safest 
 ground upon which to rest. This final conclu- 
 sion was strengthened by the affection of his 
 heart, which was becoming more and more 
 manifest. 
 
 I made my first call, the next morning, upon 
 
 Col. O n. I found him again in a furious 
 
 rage. His rest through thp night, and the ap- 
 plications to his foot, had produced almost entire 
 relief from the pain, and thinking himself nearly 
 well, he had stepped carelessly out of bed and 
 suffered his whole weight to fall upon the in- 
 jured limb. A pang of excruciating pain made 
 him suddenly and forcibly conscious of his 
 mistake, and raging with the agony and disap- 
 pointment he sunk back upon his bed, and spent 
 his violence in groans and curses at his attend- 
 ants. He was always a profane man, and this 
 trait in his character had now full opportunity 
 to display itself under the new stimulus. Upon 
 my arrival he turned the whole torrent of his 
 spite upon me. I heard him in patience till he 
 seemed to have exhausted his stock of oaths 
 and reproaches, and then, taking my hat, coolly 
 bade him good morning and left the room. As 
 I was stepping into my carriage, a servant 
 
 came out in great haste, and ea'd Col. O n 
 
 wished me to come back. I refused, and 
 ordered the boy to drive on, but the man held 
 on to the step, and insisted upon my return : 
 " The Colonel begged it of me, if only for one 
 minute." 
 
 I alighted again and went in to him, but this 
 time with a serious, determined face, and with- 
 out removing either my hat or gloves. I found 
 
 a different man in Col. O n. He was ^ 
 
 covered with confusion and shame. 
 
 " What shall I say to you. Doctor ?" he be- 
 gan. " I am ashamed of myself. I was wrong 
 — grossly, insultingly wrong — to address you as 
 I did. I will not plead my condition and annoy- 
 ance as any palliation of my offence. I feel 
 that there is no excuse. But you must not 
 desert me now, and leave me in this condi- 
 
 tion." 
 « Col. O- 
 
 -11," said I slowly, and looking 
 
230 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 him calmly and steadily in the face, " I will not 
 suffer any man to use to me the abusive lan- 
 guage I have just heard from you. My 
 manhood — my profession — my character, well 
 known to yourself, all forbid it. And more 
 than all, sir, I am a Christian, and no man shall 
 utter in my presence such gross profanity and 
 blasphemy as your lips have just uttered, un- 
 rebuked. I again bid you good morning, sir." 
 
 I spoke coolly and to the man. 
 
 " Stay, Doctor," he exclaimed, as I turned to 
 leave the room ; " stay, if but one moment 
 longer. Hear what I have to say. What you 
 say is right. I acknowledge it. I deserve the 
 reproof, and if any apology could rectify the 
 outrage, I would willingly offer it. But I feel 
 that it cannot. I throw myself upon your 
 generosity and compassion. If you leave me 
 in this way I cannot blame you. and yet I am 
 a suffering man and need your kindness and 
 skill. You shall hear no syllable from me 
 henceforth to wound you. I pledge you my 
 word for it. Now let me trust to your forbear- 
 ance and pardon." 
 
 I remained. The injured joint was still 
 swollen as much as ever, and as painful. What 
 slight benefit might have possibly been received 
 through the night — and at most it must have 
 been very small — had been entirely destroyed 
 by the inadvertency of the morning. Although 
 the patient controlled himself and successfully 
 suppressed all exhibitions of temper, yet he soon 
 became restless and uneasy. His general dis- 
 ease was beginning to resume its mastery. 
 This, however, I left to its own course, satisfied 
 that a few days would set everything right, and 
 restore him to his usual equanimity of mind. 
 
 " You will call to-morrow," said he, as I rose 
 to depart. " I want you to drive on the cure as 
 fast as possible, for if such a thing be within 
 the reach of skill and persevering appliances, 
 I must be ready to go to the city the morning 
 of the day after. And forget. Doctor, I beseech 
 yon, my offence of this morning." 
 ^ I visited him the next morning, and found 
 him in much the same condition ; his ankle so 
 painful upon suffering the foot to hang down, 
 that he was obliged to keep it constantly ele- 
 vated upon a chair. Although I assured him 
 there was no hope of his being able to leave 
 home the next day, yet he insisted upon my 
 calling again after dinner, which I accordingly 
 
 did. I found his friend, the Hon. Mr. R s, 
 
 sitting with him, and he was conversing freely 
 and easily. I was surprised at the control he 
 
 exercised over himself. The Colonel took a deep 
 interest in political affairs, and they were dis- 
 cussing some interesting and exciting topics 
 which were expected to occupy the Congress 
 then in session. In the midst of their conver- 
 sation, a clerk from the bank came in and 
 handed the Colonel a note, which he told him 
 was due that day, and asked him what he would 
 have done with it. He looked at it a moment, 
 and said to the clerk, who remained standing : 
 
 " I am obliged to you for taking this trouble, 
 
 Mr. . I have been so much annoyed by 
 
 my accident and the subsequent confinement 
 and pain, that it had escaped my mind. This 
 is unfortunate. I cannot come down to attend 
 to it." 
 
 He hesitated an instant, and then continued 
 with a confident smile on his countenance : 
 
 " I believe I must ask a small favor of you, 
 
 R s ; a mere matter of form. Will you be 
 
 kind enough to lend me your name for a few 
 days, till I get about again ?" 
 
 Mr. R s assented, as any man would 
 
 have done in the same case. The Colonel 
 drew a small table to his side, on which were 
 
 writing materials, and wrote. Mr. R s 
 
 took the paper, or Col. O n tore it off and 
 
 handed it to him, and wrote his name on the 
 back, without looking at the face of it. The 
 clerk received it, and departed with the renewal 
 of a note at thirty days for five thousand dollars, 
 secured by the endorsement of the Hon. Charles 
 
 R s. Tliis gentleman soon took his leave. 
 
 Directly afterwards the Colonel's wife entered 
 the room, and for half an hour the conversation 
 took a general turn. At length the lady said, 
 with a smile : 
 
 "Mr. O n will hardly be able to go to 
 
 the city to-morrow. Doctor ?" 
 
 " It cannot be possible, madam," I replied, 
 " under present circumstances." 
 
 " I believe you are right," said he, " and if I 
 should, I would not do any business. Yet 1 
 ought to go. How is it, Doctor ? Might I not 
 be carried without increasing my pain much ?" 
 
 " Perhaps you might in your bed," said his 
 wife, laughing. 
 
 " And be carried in my bed from one bank 
 to another? No; that will not do. Well, I will 
 submit, and stay at home, and in the mean time 
 I will take an anodyne powder, which Doctor 
 
 advised me to use, when he attended me, 
 
 and of which I have a single one left, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 He took hia wallet from his pocket, and 
 
THE SUICIDE. 
 
 231 
 
 from one of the interior apartments of it he 
 drew out a small folded piece of white paper. 
 This was only the exterior envelop of two 
 other papers. The two exterior ones he threw 
 into the fire, and from the other he shook a 
 small quantity of a white powder into a wine- 
 glass of water, which his wife had set by his 
 side. He threw this paper also into the fire, 
 and, agitating the glass gently, swallowed the 
 draught. 
 
 » What is it ?" I inquired. 
 
 " I cannot tell you," he replied ; and in a few 
 moments his wife rose to leave the room. 
 
 Just at that moment I obser\'ed his counte- 
 nance to become suffused with a bright flush, 
 his lips livid ; and, putting his hand to his head, 
 he became suddenly convulsed, his arms and 
 legs rigid, and his body bent forcibly backwards. 
 Suspecting some mistake in the article he had 
 taken, and that he might have swallowed poison, 
 I immediately used every means to ward off its 
 effects. But being ignorant of its character, 
 and the patient continuing obstinately silent, 
 the result was that all efibrts were unavailing. 
 In half an hour respiration ceased ; the heart 
 paused ; the flush passed slowly downwards 
 from his face and disappeared. He was dead. 
 
 I did not mention my suspicions even to his 
 wife. In a few days it became morally cer- 
 tain that he was poisoned. But he had suffered 
 long from disease of the heart, and men die 
 suddenly often of disease of that organ ; and 
 that would be as sufficient a cause for the death 
 
 of Col. O n as of any other man, and much 
 
 more satisfactory to his family than to believe 
 him to have committed suicide. That such, 
 however, was actually the case, becam#to me 
 in a few days, and remains still, a matter of 
 certainty. And the same developments that 
 satisfied me on this point, revealed to me also 
 the cause of all those symptoms which had for 
 years perplexed his physicians. 
 
 Just one week after his decease, the whole 
 village was astounded by the discovery that Col. 
 
 O n had died insolvent, and had left debts 
 
 to an amount considerably more than one 
 hundred thousand dollars, and resources to meet 
 them not amounting to one hundred cents. 
 
 I might stop here, but I should leave the 
 reader unsatisfied. He feels a natural curiosity 
 to know something more of the singular ail- 
 ment of the subject of this sketch, and also how 
 it resulted as it did. This 1 proceed, then, 
 briefly to relate. 
 
 We now and then meet with a man, whose 
 fingers seem to be the true philosopher's stone. 
 Whatever they touch becomes gold by the con- 
 tact. Such men are rare, I admit ; but, after 
 all, such men there are. They have no schemes 
 for making money ; they never lay far-reach- 
 ing plans involving the risk of loss and the 
 mere possibility of gain ; they make no ven- 
 tures. They only do what comes to their hand, 
 and are always successful. They do not stop 
 to calculate this chance, and that probability, 
 but they go straight on, and act, and — win. 
 They never lose. If a storehouse, filled with 
 rich and costly cargoes from the Indies, is con- 
 sumed to the ground in a night, the next day a 
 bank rises. Phoenix-like, from its ashes, and 
 they have made a plum by the accident. I do 
 not know how it is. I could never see into it 
 They are men of no calibre, no intellect, and 
 oftentimes can hardly write their own names. 
 Let a calculating, cool, cunning business man, 
 who has made a fortune by his well-laid schemes 
 and prudent entetprises, come to them with a 
 plan by which, it is plain to him, a large amount 
 of money will be realized, and explain it, and 
 demonstrate its certainly of success — and they 
 cannot see through it. It is all Hebrew to 
 them. It is not by their brains they succeed. 
 Providence watches over tliem, and pours 
 abounding riches into their, often ungrateful, 
 bosoms. Of this class was iwt Col. O n. 
 
 There is another class of men, just the re- 
 verse of these, and by no means so rare. They 
 belong, naturally, to what are called " specu- 
 lating times," but are to be found always and 
 everywhere. They wear always smiling, con- 
 fident-seeming faces, and think they lay their 
 plans and form their schemes for making money 
 with consummate skill and cunning. They 
 are always borrowing money, and some of them 
 are punctual in paying. Some fail soon after 
 they begin ; others are successful ; and a few 
 have tlie adroitness to conceal their rottenness, 
 and wear out a long life upon fictitious capital, 
 and borrowed money, and reputed wealth, and 
 die leaving a bankrupt estate, and despised 
 character, and dishonored name to their family. 
 
 Of this class was Col. O n, the gentleman 
 
 son of a large farmer in W county — the 
 
 pennyless specdiator — the popular president of 
 the bank — the suicide. 
 
 I need not go back to his early life, to show 
 what he was then. He was tlie same from the 
 period at which he first entered upon the active 
 business of life, till he died. Unsuccessful 
 
232 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 speculations had involved him to a considerable 
 amount; but this he contrived to keep secret, 
 and with a confident air applied to his friends 
 for accommodation. He had the reputation of 
 being a bold, but clear-sighted and safe operator, 
 and readily procured what aid he required. 
 Still he was unsuccessful and constantly retro- 
 grading. He now saw it become necessary 
 to use all his caution to prevent the discovery 
 of his true circumstances. He had recently 
 married into a family supposed to be very rich, 
 but actually as worthless as he was himself. 
 The marriage, however, was a fortunate one 
 for him just at that juncture, for it gave his 
 friends additional confidence in his resources. 
 But he felt his own insecurity, and that one 
 false step would involve him in utter ruin and 
 disgrace. Should suspicion, from any cause, 
 become attached to him, he was lost. But he 
 was still unsuspected. His credit was whole. 
 Men believed that he had been realizing large 
 sums from his various operations, while he had 
 been constantly losing. He had contrived, by 
 new and larger loans upon the security of some 
 of his friends, to pay up the ums he had borrowed 
 from others, and keep in advance of present 
 necessities, could this be made to hold out. 
 He was alarmed, and sat down to investigate 
 his position. This was the first attack of what 
 was ever after considered a periodical disease, 
 and was in fact nothing more than his intense 
 anxiety of mind, under a deep sense of his peril- 
 ous position. This was comparatively mild to 
 what they afterwards became, and if noticed by 
 his friends, was only regarded as temporary 
 anxiety for the success of some speculation. 
 He called all his ingenuity to his aid at this 
 time, and after consideration for a day or two, 
 the plan was perfected. It was the only suc- 
 cessful one he ever concocted, but this was 
 eminently so. He determined to relinquish all 
 speculation and business, while he continued 
 to keep up an appearance of being as deep in it 
 as ever ; to collect all his debts into two or 
 three sums, due at different periods of the year, 
 and to meet the payments as they became due, 
 by borrowing the securities of his different 
 friends at different times, and resorting to vari- 
 ous banks for the loans, enlarging enough each 
 time to meet the expenses of his style of living. 
 The scheme was as weak and flimsy a one as 
 a man ever invented for a small business, mtich 
 more for one already involving thousands of 
 dollars. But to him, after mature deliberation, 
 it jeemed not only plausible, but certain of suc- 
 
 cess. And, improbable as it may seem, it did 
 succeed, and only because it never entered into 
 
 the mind of man to suspect Col. O n of 
 
 roguery or deception. But at each return of 
 the time at which it became necessary to pro- 
 vide for his emergencies, his mind was in an 
 agony of apprehension and doubt. Still he 
 never found any difficulty in procuring all the 
 money he required ; and, the business once more 
 arranged, he was himself again. 
 
 In the course of his speculations, however, 
 he had managed to secure two large and valu- 
 able farms in a distant part of the State. To 
 these he now had recourse, and by mortgaging 
 them, he raised money to build him an elegant 
 mansion and furnish it in the most costly style. 
 This was a new prop to his still uninjured re- 
 putation. But there happened at length a time 
 when the possibility of raising a considerable 
 sum to meet his largest payment seemed almost 
 hopeless. The friend from whom he was ex- 
 pecting aid was absent from home. The day 
 was just at hand, and disclosure and disgrace 
 seemed staring him in the face. Hesitation 
 was ruin. He had hoped to avoid this, but 
 there was one resort left. A mortgage on bis 
 house and furniture saved him. This, how- 
 ever, after it was done, was a relief, for it had 
 considerably reduced his liabilities. One pay- 
 ment was stopped ; one source of his periodic 
 agony of mind was cut off. He could now 
 breathe freely for six months. How he bore it 
 1 do not know. How he managed to keep that 
 perpetual smile on his countenance is a mys- 
 tery to me. 
 
 The establishment of a bank in the place 
 was one of the most fortunate events in his life. 
 It needed no management for him to procure 
 the presidency. He was just the man. His 
 reputation as a financier was unequaled — a 
 quality which was exactly equaled by his 
 wealth. But everybody thought him one, aiKl 
 that was enough. Here were new facilities 
 afforded him at once and unsought. His friends 
 required loans, and mutual arrangements were 
 easily made. A considerable part of his debts 
 was now transferred to the new institution. 
 JIad he been the sole manager in the concern, 
 it would have been easy for him to con- 
 dense all his debts at once, and by prudent 
 management to have done as other bankers 
 had done before him, in just as false and penny- 
 less condition. But there were other officers 
 in the bank ; there were the directors — Argus- 
 eyed, prudent, sagacious, and perhaps honest 
 
THE SUICIDE. 
 
 233 
 
 men ; there were the cashier and the clerk, 
 who made up every night the cash account, 
 and whose interest lay in the interest of the 
 bank. No under-handed means could be re- 
 sorted to, if he had been so inclined ; and who 
 might not have some such tlioughts, situated 
 as he was — groaning under debts constantly 
 increasing, and which were fast mounting up 
 to the size of a respectable bank capital ? The 
 same caution, the same steady, unwavering, 
 sleepless watchfulness was necessary as before, 
 to elude the vigilance and honesty of other 
 men, and to keep down suspicion. But he did 
 not stagger under the burden. He was still 
 the cheerful and open-faced man he had ever 
 been — always disposed to have his friends ac- 
 commodated at the bank, and to make new 
 friends of wealthy men even from a distance, 
 who wanted bank aid. He could use them all 
 to advantage. Indeed, it was an additional se- 
 curity to his standing, if he could use new 
 names occasionally upon his paper, and it was 
 better than to be always calling on the same 
 friends, even at the long intervals which inter- 
 vened between the times that demanded it. It 
 did indeed require consummate skill in finan- 
 ciering to blind the eyes of everybody, and hide 
 so much rottenness for so many years. He 
 was often absent from home for several days at 
 a time, leaving the impression behind him that 
 he had gone to see to property in one place, or 
 to buy in another, or to sell in a third, or to 
 make a capital speculation here or there. He 
 let it be understood that he owned a large 
 
 amount of property in the city of , and 
 
 everybody thought he did. It was wonderful, 
 after all, that he held out as he did, and that 
 his troubles did not drive him mad or kill him. 
 They did eventually bring on the affection of 
 the heart, which I have mentioned, but it had 
 not reached much intensity when he died. 
 
 Another facility also he found in his position 
 in the bank, and which he made use of to its 
 utmost extent, involving many poor people in 
 ruin. Besides the business men who made 
 their daily deposits, to withdraw them as they 
 needed them, there were many persons of small 
 income, and others, who placed their surplus 
 money in the bank till some favorable oppor- 
 tunity should occur for investing it to advantaf^e. 
 
 To such. Col. O n proposed that, as their 
 
 money was drawing no interest while lying in 
 the vaults of the bank, he would borrow it of 
 them, giving his note drawing interest, and 
 le on demand. With the utmost confi- 
 
 dence in his integrity and ability, such an ofier 
 was gladly embraced, and the money often left 
 for an indefinite time in his hands. These 
 sums, small individually, drawn from many de- 
 positors, for several years, in gross amounted 
 to a good deal. He was careful to pay the in- 
 terest on them regularly, and few of the original 
 sums were ever called for, as this was all the 
 owners wanted. 
 
 Men situated as was Col. O n are too 
 
 often made the trustees and executors of the 
 property of orphans and minors. Their reputed 
 wealth and acquaintance with business matters, 
 and the profitable investment and management 
 of money, and the universal credit they enjoy 
 for honesty and honor, seem to point them out 
 as proper persons to have the care of the pro- 
 perty of those who are not legally competent 
 to manage their own affairs. He held in trust 
 sums to a considerable amount belonging to 
 others. But why need I enumerate more? 
 He was immensely rich in the estimation of 
 men : he was actually rich in trusts and debts 
 due to others. 
 
 The time drew on slowly, but surely — the 
 time which he always knew must come, and 
 for which he had trembled with an agony of 
 apprehension several times every year — in which 
 it became impossible any longer to conceal his 
 true situation. Troubles had been thickening 
 for years ; the circle of fire had been gradually 
 drawing closer around him. For this he had 
 probably long before made preparation, by de- 
 positing in his wallet the poison which should 
 end his life before disgrace fell upon him. 
 Confined to his house at the time he most 
 needed to be abroad, to provide for meeting his 
 notes which were about to become due — pre- 
 vented from going to the city, where he had 
 usually gone to meet liabilities there — and 
 warned by the almost dishonored bill which 
 the bank -clerk had brought him, he made up 
 his mind to end it. But with this resolution in 
 his heart, he still had the coolness and baseness 
 
 to involve his friend R s in his ruin. This 
 
 cunning act completed, he took the poison. 
 
 His remains were followed to the grave by 
 multitudes. The village papers went into 
 mourning, and published flowing panegyrics to 
 his memory. One week changed the picture. 
 Almost every man of sufficient credit had his 
 name on the Colonel's notes, and when at 
 length the full truth came to light, he was dis- 
 covered to be bankrupt for more than one 
 hund^'ed thousand dollars. 
 
234 
 
 MEETING. 
 
 MMf SBfi^. 
 
 BY T. W. FIELD. 
 
 A^HEN through the closing gates of day 
 
 Bright vistas we behold, 
 And Twilight trails along the sky 
 
 Her mantle fringed with gold ; 
 
 When lingering day stands on the hills, 
 
 And waits the veiled even, 
 While angel forms seem leaning o'er 
 
 The battlements of heaven : 
 
 The weary soul, on wings of thought, 
 Seems fluttering in its clay — 
 
 A bird which views its native land, 
 And pants to be away ; 
 
 And past events appear anew, 
 On Memory's tear-dimmed book, 
 
 Like half-filled foot-prints seen beneath 
 The waters of a brook. 
 
 A hum of wings is on the air, 
 The shrill brook talks of showers. 
 
 And homeward bees along their track 
 Winnow perfumes of flowers. 
 
 From out the chamoers of the night 
 The stars come startling forth, 
 
 Like sudden trutlis upon the soul, 
 Which Reason's sky gave birth. 
 
 The woods, and hills, and all, are still, 
 Slow darkening on the view, 
 
 Save one lone cloud, whose inner light 
 Glows with a sunset hue. 
 
 Its silver foldings cloaked with gray, 
 The coming gloom forecast, 
 
 Like shadows of the Future thrown 
 On the retreating Past. 
 
 For day and night are meeting there, 
 
 Blent in the fading even — 
 So friends, when one was not on earth, 
 
 Meet at the gate of heaven. 
 
 ITIEIY WmiLs M ©(DHffi. 
 
 BY T S. ARTHUR. 
 
 "Doctor ! my child must not die !" 
 
 " With God arc the issues of life," replied 
 the physician solemnly. 
 
 " Don't — don't speak to me in that way. 
 Doctor," said the agonized father. " I say my 
 child must not die. She is more to me than all 
 I possess. Call in further aid. Consult with 
 
 Doctors L , and B , and S . There 
 
 is, there must be, power in medicine to save 
 her." 
 
 ♦* I will not deceive you, Mr. Librand. I dare 
 
 not. Your daughter is beyond the reach of 
 human skill. There are signs of approaching 
 mortality that no physician can mistake." 
 
 " I will not believe it. Doctor," returned the 
 unhappy father passionately. " It cannot, it 
 must not be ! Call in the best medical counsel 
 to be found, and save my child. She must not 
 be taken from me." 
 
 The physician went away sad at heart. 
 There was no hope with liim. The child of 
 tlie merchant must die, for the cold fingers of 
 
THY \^^LL BE DONE. 
 
 235 
 
 death were already in her heart, and the waters 
 of life were congeahng. But he called in the 
 ablest members of tlie profession, and long was 
 the consultation they held, after leaving the 
 bedside of the young and beautiful girl who 
 was about departing — a pure spirit for the 
 world of spirits. 
 
 Wliile the physicians consulted, the father 
 paced the length of his parlors slowly to and fro, 
 in the bitterness of a fearful suspense. At length 
 tlie tread of feet was heard upon the stairs. His 
 respiration ceased and then went on again with 
 suffocating irregularity. All but the famUy phy- 
 sician left the house, and he came in to advise 
 Mr. Librand of the result of tlie examination 
 and conference. The fatlier's face was pale, 
 and his lips quivered as he said : 
 
 " There is hope ?" 
 
 " None, my friend ! I cannot, I dare not de- 
 ceive you." 
 
 The merchant staggered back, and sunk 
 ner\-eless upon a sofa. 
 
 She was his only child, and her mother had 
 years ago faded as she was fading, and gone 
 down to the grave as she was going. The mer- 
 chant had great possessions, and had surrounded 
 himself with all the good things of. life ; but his 
 gentle Marion was more to him, twice, yea, 
 thrice told, than all the rest. And Marion was 
 about to die. 
 
 "Leave me. Doctor! If you cannot save 
 my child, leave me !" said Mr. Librand, wav- 
 ing his hand to the physician. 
 
 The doctor stood reflecting for a moment, 
 and then silently withdrew. From the house 
 of the merchant he drove to the residence of 
 the minister of the church to which Mr. Li- 
 brand belonged. Mr. Loring, the minister, was 
 a man who had himself seen affliction. He 
 was well advanced in years, and stood, except 
 in his official relation to the world, almost alone. 
 Wife and children, all had left him for a purer 
 and a better sphere. But he was a cheerful old 
 man. He knew in whom he had beheved, and 
 was one who could thank God even for afflic- 
 tion." 
 
 " I wish you would see Mr. Librand," said the 
 physician, on meeting the minister. 
 
 " Is Marion worse ?" asked Mr. Loring, with 
 evident concern. 
 
 '•I have had but little hope of her from the first," 
 retu rned the physi cian . " Now all hope is gone . 
 She cannot recover. We held a consultation 
 on her case this morning, and all agree with me 
 tliat she is beyond the reach of medicine." 
 
 " Does her father know this ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have plainly told him the worst" 
 
 " How does he bear it ?" 
 
 " More like a weak child than a strong man. 
 I am afraid it will destroy his reason. Will 
 you not see him, Mr. Loring, and offer him spir- 
 itual comfort ? for earth has no medicine for his 
 affliction." 
 
 " I will go to him now," replied the minister. 
 
 " May you find some words that will reach 
 him and save him from the gloom and despond- 
 ency into which he is sinking." 
 
 When Mr. Loring reached the house of Mr. 
 Librand, he found the merchant walking the 
 rooms in which his family physician had left hhn 
 half an hour before, in great distress of mind. 
 
 " How is your daughter ?" asked the minis- 
 ter, as he took his hand. 
 
 " Beyond the hope of recovery, they tell me ; 
 but I cannot, I will not believe it God will not 
 surely rob me of my only child. Oh, sir, you 
 are his minister — say ! do you think He will ?*' 
 
 " The Lord seeth not as man sees," replied 
 Mr. Loring. " His ways are inscrutable. But 
 all that He does is for the best, and we should 
 humbly acquiesce in His dispensations, and say, 
 'Thy wiU be done.'" 
 
 " There is no comfort in that to me, Mr. Ix)- 
 ring. But to take away my only child ! my 
 loving and beloved one ! the very stay of my 
 life ! No — no. It is not best ; and for me to 
 say, ' Thy will be done,' would be mockery," 
 
 « Shall not the God of all the earth do right ? 
 Shall He not claim His own, when He thinks it 
 best to do so ? The dear angel you call your child 
 belongs really to God. And shall He not take 
 her to Himself when He will .'" 
 
 " You speak in a strange language, Mr. Lo- 
 ring. I do not understand you," said the mer- 
 chant, with some sternness of manner. 
 
 " We are the creatures of His hand ; the 
 sheep of His pasture. Shall He not do with us 
 as He thinks best ?" 
 
 The merchant answered by an impatient 
 gesture. 
 
 " May I see Marion?" asked Mr. Loring, who 
 saw that in the merchant's present state of 
 mind words were useless. 
 
 " If you please." And the two went up to 
 the sick chamber. 
 
 Elevated upon pillows, lay the fragile form of 
 a young and lovely girl, over whose sweet face 
 passed a gentle smile, as her father and the 
 minister entered. 
 
 " How are you, my child ?" said Mr. Loring, 
 
236 
 
 THY WILL BE DONE. 
 
 as he took her white, almost transparent hand 
 in his. 
 
 " I believe I am not so well," Marion replied, 
 in a low, calm voice. As she said this, her eyes 
 wandered to the face of her father, and a tender, 
 loving expression passed over her countenance. 
 
 "But all is right here?" And Mr. Loring 
 laid his hand upon his breast. 
 
 •' Yes, all is right there. I know that few 
 and brief are the days that remain to me, but I 
 am ready for the change whenever it comes." 
 
 " You are not, then, afraid to walk through 
 the dark valley ?" 
 
 " Afraid ? Oh, no. He will send His angels 
 to be with me." 
 
 Here the father interrupted the conversation, 
 and reproved, covertly, the minister for intro- 
 ducing such a subject at such a time. 
 
 " Speak of life, Mr. Loring, not of death," he 
 said. 
 
 "And does he not speak of life?" inquired 
 Marion, sweetly — " of the true, eternal life ? It 
 is not really death, father, but the passing from 
 death unto life. I shall go from a world of 
 darkness to a world of light. Dear father !" 
 and the daughter leaned over, and, taking her 
 father's hand in both of hers, looked earnestly 
 into his face. " Dear father," she repeated, 
 " if God were willing, I would gladly stay with 
 you here, and make the flowers grow thickly 
 about your feet ; but I am called and must go. 
 The time of my probation is nearly ended. I 
 can feel myself near to the spirit world. God 
 knoweth better than we, the times and the sea- 
 sons for all events. It will be a dreary world 
 for you when I am gone ; but think not of me 
 as far away and lost, but as near to you, and 
 still your own loving Marion. For I shall still 
 love you, and love will bring me near to you, 
 perhaps nearer than now. Look up, father, oh, 
 look up ! and say, ' Thy will be done.' " 
 
 Mr. Librand's face was now buried in the 
 pillow that supported the head of his child, and 
 his whole frame quivered with agitation. 
 
 " Look to Heaven, father, and speak those 
 confiding words. Say, Thy will be done, and 
 you will feel more resigned." 
 
 "I cannot," murmured the father, "I can- 
 not, Marion ; you must not go. Since your mo- 
 ther's death, you have been all to me. Say you 
 will yet live." 
 
 Tears dimmed the eyes of Marion. She tried 
 to say more, but her lips quivered so that she 
 could not articnlatc. 
 
 " With God are the issues of life," said the 
 
 minister, in a solemn voice. " If he call, the 
 spirit must answer ; if he summon, the spirit 
 must obey." 
 
 " Dear father," — Marion had recovered her- 
 self, and now spoke in a calm voice, — "say in 
 your heart. Not my will, but Thine be done. 
 That is the true philosophy of life. There is 
 none other that can bring peace to the troubled 
 spirit. I go but a little while before you, and 
 will wait and welcome your coming. Do not 
 rebel against this dispensation. God is good- 
 ness itself, and His wings of mercy are over us 
 in affliction as well as in joy." 
 
 The father answered not, but his stern si- 
 lence told how strongly his heart rebelled. 
 
 " Talk not to me of a merciful Providence," 
 he said to Mr. Loring, on leaving the chamber 
 of his daughter. "It is cruel to take from me 
 my child. Is she not all I have to love ? Was 
 it not enough to rob me of her mother, that the 
 child must be taken also ?" 
 
 " Mr. Librand," returned the minister, •' the 
 future has been wisely concealed from us. We 
 cannot know what even a day is to bring forth ; 
 but we may know, if we will, that every event 
 affecting us is under the control and direction 
 of an all-wise and infinitely merciful God, who 
 permits nothing to take place that does not look, 
 either directly or indirectly, to our good — not 
 our mere temporal, but our eternal good, for it 
 is this that the Divine Providence regards. 
 Time and sense bound our vision, and the things 
 of this world engross our affections, thus pre- 
 venting our minds from being opened to what 
 is higher, purer and eternal. But the Divine 
 Providence, in all that concerns us, ever seeks 
 the elevation of our affections from natural 
 things to such as are spiritual ; and in doing 
 this, often lays upon us the burden of sorrow. 
 But these light afflictions, which are but for a 
 moment, work for us a far more exceeding and 
 eternal weight of glory." 
 
 " 1 cannot understand you," said Mr, Li- 
 brand, impatiently interrupting the minister. 
 " All that I understand or feel, is the fact that 
 my child, in whom my very life is wrapped up, 
 is about being taken from me. Is that a mer- 
 ciful dispensation ? No! it is mockery to say 
 that it is." 
 
 Vain were the minister's efforts to give 
 strength to the heart of Mr. Librand, or to lift 
 up his bowed head. 
 
 " Talk not to me of resignation !" he would 
 reply. " I cannot, I will not be resigned to this 
 cruel bereavement." 
 
THY WILL BE DONE. 
 
 237 
 
 But it is in vain that we struggle against the 
 firmly dispensed behests of infinite wisdom, 
 guided by infinite love. Death calls the aged 
 and the young, the poor and the rich, the ten- 
 derly loved and the coldly neglected ones, and 
 his voice must be obeyed. The sands ran low- 
 in the life-glass of the young maiden, and the 
 hour of parting at length came. Tenderly did 
 she urge patience and resignation upon her 
 half-distracted parent ; but her words had, or 
 appeared to have, no effect. 
 
 She had lain for some time, with her eyes 
 closed, and a placid expression on her face, after 
 having uttered many tender and consoling 
 words, when a sudden smile illuminated her 
 countenance — a bright and heavenly smile. 
 Her lips moved, but no sound was heard. Mr. 
 Librand bent eagerly down to listen. 
 
 " Thy will be done," were the only w;ords 
 his ear could distinguish. The motion of her 
 lips ceased ; the smile faded ; and Marion slept. 
 When she awoke, her companions were angels 
 and good spirits! 
 
 Sternly did the heart of the stricken parent 
 rebel against this affliction. He was angry 
 with God, and arraigned Him before the bar of 
 his finite reason, as oppressive, arbitrary and 
 cruel. The minister spoke words of consola- 
 tion, but his earnest efforts were repulsed ; and 
 in the solitude of his own heart, the father 
 brooded over and nursed his sorrow. 
 
 The grass grew and the flowers bloomed 
 over the grave of Marion, but since tlie depar- 
 ture of her pure spirit from the earth, the old 
 family pew had been vacant on the Sabbath. 
 Her father sought not the consolations of reli- 
 gion, for he was angry with God. Many times 
 had Mr. Loring approached, and striven to break 
 down the sternness of his grief, to pour into his 
 heart the oil and wine of true consolation ; but 
 as often had the merchant turned coldly from 
 him. 
 
 Thus years were added to years, and still the 
 merchant was solitary, stem and silent in his 
 grief. Many, very many times during that 
 long night of afiliction, did Marion come to him 
 — whether while dreaming or awake, he often 
 hardly knew ; and she always pointed upwards 
 with a look of holy confidence, and always re- 
 peated the words last whispered in his ear, as 
 he bent eagerly over her, when life was ebbing 
 feebly away. 
 
 At last his dream or vision of Marion changed. 
 He came home from his counting-room one 
 day, feeling more desolate in heart than usual, 
 
 and retired to his room, after partaking of 
 his solitary evening meal. On the wall "-ung 
 an almost animated likeness of his child. Upon 
 this he fixed his eyes, as he sat in the usual 
 place, and murmured, in the words of Cowper, 
 
 " Oh ! that those lips had langaage." 
 
 For a long time he remained looking npcn 
 the pictured face of Marion, thinking, ever and 
 anon, that the smile grew brighter and that 
 the lips moved as if about to speak. This illu- 
 sion increased. Surely the face did smile ! 
 Surely the lips moved ! It was to him the pulse- 
 less efiigy no more, but the living, breathing 
 Marion ! — not upon the wall in a gilded frame, 
 but standing by his side, with her arm tenderly 
 embracing his neck, and her warm lips upon his 
 cheek. A moment of confusion, and the fa- 
 ther's mind was calm and clear. The past was 
 forgotten. Marion, sweet Marion, w-as, and had 
 always been his. There had been no bereave- 
 ment, no separation. The dream of afiSiction 
 was over, and its impressions effaced. 
 
 The merchant was happy. Days came and 
 went ; the seasons changed ; and, for a time, all 
 remained bright, for Marion's dear face was 
 ever shining upon him. After a few years, 
 however, suitors presented themselves — attract- 
 ed, some by the maiden's loveliness of charac- 
 ter, some by the beauty of her person, and 
 some by her father's wealth. Mr. Librand, jeal- 
 ous of the possession of so rich a treasure, 
 looked coldly upon all, and repulsed the most 
 worthy. Soon he noticed, with concern, that 
 Marion was not as she had been. Her face was 
 more thoughtful, and there was a depth of ex- 
 pression in her eyes, till then unobserved. 
 Home seemed to have lost its attractions, for 
 she went out more frequently than before, and 
 was often away when he chanced to return at- 
 an earlier hour than usual. If he questioned 
 her as to where she had been, she gave evasive 
 answers. 
 
 At last a letter from some unknown friend 
 came, warning him of the existence of an inti- 
 macy between Marion and a man of bad re- 
 pute in society. Alarmed and fevered by this 
 intelligence, Mr. Librand, without suitable re- 
 flection, placed the letter in Marion's hand, and 
 sternly demanded an explanation. 
 
 " I have none to make," coldly replied the 
 daughter. 
 
 " Is it true that you keep company with this 
 man, and that, too, clandestinely ?" asked the 
 angry father. 
 
 " I have met him a few times ; but I deny the 
 
238 
 
 THY WILL BE DOAE. 
 
 slanderous charges made against him by one 
 who is afraid to give his name. They are 
 false." 
 
 " They are true, Marion !" said Mr Librand, 
 " / know them to be true. Gracious Heaven ! 
 to think that this man should steal into my 
 peaceful home; to think that his polluting 
 breath should touch you ! Marion ! as true 
 as there is a heaven, so true is this man as base 
 and corrupt as an evil spirit." 
 
 But he saw that his w^ords made no impres- 
 sion upon his child. 
 
 " Do you believe him pure and good .'" he 
 asked. 
 
 " I do," wsls the calm reply. 
 
 " He is vile, he is evil, he is false, Marion ! 
 I know him. I, your father, vv^ho loves you, 
 tells you that he knows this. Will you not 
 credit his words ? Is he not your earliest, your 
 firmest, and your best friend ? God help you, 
 Marion, for help will come from nowhere else, 
 if you disregard my warning. A thousand 
 times sooner would I see you laid in the grave, 
 than become the wife of this wretch. What 
 spell is upon you, that you barken not to my 
 words, Marion .'" 
 
 The daughter had turned and was walking 
 away from him. 
 
 " Marion !" he called. She heeded him not, 
 but retired and left him alone. 
 
 On the next morning, she did not appear at 
 the breakfast table, as usual. 
 
 " Where is Marion ?" the father asked. 
 
 " She has not come down yet," replied the 
 servant. 
 
 " Perhaps she is ill. Go to her chamber." 
 
 A strange fear seized upon the father's heart. 
 
 After a few minutes' absence, the servant re- 
 turned. Marion was not in her chamber, and, 
 to all appearance, had not spent the night there. 
 But there was a letter upon her table. Mr. 
 Librand broke the seal with trembling hands. 
 The letter contained but few words. They, 
 alas ! were fatal to his peace. Marlon had left 
 her father's house and thrown herself upon the 
 protection of one whom he knew to be base, 
 cruel and corrupt. For a time the sad intelli- 
 gence stunned the father ; but, as soon as he 
 could think clearly wiiat to do, he went forth to 
 seek for his daughter, and, if posible, to save 
 her from the vortex of misery into which she 
 was about plunging herself. He found her the 
 occupant of a suite of rooms at a hotel, and 
 already the wife of the man against whom he 
 had spoken so harshly. She met him with 
 
 tears, and earnestly implored his forgiveness for 
 what she had done. But now his heart became 
 steeled towards his e^ild, and he turned from 
 her and left her to her fate. 
 
 "Oh ! that she had never been born, or that 
 the grave had swallowed her a year, a month, 
 or a week ago. There would have been hope 
 in her death, if she had died, but now there is 
 no hope for her." 
 
 Thus mourned the unhappy father, and the 
 voice of his own sorrow softened his heart. 
 But many days elapsed before he relented to- 
 .wards Marion ; but he relented too late. Her 
 husband had gone away with her to a southern 
 city. 
 
 Years seemed to go by, and he remained a 
 lonely man. No word came from his child. 
 He had sought for her, but his search had been 
 in vain. At last she came home. 
 
 He was sitting, sad and solitary, one evening, 
 his thoughts, as usual, upon Marion, when his 
 door opened, and a slender, deeply-veiled figure, 
 dressed in old and faded garments, entered the 
 room. It came slowly forward, then paused 
 and drew aside its veil. His child was before 
 him — his long lost, long mourned Marion. 
 But, oh ! how changed. The round, smooth, 
 warmly blushing cheek — the soft blue eyes, 
 beaming with love and light — the delicate 
 mouth, so full of tenderness, and so sweet with 
 smiles, were no longer there. Thus shrunk- 
 en and pale were all her features; and the 
 child-like, loving innocence that was in her 
 eyes, had departed. She did not smile ; there 
 was no light in her face ; but, instead, she 
 gazed with a cold, fixed look, at her father. 
 
 " Marion !" he exclaimed, starting up. But, 
 as he approached, she retreated a step or two ; 
 while her eyes, in which burned a strange lus- 
 tre, were fixed intently, and he felt sternly, 
 upon him. 
 
 " Marion !" said the father again, " Marion ! 
 Are you my long-lost child ? or has a demon 
 come to mock me ?" 
 
 A sudden change passed over the face of 
 Marion. There was a bitter smile upon her 
 lips, and her eyes flashed. 
 
 " Heaven knows I am not an angel," she 
 said ; " though, if you had not cast me off at 
 my first disobedience, I ought still to have been 
 as innocent as when my mother died and left 
 me, her only legacy, in your hands. What I 
 have suffered, God only can tell ! Scores of 
 times have I sat, in the dark and chilly night, 
 upon the door-stone of this my father's house, 
 
THE VESPER BELL. 
 
 339 
 
 and wept — wept that the past, with its innocence 
 and joy, had departed for ever ; and then, with 
 a softened heart, I have risen to ask admission 
 to the old house ; but the remembrance of ypur 
 words would come back, and I have turned 
 away. Oh ! it is a cruel thing for a father to 
 turn away from his child, '^s you turned from 
 me, for her first wrong step. I erred — fatally 
 erred ; but that error was a light one to those 
 into which I have since fallen, when alone in 
 my weakness, and under circumstances of 
 strong temptation. I had no father, no friend 
 to whom I could fly for counsel or succor. A 
 sheep in the midst of wolves, and the shepherd 
 far away, is it any wonder that I fell ?" 
 
 The father shrunk back a pace or two ; his 
 heart seemed as if it would rend with anguish. 
 He covered his face with his hands, and mur- 
 mured — 
 
 " Oh, that she had died in her beauty and 
 innocence !" 
 
 There was the silence of death in the room. 
 For minutes he remained thus shutting out the 
 blasting image of his fallen child, every moment 
 expecting to hear other and more dreadful 
 words. But all remained still as the grave. 
 Slowly, at length, he removed his hands and 
 looked up. 
 
 The loving eyes of Marion, so full of truth 
 and innocence, were looking calmly upon him, 
 and the lips of the blessed image, parting in a 
 gentle smile, seemed as if alxjut to speak. Mr. 
 Librand was not standing on the floor, but was 
 seated where Sie sat, when, but a short time 
 before, he had looked at the picture of his child, 
 and murmured — 
 
 " Oh ! that those h'ps had langoage." 
 
 He had awakened from a fearful dream. 
 " Thank (lod !" he said, fervently, so soon 
 
 as he felt really assured that Marion had indeed 
 gone down to her grave, pure and innocent. 
 
 For a long time, with his eyes cast upon the 
 floor, did the merchant sit and think. What 
 the character of his thoughts was, may be 
 inferred from the audible utterance of these 
 words : 
 
 " Yes, yes. Let me say it from the bottom 
 of my heart, Thy will be done ;" and his eyes 
 were lifted involuntarily upward. " She has 
 been taken from the evil to come, and I will be 
 thankful." 
 
 On the next day, as Mr. Librand was walk- 
 ing towards his place of business, he started, 
 involuntarily, at meeting the very man he had 
 seen in his dream. Tliere was a young and 
 gaily dressed lady on his arm. The merchant 
 sighed as he passed on ; and then he remem- 
 bered that this very man had, on several occa- 
 sions, shown more than a mere polite attention 
 to Marion. A shudder went through him; 
 but this was as quickly succeeded by a most 
 profound and thankful acknowledgment of the 
 truth, that all things are under the direction of 
 an infinitely wise and good God, and that with- 
 out Him not a sparrow falls to the ground. 
 
 " Thy will* be done," was again the almost 
 spontaneous utterance of his lips and heart. 
 
 From that time the merchant was changed. 
 The old family pew was no longer vacant on 
 the Sabbath, nor was the expression of his face 
 so cold and stern as it had been since the 
 death of his child. That just what he had seen 
 in his dream would have takeff place had Marion 
 lived, he did not believe ; but he received the 
 vision as a full explanation of the bereaving 
 providence, and ever after felt satisfied that 
 Marion bad been taken at the fittest moment 
 
 IPIEIIg YlgSIPIgIS BlgllrlL. 
 
 BX MARIA E. BISBEE. 
 
 The bell is tolling, vesper hour. 
 And all confess its magic power; 
 Through rock and glen it steals along, 
 While echo still the sounds prolong. 
 See you not the children stealing. 
 Around their mother softly kneeling ? 
 With hands and eyes uplifted there. 
 They whisper forth their evening prayer. 
 
 Oh ! dear to me is the vesper hour, 
 When seated in our orange Bower ! 
 The perfume wafted by the breeze— 
 The dew drops glittering on the trees — 
 The balmy air, so mild and clear — 
 Ah ! these to memorj' still are dear. 
 Some tell the pleasure of pomp and power ; 
 Far dearer to me is the Vesper Hour. 
 
340 
 
 THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 'fflEIIg HMU^IEAMirSs 
 
 OR, THE SECRET OF SUCCESS, 
 
 BY MRS. M. S. B. DANA. 
 
 It was just about the hour of noon, on a clear 
 winters day, when a staunch vessel, which had 
 weathered several severe Atlantic storms, ap- 
 proached, with all sails set, the noble harbor of 
 Charleston, South Carolina. The ship was 
 literally crowded with passengers ; young and 
 old, rich and poor, joyful and sad ; a hetero- 
 geneous mass of human beings. Upon the 
 quarter-deck stood many a merry group, who, 
 having just thrown aside their motley sea-attire, 
 and dressed themselves in clean and wholesome 
 shore equipments, could scarcely restrain the 
 buoyancy of spirits called forth by the occasion. 
 Many, after a longer or shorter sojourn in 
 foreign lands, were now returning home to 
 greet their numerous friends ; while others 
 were eagerly anticipating the pleasure of a 
 speedy introduction to novel scenes, and new, 
 and perchance valuable acquaintances. 
 
 The pilot, who was to conduct the vessel 
 over the somewhat dangerous bar at the en- 
 trance of the harbor, had jumped aboard from 
 his little craft, about an hour before, and was now 
 strutting to and fro with a consequential air, in 
 all the pride of his brief though absolute author- 
 ity ; issuing his incessant orders in a voice so 
 stentorian, that it might have been mistaken 
 for the thunder of great Jupiter himself. 
 
 But neither with the passengers of the 
 quarter-deck, nor with the consequential, round- 
 bodied little pilot, has this veracious history 
 anything to do ; and therefore, turning our 
 backs, as civilly as may be, upon le bon ton of 
 the vessel, let us straightway introduce ourselves 
 into the steerage, and look about us there, as 
 well as the darkness will allow. Wo propose 
 not to favor our readers with any specimens of 
 " high life below stairs," " romance in humble 
 life," or the like ; but intend to deliver '• a plain, 
 unvarnished tale," and relate circumstances 
 none the less interesting for being natural and 
 uncmbellished. 
 
 In the gloomy recesses of the steerage, a 
 scene of the same nature with that which had 
 been already enacted in the cabin, was now 
 going forward, only in an aggravated form. 
 There was scrubbing and scolding, there was 
 combing and cursing, there was dressing and 
 drubbing. Obstreperous little ones, who evi- 
 dently did not understand the character of the 
 times upon which they had fallen, nor compre- 
 hend tiie reasons why they should not still be 
 allowed to enjoy their liberty, and revel in their 
 accustonjed filtli, gave loud and hearty tokens 
 of their wounded sensibilities, and danced, and 
 kicked, and screamed, with continually increas- 
 ing vigor, battling manfully for their hitherto 
 accorded rights, and disputing heroically every 
 inch of ground. 
 
 Yet, amid this scene of dire confusion, there 
 were some calm hearts, and composed, though 
 care-worn countenances. There was one fam- 
 ily, consisting of seven persons, which a dis- 
 criminating observer would immediately have 
 singled out from all the rest. Amid the general 
 turmoil, their quiet demeanor, and the look of 
 lofty resignation which sat upon their faces, 
 could not fail to attract, nay, even to rivet the 
 attention of the bystander. We s!:all, for the 
 sake of convenience, bestow upon them the 
 fictitious name of Clarke. There were, as I 
 have said, seven persons ; the father and mother, 
 one daughter of seventeen, and four boys, of the 
 ages of nine, seven, four, and two years, re- 
 spectively. They were an Irish family, pos- 
 sessing all the lofty enthusiasm of their country- 
 men, together with more tlian a common share 
 of quiet, unpretending fortitude. The mother 
 was one of a thousand, for, though the father 
 was by no means destitute of a strong and lofty 
 tone of character, she it was, especially, who, 
 like a ministering angel, comforted them in 
 sorrow, strengthened them in weakness, and 
 aroused them in despondency. Possessing 
 
THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 241 
 
 naturally a superior mind, she had secured for 
 herself a remarkably solid education, and thus 
 appeared fixr above the humble station in which 
 she was now moving. She was the main-stay 
 of the family — their unyielding bulwark. We 
 shall hereafter learn the secret of her success. 
 
 Among these passengers there was }'et an- 
 other of a somewhat different stamp, but our 
 history includes him likewise. Patrick Mulli- 
 gan was a free-hearted, open-handed, high-souled 
 young man ; a genuine Irishman ; unsuspecting 
 and improvident, possessing far more heart than 
 head, more heartiness than heedfulness. You 
 could not help liking Patrick, as you looked 
 upon his open, ruddy, Irish face ; and, espe- 
 cially, as you gazed into his round, clear, Irish 
 eye — that peculiar eye so characteristic of the 
 nation — the heart of the spectator, if he had a 
 heart, would unconsciously warm towards him. 
 In his own country, he had been a neighbor of 
 the Clarkes, and now, both father and mother 
 being dead, he had joined their fortunes, and 
 was watched overand cared for by Mrs. Clarke, 
 as if he had been her own dear son. She found 
 him wild and wayward, it is true; but what 
 cannot judicious kindness accomplish ? It was 
 Mrs. Clarke's fervent belief that nothing could 
 stand before it ; that no heart, however wickedly 
 disposed, could resist its constant influence. 
 We must add that Patrick Mulligan was the 
 undeclared lover of Bridget Clarke. 
 
 And now, behold the vessel arrived ; all her 
 passengers ashore ; all quietness, where, so 
 late, confusion reigned supreme. The Clarke 
 family, with young Mulligan, had domesticated 
 themselves in obscure lodgings in that portion 
 of the city called " the Neck." Nor were they 
 without their sufferings. A succession of mis- 
 fortunes had befallen them, both before and 
 since they had left their country ; bad crops, 
 long sicknesses, and corresponding doctor's 
 bills, deaths, and funeral expenses ; and finally, 
 shipwreck, with its terrible losses — all these 
 had come upon them ; so that now they found 
 themselves in a strange land, destitute of even 
 the necessaries of life. 
 
 But they lost no time and wasted no strength 
 in complaining; this would have been mad- 
 ness, and, so far from helping them out of their 
 troubles, would have been an infinite aggrava- 
 tion to them. If work was anywhere to be had, 
 they were determined to find it ; and when they 
 had found it, faithfully and cheerfully to do it 
 But where were they to procure employment ? 
 To whom were they to apply ? It was not the 
 
 case in Charleston, as in the northern cities, 
 that the poor, in their extremity, could wend 
 their way to inteUigence offices, and perchance 
 find employment. So they knew not what steps 
 to take. " Bnt, at any rate," said they among 
 themselves, " we can but try." " The man 
 who tries" said Mrs. Clarke, "has already 
 more than half succeeded." Accordingly, one 
 morning, after a poor and scanty breakfast, Mr. 
 Clarke and Patrick sallied forth together in 
 search of work. 
 
 Meanwhile, the mother took her seat upon a 
 log by the empty fire-place — for chair or fire 
 had they not — and patiently darned and patch- 
 ed the whole long morning through, occasion- 
 ally raising her eyes to give a look of encour- 
 agement to Bridget and the boys, who were por- 
 ing over a few tattered books, and trying their 
 best to teach, and to be taught. By and by, the 
 allotted tasks being over, the boys threw aside 
 their books, and tried, for their motter's sake, to 
 get up one of their old merry plays. Still the 
 morning wore heavily away. The sensation 
 of hunger is no very pleasant one, and this, 
 considering what they had eaten for the three 
 preceding days, they could not help feeling. 
 Yet hope whispered to them all, " By and by 
 our absent ones will return, and who knows 
 what good tidings they may bring !" Twelve 
 o'clock arrived — they could plainly hear the 
 strokes of a neighboring clock — one, two, three 
 o'clock had come, and they had not returned. 
 Mrs. Clarke looked pale and exhausted, but 
 calmly resolute. No human eye could discern 
 the conflict in her soul, the obstinately intruding 
 anxieties, the frightful imaginings, nor the 
 strong resolving, the earnest petitioning. She 
 pressed her pale lips closely together, and strove 
 to smile. 
 
 At length, at nightfall, came the wanderers 
 home. But they brought nothing with them, 
 nothing — not even hope ; and Mrs. Clarke was 
 obliged, as usual, to console and encourage them 
 all. " Never mind," said she, " let us go supper- 
 less to bed ; we may get something to do to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Always to-morrow, always to-morrow !" 
 said her husband, quite impatiently, as he sat 
 on one end of the log and buried his face in his 
 hands. "To-morrow will not help us to live to- 
 day." The children, poor little creatures, con- 
 trolled themselves as long as they could ; but 
 hearing now their father's complaining tones, 
 tiiey all began to cry, though silently, and with- 
 out any petulance. 
 
;>42 
 
 THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 " You had better go to the baker's at the cor- 
 ner, father," said Mrs. Clarke, addressing her 
 husband ; " tell him frankly our sufferings, and 
 entreat him, for the love of Heaven, to let us 
 have a loaf to keep the children from starving. 
 Tell him we'll be sure to pay him some time or 
 other, for God has not forsaken us, and we'll \ 
 come out of this trouble yet." 
 
 " Mother, I cannot," replied the husband ; 
 " the dark hour is on me know, and I haven't 
 the heart to speak to a human being." 
 
 " Well, I have," said Mrs. Clarke, soothing- 
 ly, and yet decidedly. " I'll go to the baker's 
 myself. Sit you there, honey, and do what you 
 can to keep the children warm. Don't cry, 
 darlings ; mother'll come back soon, and, may 
 be, fetch a loaf of bread with her." 
 
 So saying, she departed, wrapping, ere slie 
 went, an old blanket shawl around the two 
 youngest children, as they sat, huddled together 
 on the floor. Many prayers went with her, for, 
 as Isaid before, she was ihe ministering angel 
 of the family, and always inspired them with 
 strength for the present, and hope for the future. 
 It was Saturday night, and there was a crowd 
 in the baker's shop ; but she resolutely entered, 
 and took her stand to wait her turn for being 
 served. There was that about her, however, 
 which at first sight inspired respect, and so 
 the shopman soon addressed her with, " Well, 
 madam, what will you have ?" 
 
 " I would have bread for my starving chil- 
 dren," replied the woman ; " but I have no mo- 
 ney. Let me have some bread," she continued, 
 her voice beginning to falter, " let me have some 
 for the love of Heaven, and I'm sure we'll be 
 able to pay you hereafter. If not, God will re- 
 ward those who help the needy." 
 
 The shopman looked at her sternly, and 
 shook his head, but he quailed before the 
 searching, agonized glance of her eye. " No," 
 he said at length ; " I work hard to support my 
 own family, and I have nothing to give to beg- 
 gars." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke replied firmly, though without 
 the slightest appearance of resentment, " I am 
 no beggar, sir ; I ask you for bread, with a prom- 
 ise of future payment, if not from us, from 
 Heaven.'' She spoke witli all the eloquence of 
 unmitigated agony, and her eye kindled, as she 
 raised her thin pale hand in unconscious excite- 
 ment with the earnestness of her speech. The 
 crowd liad gathered round her, and were watch- 
 ing the scene with the most intense interest ; 
 for there is something in genu'me feeling which 
 
 at once finds its way to the universal h:!!inii 
 hejTt. 
 
 The baker seemed to waver in his stern res- 
 olution, and laid his hand upon a loaf of bread, 
 which stood upon the shelf; but his evil genius 
 was soon again at work. 
 
 " I cannot do it," at length he said. " I've 
 been imposed upon so many times that I have 
 been obliged to make a rule not to give to people 
 whom I do not know. I would not be doing 
 justice to my family if I gave a loaf of bread 
 to everybody that chose to ask for it." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke said nothing for a moment, but 
 at length she replied ; 
 
 " Oh, sir ! may you never know what it is 
 to ask for a morsel in God's name, and be re- 
 fused. But, sir," she continued," I cannot even 
 now believe that you are in earnest ; I cannot 
 think that you will let us starve ! For the love 
 of God, do not send me empty away." 
 
 She had conquered ! The baker took three 
 large loaves from his shelf, and handed them to 
 her, while she, with her eyes now full of tears, 
 could only articulate : 
 
 " God bless you, sir." 
 
 Heaven helps those who help themselves. 
 As Mrs. Clarke turned to leave the shop, more 
 than one kind hand was stretched forth with its 
 offering. Some offered money, and some 
 offered bread. Having enough for present ne- 
 cessities, she declined these offerings with many 
 thanks ; " but," added she, " we are strangers, 
 and do not know where to get employment ; if 
 you can help us to get work, we will thank and 
 bless you." And then, having given informa- 
 tion where they could be found, in case any one 
 had work to give them, such work as could be 
 done by men, women, or children, she bowed 
 kindly to all around her, and quickly sought her 
 home. 
 
 Over the short space between the baker's 
 shop and her humble dwelling she rather flew 
 than walked. Oh, what relief and joy she was 
 carrying to her household ! How quickly the 
 children dried their tears and ran to ease her of 
 her precious burden ! 
 
 " God is always with you, mother," said her 
 husband. " What is the reason you never fail 
 in that which you set out to do ?" 
 
 " Because, father," she replied, " I endeavor 
 to be always sure that I am doing what is right, 
 and that assurance gives me courage. I near- 
 ly came home to-night, though, without any 
 bread." 
 
 " But you put your trust in God, mother," 
 
MY MOTHER'S BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 243 
 
 said the husband, "and made another trial; 
 wasn't that the way ?" 
 
 " Y'es I have strong faith in God, and in man 
 to«)," replied the wife. " It is because we do 
 not expect (o find goodness in our fellow-men, 
 and do not encourage its development, that wo 
 no oftener find it In more senses than one I 
 believe that ' he that seeketh, findeth.' If a man 
 seeks for evil in his fellow-men, he is sure to 
 find it; and, on the other hand, if he seeks 
 and expects goodness, that finds he like- 
 wise. I would not lose my faith in human na- 
 ture for the world ; it has carried me through 
 many a discouraging encounter. But I never 
 yet have found the heart that had not some soft, 
 tender spot about it, which could be reached by 
 judicious means." 
 
 " You never gave me up, IVIrs. Clarke," chimed 
 in Patrick Mulligan, munching meanwhile a 
 crust of bread. "Y^ou never gave me up, 
 though everj'body else did. If it had not been 
 for your unwearied patience, your kindness, 
 your trust in me, when there seemed so little 
 ground for trust, where would I be now ? what 
 would 1 be .' Oh, Pat, my darlin' ! ye owe 
 ivrything to Mrs. Clarke !" 
 
 "I begin to think you are right, mother," said 
 Mr. Clarke, " in thinking better of men than I 
 do; t begin to think your philosophy is a 
 rounder one than mine ; at aU events, it brings 
 
 forth better fruits. I have some faith in God, 
 but very httle, I confess, in men." 
 
 " Now, father," said Mrs. Clarke, '* I'll tell 
 you how I reason about it. Man was originally 
 made in the image of his Creator, and it be- 
 comes us to do all w€ can to restore that lost 
 or hidden likeness. Now, I am constantly on 
 the watch for it. I beUeve it is there, though 
 so unquestionably dimmed, nay, though almost 
 efiaced. By continually addressing myself to 
 the principle of goodness, if there is the small- 
 est remnant of it left,! am sure to find it. We are 
 now in a strange land ; but, I tell you, we shall 
 find friends, and rise yet out of this gloom j 
 abyss into which we seem to have fallen. I 
 am sure of it ; even this night I have seen in- 
 dications of it, and, depend upon it, on Monday 
 morning some of those kind persons I saw ia 
 the baker's shop will come to ofier us employ- 
 ment, and the means of living.* Ah ! my 
 children !" she continued, turning to the inter- 
 esting group, who, having satisfied their appe- 
 tites, were gazing earnestly into their mother's 
 speaking countenance — " Ah, my children ! 
 the secret of all the success I have ever had in 
 life has been my faith in God and in myfdlow- 
 men ; and just so far as I have lost this com- 
 pound, though not inharmonious faith, has my 
 evil star been in the ascendant." 
 
 * I am happy to be able to state that these cheering pie- 
 dictions were abandantly rerified. 
 
 MY Eff(D!PIEIIglE^S 18 UlSfM ->!!]) AY. 
 
 Mother, thy birth-day ! Let me bring 
 
 Unto a hallowed shrine. 
 The sweetest strain that poets sing 
 
 Upon a theme divine. 
 Oh ! could an angel tune my lyre. 
 
 E'en as I swept the strings. 
 My lips would bum with hallowed fiie 
 
 To give Love's tribute wings. 
 
 I bless thee, mother, for thy care 
 
 Born with my earliest breath, 
 For faith which sanctified thy prayer. 
 
 And love that knows not death- 
 I bless thee for each kindly word 
 
 When health adorned my brow. 
 For every tone of pity heard 
 
 yVhen sickness bade me bow. 
 
 And now that age hath left its trace 
 
 Where once the roses smiled. 
 Dearer, far dearer is thy face 
 
 To thy maturer child ! 
 The past hath shown a heavy cloud 
 
 Which veiled thy spirit's light. 
 The young, the beautiful, the proud 
 
 Have left thy longing sight ! 
 
 But others live to bless thee still, 
 
 To blend thy sacred name 
 With prayer and song, while pulses thrih 
 
 To catch the filial flame. 
 May the new year that opes to^y 
 
 Grow brighter as it flies ! 
 Though all thine earthly flowers decay, 
 
 Their perfume never dies. H. J. W. 
 
344 
 
 HANNAH MORE AND MDE. DE STAEL. 
 
 M^Hl^AISI m©m AM® MIDI, SDIg Sf AIIIL.0 
 
 BY A SCHOOL GIRL. 
 
 EvEKY age has had its great men — great in 
 goodness and truth ; and every age, too, has 
 had its master-spirits of wickedness, that have 
 scattered error and desolation abroad, some of 
 whom have turned the place that bloomed with 
 the beauty of Eden to a howling waste, as if 
 the sweep of a tornado had passed over it, or 
 the breath of the deadly simoom 
 
 The same, on a less imposing scale, is true 
 of woman. While every age has furnished il- 
 lustrious examples of true greatness in woman, 
 every age has also instances of the most lament- 
 able waste of mind, or unsanctified intellectual 
 greatness. Every being has somewhat in his 
 character of the elements of real greatness. 
 The proportion in which these elements com- 
 bine, and the circumstances which modify tliem 
 during the changes through which character 
 passes to its full formation, are all that makes 
 the difference. 
 
 Hannah More and Mde. De Stael acted an 
 important part in the great drama of human 
 life. Ona felt that to act well' her part, was 
 necessary to the perfection of the scene in 
 which she was to appear, and which had some 
 unknown, but real and close connection with 
 the grand coming scene concealed behind the 
 curtain ; the other acted for effect, to make an 
 impression, regardless whether the tendency of 
 such impression was to elevate or depress the 
 Boul. 
 
 Hannah More felt that life was a relative ex- 
 isti:;nce, and that its value and importance con- 
 sisted in its relation to eternity ; neither did she 
 look at the eternity of human existence, in the 
 abstract sense, which could give but a faint im- 
 pression of the number and vastness of the re- 
 lations of the present life ; but her conception 
 of life was formed under tlie conviction of the 
 truth, that the character in the present state is, 
 as it were, a great centre of radiation, and that 
 all the influences of all its actions are deathless 
 as itself— aye, parts of itself, — each of which is 
 a living, moving, acting spirit, meeting contin- 
 
 uaMy, and affecting other spirits — either to pour 
 darkness on their downward course, or to bless 
 by gilding their upward pathway, and by kind- 
 ling a heavenly radiance around tliem, that shall 
 shine more and more unto the perfect day, and 
 be reflected back from innumerable points to 
 the centre from which they radiated, so that 
 the whole soul shall be full of light. And this 
 is truth. It is a law, that the soul which shuts 
 up itself in itself, like a light in a metallic urn, 
 and casts no light on approaching years, will 
 meet them in starless night ; while the soul 
 whose life is one continued blaze of love, sees 
 in perspective ages myriads of other spirits 
 shining like suns by the borrowed light of its 
 own effulgence. 
 
 With these views Hannah More marked out 
 her course, feeling that eve'.y act and event 
 was a link in the great chain reaching back to 
 the fall of man, and forward to his final re- 
 demption ; and her life was a thread of golden 
 light, and the running sands of her glass were 
 assiduously numbered, and turned to the best 
 possible account. 
 
 But Mde. De Stael — she seems never to have 
 thought, that upon every moment of life an 
 eternity is dependent — that every moment of 
 life is an instrument by which an eternity of 
 happiness may be secured or lost. She seems 
 to have forgotten that in her life she held a fear- 
 ful, and at the same time a priceless posses- 
 sion, and that He who gave it, with the rich 
 stores of mind she held in trust, would demand 
 an account of her stewardship. While we look 
 upon Hannah More as a polar star, shining with 
 a steady unchanging liyht in the literary hea- 
 vens, showing the youthful, unskilled female 
 mariner the direction in which her barque is 
 driven, and how to swing her sails, to escape 
 the reefs and sand-banks that lie in the passage 
 to the higldands of intellectual and moral ex- 
 cellence — we regard Mde. De Stael as a brill- 
 iant meteor, which flashes for a little time, daz- 
 zles to blindness and disappears, leaving the 
 
HANNAH MORK AND MDK. UE SFAEL. 
 
 245 
 
 weary, storm-tossed mariner in greater dark- 
 ness than before. 
 
 While the voice of Mde. De Stael was sel- 
 dom heard beyond the silken drapery of the 
 rich saloon, or the cabinet, or her own boudoir, 
 the words of Hannah More were heard as often 
 in the lowliest cottage as in the halls of cedar; 
 she opened the fountains of health to the sick, 
 instruction to the ignorant, truth to the erring, 
 and hope to the stricken in heart. 
 
 While one, with impetuous, eagle flight, 
 sought the highest point of honor as her prize, 
 and to be the gaze and admiration of succeed- 
 ing ages, the other passed beyond tlie fame of 
 earthly glory, and fixed her eye upon a master 
 prize, far in the distance, even at the end of 
 life, towards which she steadily and untiringly 
 moved, scorning to turn aside for any earthly 
 good, or to grasp the trifles which involved 
 princes, kings and nations, in continual com- 
 petition. She sought that crown of unfading 
 glory in the skies, that harp of gold, from whose 
 strings the fingers of discord have pressed no 
 jarring vibrations. 
 
 To one. Fame had a voice, " whose thrilling 
 tone could bid each life-pulse beat" with a 
 swifter, stronger throb ; and when she heard the 
 plaudits of a wondering world, she sang — 
 
 " Thoa hast a charmed cap, O Fame, 
 A draught that mantles high, 
 And seems to lift this eartlily frame 
 Aliove mortaHly." 
 
 But the other, though she merited and re- 
 ceived the plaudits of a world, sought her hap- 
 piness upon her own quiet hearth-stone, in 
 words of home-born love. She had heard the 
 silvery voice of Fame floating over mountains 
 and waters, and had seen its quick gleaming 
 eye, and held its chalice to her lips, and had 
 turned away from all ; for she saw that whoever 
 took a draught of its cup, took many drops of 
 untold bitterness ; she saw that dark clouds 
 lay behind the bright coruscations of its sky ; 
 and she heard a sorrowing echo borne upon the 
 next zephyr that followed its clarion-call to 
 earthly immortality. And she said as she 
 turned away, 
 
 " A hollow sound is in thy song, 
 
 A mockery in thine eye, 
 To the sick lieart that doth hot long 
 
 For aid, for sympathy — 
 For kindly looks to cheer it on. 
 And tender accents tliat are gone." 
 
 She disregarded the allurements of fame, not 
 only because it brought no real happiness, but 
 because a voice had commanded to seek not 
 
 the honor which cometh from men; and to obey 
 iliat voice was eternal life. 
 
 While one would sooner have rushed into 
 the embrace of death, than to have seen the 
 laurel wreath, which was to her the most re- 
 splendent gift of Heaven, laid upon a rival brow, 
 the other humbly kissed the hard brown hand 
 of the peasant girl, who gave with the beaming 
 eye of kindness even the soiled and faded flower 
 which she had worn in her sash through all the 
 labors of the day. 
 
 The character and career of Mde. De Stae! 
 afford some lessons of emulation, but they have 
 also lessons of strong and imperative caution. 
 She stood on an eminence in literature, in con- 
 sequence of her genius and circumstances, that 
 few female minds can hope to attain, under the 
 present state of things ; but an eminence sur- 
 rounded with dangers — dangers from which 
 every female should shrink with trembling. 
 She was a most extraordinary and brilliant wo- 
 man. Perhaps there is nothing more compli- 
 mentary to her intellectual power and great- 
 ness, than the fact, that she made one of the 
 boldest and most ambitious men that ever lived, 
 (Napoleon.) afraid of her. 
 
 Oh ! who would have such a character ? 
 Who would not rather be known to an obscure 
 and humble few, and loved and esteemed in 
 that little circle, than to have her name known 
 to the ends of the earth, as a terror to the most 
 terrific of men ? Who would not rather cher- 
 ish those softer, gentler feminine traits, which 
 grace the writings and life of Hannah More ? 
 that character which finds delight in a sunrise 
 or a summer shower, in the opening buds of 
 Spring, or the changing hues of Autumn, in 
 the leaping brooks and singing birds, and all 
 the simple, joyous melodies of nature, in har- 
 mony with which the universe itself moves on ? 
 
 Mde. De Stael certainly exhibits a great de- 
 ficiency in those qualities which characterize a 
 true woman, and her great mental strength and 
 power cannot compensate for the want of these. 
 It is said of her, " Had Mde. De Stael been 
 more fortunate in domestic life, she would have 
 been less exclusively devoted to literature, and 
 would have sought for happiness in the true des- 
 tiny of a woman." 
 
 Although little is known of her domestic 
 trouble.s, while t'ley excite a sympathy for her, 
 the fact, that they were a snare and temptation, 
 should put those upon their guard who have the 
 slightest tincture of hereditary or constitutional 
 ambition. It is too often the case, that a secret 
 
246 
 
 HANNAH MORE AND MDE. DE STAEL. 
 
 desire for literary fame is the first cause of do- ^ 
 mestic troubles, and afterwards the troubles be- 
 come the assigned or imagined cause of a thirst 
 for distinction. But whatever may have been 
 the cause, it seems evident that Mde. De Stael 
 was under the sway of ambition — an insatiable 
 and masculine ambition. This is seen in all 
 her works; in her attempts to discuss great 
 and difficult questions, and in her freedom to 
 give her opinion in matter* of great moment, 
 with but a very superficial knowledge of them, 
 for which she was severely criticised by all the 
 German scholars ; in her affectation of the 
 German style, for which she was reproached by 
 French critics ; in her attempts to establish a 
 new political philosophy, wliich caused dis- 
 satisfaction and dislike, both among the repub- 
 licans and royalists. It is also seen in her 
 efforts to revive an old system of moral philoso- 
 phy, in which she violently attacks the doctrine 
 of utility, and advocates that of sympathy as the 
 foundation of virtue. It is also seen in the 
 fact, that she could reason upon politics with 
 greater freedom and ability than upon any other 
 branch of philosophy. 
 
 It was not so with Hannah More. Her rich- 
 est reasonings were of- " nature's facts and 
 laws," and she felt that those " priceless les- 
 sons of philosophy, which crowd every leaf and 
 rain-drop, every flower and snow-flake, are of 
 infinitely more value to the fine reflective spirit 
 of woman, than the coarse and chafing armor 
 of philosophic combatants." And Mde. De 
 Stael seems, at times, to have had enough of the 
 woman revived in her, to feel it too ; for she 
 says,' " Most women whose superior faculties 
 have inspired them with a desire of renown, re- 
 semble Herminia clad in warlike armor : the 
 warriors see the helmet, the lance, the glittering 
 plume ; expecting to meet with equal strength, 
 they attack violently, and the first blow reaches 
 the heart. '^ True, indeed, it reaches the lieari. 
 Would that every woman could know how 
 many woman hearts have been riven and torn 
 by this unequal contest — by occupying a place 
 which woman cannot, from the very nature of 
 her constitution, occupy, but at the expense of 
 those numberless sources of happiness which 
 God has opened to her only in domestic life. The 
 good of the world seems never to have been her 
 motive, or to have formed any part of her plan. 
 The whole power of her mind seems to have 
 been directed to the single and despicable pur- 
 pose of establishing for herself a great name. 
 One of her reviewers says, " Few books iu 
 
 modem times, which were not practical, nor 
 scientific, nor directly subservient to the com- 
 forts of man, and the purposes of society, have 
 been read so eagerly and universally and known 
 so far as hers." Look at tiie words he uses — 
 " not practical, nor scientific, nor subservient to 
 the comforts of man." For what then did she 
 write .' To be useful ? The same reviewer 
 says, " The moral in some of her works has 
 been regarded as loose, and in all as bordering 
 on extravagance and mysticism." Another 
 says of her works, " Their morality is, or ra- 
 ther is not, very questionable." Another, " The 
 subject of religion is introduced in her works 
 rather for effect, than with the intention of ex- 
 citing a lively and practical belief in its great 
 truths." And all the known facts in her case 
 seem to favor the justice of these opinions. 
 It is related, by a cotemporary and friend of 
 Mde. De Stael, that upon one occasion having 
 gone with the beautiful Mde. Recamier, on a 
 pleasure excursion on the lake of Geneva, a 
 storm came on, and the parly narrowly escaped 
 being drowned. " What a paragraph,"exclaim- 
 ed Mde. De Stael, " this might have been for a 
 newspaper ! With what effect the editor might 
 have said, ' The most beautiful woman in 
 the world, and the most talented woman of 
 the age, have perished at the same moment.* " 
 Will it ever be said that one who could remark 
 so indifferently of so near an approach to the 
 grave, could have, in her character, any ele- 
 ment of that religion which makes a just esti- 
 mate and a wise appropriation of life .' Is it mere 
 passive abuse ? Does any one think Hannah 
 More would have spoken thus ? And yet no- 
 thing could be more like Mde. De Stael. And 
 how could she, to whom the great work of life 
 was to secure an imperishable name, value the 
 moments which were prolonged beyond the 
 period at which she viewed the work of life as 
 done ? How could she look into the measure- 
 less vista of eternal ages, and trace the cause 
 of some mighty but evil change, back to the 
 dreamy trifles with which she hurried through 
 this life ? And even were this power given her, 
 how could she bring up tears of penitence from 
 the soul's deptlis, whoso heart moved only to 
 tlie song of festal glee or the full trumpet 
 tones of fame ? How could she, whose eye was 
 dimmed with the dust of earthly courts, wake 
 visions in hor soul of the glory of the heavenly 
 courts, of which the countless stellar suns that 
 glitter in the veil of night, are but the dust that 
 lies between the gems of its jeweled pavements ? 
 
# 
 
i 
 
Xn ITALY. 
 
 3V ^ ,d 
 
 ; Willie the v.iit ot ^ i ■ . i 
 
 v.r of Austria, had ^ ma t 
 
 Paruia. A Bourbou hwtl a life interest in Mo- 5 of tiie Poj)e. WLen lije grand eiupljon irom 
 
 dor.A, and Genoa uas treacherously given ov>r < tlie iov of (lie castle took place, accompanied 
 
 ind* of Piesitjii-ni. " >f cannon, masses of flame, and 
 
 I 
 1 
 
 increased so fa«! , 
 cessar. ■••"*■' •-' 
 rilics 1. 
 
 , on pain of imprison 
 a.s a man Raid to ? 
 
 one 
 tion. 
 
 the hoi/. . aoi their < &.". 
 
POPE PIUS IX. AND ITALY. 
 
 247 
 
 IP(DI?Ig WU-U^ IX. AmW H^^ILY 
 
 BY THE EDITOH. 
 
 The most engrossing affair of Europe at 
 present, is the attitude the Roman Pontiff has 
 assumed, and the probable result both to him- 
 self and Italy. Those acquainted with history, 
 are aware of the iniquitous partition made of 
 Italy after the downfall of Napoleon. The 
 allied sovereigns assembled in Vienna, regard- 
 ed it as so much common plunder. Venice 
 and Milan were given to Austria ; Modena 
 sliced off for an Austrian prince who had 
 usurped the name of Este ; while the wife of 
 Napoleon, as the daughter of Austria, had 
 Parma. A Bourbon had a life interest in Mo- 
 dena, and Genoa was treacherously given over 
 by England into the hands of Piedmont. The 
 Pope was allowed to retain possession over 
 about 1 8, in Roman square miles, containing 
 a population of 2,500,000. Over this he rules as 
 absolute king. So heavy have been his oppres- 
 sions, that his kingdom has been reduced to 
 bankruptcy. The revenue has amounted to 
 only $10,000,000, one quarter of which was 
 expended in mere collection. The public debt 
 increased so fast, that constant loans were ne- 
 cessary, xmtil at length the government secu- 
 rities have all been used up, and the Pontiff has 
 been compelled to mortgage his palaces at 
 Rome. The legates and delegates ruling the 
 several provinces, have been notoriously dis- 
 honest and corrupt ; even magistrates could be 
 bought, while men could be imprisoned cui 
 infinitum on mere suspicion. Six thousand 
 are computed to be incarcerated every year, or 
 one out of every four hundred of the popula- 
 tion. 
 
 Now, when we add to all these the rigorous 
 censorship of the press, the espionage of the 
 police, and the relentless persecution of men 
 for their political opinions, to say nothing of 
 tne oppressive taxes and discouragement of all 
 industry, we cannot be surprised at the bitter 
 feelings manifested by the people towards the 
 Pope. The stream of all their troubles is traced 
 directly to the pontifical throne. At the feet of 
 the holy father have hitherto sunk all their 
 
 hopes and happiness. I was surprised to find 
 the common people nourishing such hostility 
 to the Pope. Said I to a vetura driver, that 
 I had hired for several days, " To-morrow is 
 the day for the grand benediction of the Pope 
 from St Peters." With an indignant look he 
 replied, " It is not a benediction, it is a maledic- 
 tion." So at the close of the pageantry of 
 holy week, as 1 was standing and admiring the 
 fire-works of St. Angelo, ordered by the Pope, 
 I entered into conversation with a well-dressed 
 man, who astounded me with his open contempt 
 of the Pope. When the grand eruption from 
 the top of the castle took place, accompanied 
 with the roar of cannon, masses of flame, and 
 vast columns of smoke, I remarked, it resembled 
 the infernal world. "Yes," said he, with a 
 sneer, " hell is Rome now-a-days." After all 
 was over, I turned away saying, " It is fin- 
 ished." "Yes," he replied, with the same wither- 
 ing sarcasm, " another day of our Lord and Sa- 
 viour Jesus Christ." It is not to be supposed 
 from this that the Pope has been worse than 
 the other sovereigns of Italy ; he has simply 
 been just like them — one of them — and a mere 
 creature of Austria. In Genoa, spies of gov- 
 ernment dog your footsteps day and night ; and 
 every family is required to report to the 
 head of police in the morning, the name of 
 any person, not a member of it, who chances 
 to sleep there over night, on pain of imprison- 
 ment. 
 
 All over Italy, as a man said to me in 
 Rome, in answer to some inquiries respecting 
 the Pope, " a person who lives here, must wear a 
 bandage over his eyes and a seal on his lips." 
 A corrupt sovereign, corrupt priesthood, corrupt 
 courts, corrupt officials — half of them pardoned 
 banditti — everywhere make a mockery of jus- 
 tice, religion and human suffering. The 
 strong hand of power has been crushing the 
 life out of Italy, and hence have arisen tlie 
 endless conspiracies which have resulted only 
 in filhng Austrian prisons with victims and 
 ships with exiles. 
 
248 
 
 POPE PIUS IX. AND ITALY. 
 
 Now it is evident, from tliis meagre outline, 
 that such a state of things could not long exist. 
 Tlicre is a limit to all oppression, a point where 
 desperation begins and revolutions follow. Pope 
 Gregory was a tool of Austria, and too stiij id to 
 perceive, or too timid to prevent, the bankruptcy 
 and fast approaching ruin of his kingdom, 
 let oppression take its course. But the present 
 Pontiff, on coming into power, has had the sense 
 to discover his true position, and taken the only 
 course by which to allay the smothered fires of 
 rebellion, that were burning portentously under 
 his throne. He knew the state of the public 
 feeling — that everything was rife for an out- 
 break ; and had Cardinal Lambruschini, the old 
 Pope's chief minister, been elected in his place, 
 there doubtless would have been a convulsion 
 that would have overturned the Papal throne, 
 or ended in a general massacre of the people. 
 But Pope Pius took his seat, and a calm — the 
 calm of expectation and of anxiety — followed. 
 He was surrounded with difficulties — a bank- 
 rupt and impoverished kingdom, a suffering 
 and maddened people on the one side, and the 
 power of Austria on the other. To act for the 
 people would bring down on him the armies of 
 Austria — to act for Austria, the wrath of the 
 people. A few days after his election, he 
 abolished the secret tribunal for political offend- 
 ers ; he next composed a council of cardinals, 
 to hear on a certain day the grievances of any 
 one who chose to come ; and finally ordered a 
 private letter-box to be affixed to the Vatican, 
 in which all could drop their complaints and 
 petitions. Still the people scarcely knew what 
 to believe : these might all be simply strokes 
 of policy to allay popular indignation. He next 
 dismissed Cardinal Lambruschini, but this 
 thing only awakened deeper anxiety ; until at 
 length his course seemed to be clearly pro- 
 nounced, when he granted a general amnesty 
 to all political offenders. Rome stood thunder- 
 struck at this bold movement. The prisons, 
 with their six thousand annually incarcerated 
 victims, threw open their doors. Exiles in every 
 part of the world were permitted to return. Al- 
 most every family in Rome had some connec- 
 tion, or friend, or acquaintance, either a prisoner 
 or exile ; and hence the sudden joy wliich fol- 
 lowed. The city was moved to its centre ; and 
 lo! the crowd went rushing with shouts to the 
 Capitoline hill, and streamed in dark masses 
 into the arena of the Coliseum, with torches 
 and songs — and the shouts from the Capitol, and 
 the shouts from the Coliseum, met over the old 
 
 Roman forum, startling the night-bird from his 
 retreat amid the ruins of Caesar's golden palace, 
 while the ivy on the ruins around them rustled 
 to the breath of joy. At three o'clock in the 
 morning, this vast throng stood under the bal- 
 cony of the Pope's palace, and made its mas- 
 sive walls ring with " Long live Pius IX. !" 
 The Pope rose and looked on the sea of head."? 
 beneath him, and away on Rome blazing with 
 illuminations ; and as the deafening shoutis 
 died away, he stretched forth his hands and, 
 with tears streaming from his eyes, blessed the 
 people, who received it with tears and blessing.? 
 in return. The next day, as he was returning 
 home in his carriage, the people blocked the 
 passage, and detaching the horses, themselves 
 drew him home amid acclamations of joy. 
 Various reforms followed this : he lessened the 
 taxes ; reformed many abuses ; opened the 
 library of the Vatican ; disbanded the police of 
 the last Pope ; declared that no man should be 
 persecuted for his political opinions ; abolished 
 many of the secret tribunals ; modified the 
 criminal code ; set on foot measures to instruct 
 the lower classes in the different provinces ; 
 allowed philanthropic societies to be estab- 
 lished ; and gave individual enterprise more 
 scope. He removed also the rigorous censor- 
 ship of the press, and immediately a host of 
 papers were started in Rome, some scientific 
 and some political. It is not to be supposed 
 that Austria would behold all this with indiffer- 
 ence, or that her en^ssaries or bigoted and 
 despotic cardinals and priests would submit in 
 silence to such great changes. Remonstrance 
 after remonstrance was made — threats mingled 
 with petitions flooded the Papal palace ; but still 
 the resolute Pontiff held his way. Once only he 
 faltered, and that was in restoring the severe 
 censorship of the press, which he the ne.xt day, 
 at the remonstrance of four hundred printers 
 assembled before his palace, again removed. 
 
 On one holiday, the Austrian ambassador, 
 wishing to disturb the harmony existing be- 
 tween the Pontiff and his subjects, sent word to 
 the former, that it would not be safe for him 
 to appear in public, as the people were exaspe- 
 rated against him. The Pope immediately 
 sent messengers to ascertain whether it were 
 so, and finding it to be false, boldly sallied forth 
 on foot and mingled in the crowd. The peo- 
 ple appreciated iiis confidence in them, and 
 made the heavens ring with their acclamations 
 and shouts of *' Courage ! courage ! Pius IX. 
 Fear not Austria— trust to your people." 
 
POPE PIUS IX. AND ITALY, 
 
 249 
 
 Soon after, conspiracies were set on foot to 
 assa:?sinate the Pope, which proved abortive. 
 Last J lily, on the day set apart to celebrate the 
 amnesty, a general massacre of the friends of 
 reform was to take place, and the person of the 
 Pope to be seized and conveyed to Naples. In the 
 midst of the general joy, the armed conspirators 
 were, at a given signal, to draw their daggers 
 and rash on the liberals. This infernal scheme, 
 which embraced cardinals and priests, was for- 
 tunately discovered in time ; and a national 
 guard was established, in which all were eager 
 to enroll themselves. Formerly the Papal 
 army numbered but 14,000 men, while the navy 
 consisted of two frigates, two war-steamers, 
 and a few gun-boats : now the Pontiff has a 
 large force at his disposal ; at his bidding an 
 army of 60,000 men have sprung into exist- 
 ence. In the mean time, the Austrian army 
 entered Ferrara, one of the Papal provinces, 
 and looked threateningly towards Rome. The 
 Pope remonsijates against this, and the people 
 are fierce for open hostilities. Thus matters 
 stand, while plans for the improvement of the 
 people are daily progressing. Railroads are in 
 contemplation, and the avenues of trade and 
 commerce thrown open. 
 
 Now in all this, it would be unfair to say 
 that the Pope has been actuated alone by mo- 
 tives of policy. He is, doubtless, a more libe- 
 ral and a better man than his predecessor. He 
 himself had a brother in exile ; and as a mis- 
 eionary formerly to Chili, and afterwards to 
 Buenos Ayres, he has learned, like Louis 
 Philippe, to regard the rights of the people, 
 and respect their feelings and their wants. 
 
 Still policy has had much to do with the 
 course he has taken. His travels in the new 
 world opened his eyes to truths that it became 
 him to recognize ; and he saw plainly, that the 
 Pontiff of 1847 could not be the despot that a 
 former age tolerated. But amid the general 
 excitement with which the unexpected liberal- 
 ity of Pius IX. is hailed, we must not lose 
 sight of tlie actual state of things. The Pope 
 has done much ; but with all his reforms, his 
 government is still a despotic one. A criminal 
 code is there in force, and municipal and pro- 
 vincial laws, and a censorship of the press, and 
 an exercise of arbitrary power, which, if applied 
 even to the monarchy of England, would cause 
 a revolution that all the standing armies of the 
 world could not arrest. To read some of the 
 papers of this country, and listen to some of the 
 public speeches, one would imagine that Pius IX. 
 
 wished of all things to establish a repnblican 
 form of government, and lacked only the ability ; 
 while in truth I suppose there is not a govern- 
 ment on the earth, for which he has such a su- 
 preme and hearty contempt, as for this same 
 republic of the United States. He, as well as 
 every other monarch of Europe, except Louis 
 Philippe, is in absolute ignorance of this coun- 
 try and its resources. As a Catholic said in 
 New- York the other day, he regards this coun- 
 try simply as missionary ground. South Amer- 
 ica ranks far higher in his estimation, than the 
 United States ; and I can affirm from per- 
 sonal experience, that this is almost the univer- 
 sal opinion of Italy. When America is men- 
 tioned, the Italians always think South Amer- 
 ica is intended. So true is this, that nine- 
 tenths of all the emigration from Italy — and it 
 is extensive — is to South America ; and all her 
 commerce is also with that country. Tliere 
 are but few papers in Italy, and those never 
 speak of us but to disparage us ; while our 
 literature is entirely shut out, on account of its 
 republican tendency. Independent of all this, 
 the sovereigns and statesmen of Europe, to a 
 man, regard a republican form of government 
 as the most uncertain, unstable, that could be 
 devised. They look upon our experiment as 
 already proved a failure, and consider it settled 
 that we shall soon break to pieces. Nor is 
 this strange, when we remember that the ma- 
 jority of our own ablest statesmen believe that 
 this Union will not remain entire forty years to 
 come. Much less should they, educated to be- 
 lieve in a monarchical form of government, and 
 judging of the mass of men everywhere by the 
 ignorant, depraved and lawless multitudes that 
 compose tlieir own population, have any confi- 
 dence in the permanence and stability of our, 
 institutions. The sovereignty of the people is to 
 them the Reign of Terror of the French Revolu- 
 tion. I make this statement simply to say, that 
 we should guard agamst enacting follies, that 
 will only bring down on us contempt and ridicule, 
 A short time since, a public meeting was 
 called in New-York, to express sympathy for 
 the Italians. This was right and proper ; but 
 not content with manly resolutions, an address 
 was read to the Pope, and voted to be sent to 
 his Holiness, and it has gone, printed on elegant 
 parchment. This address, written by the 
 Editor of the Tribune, \vas well-meant but most 
 ill-advised. Ignorant of European govern- 
 ments — of the policy of European statesmen — 
 of Italy — he was not the man to draw up such a 
 
250 
 
 POPK PIUS IX. AND ITALY. 
 
 letter. That ridiculous epistle addresses the Pope J 
 in a tone of patronizing syinpatliy, taking the 
 ground that he wishes to establish a constitu- 
 tional government; and calls on him to look 
 upon us, for a bright example to cheer him on. 
 It bids him not fear the despots around him, for 
 we sympathize with him. In the first place, 
 the Pope will regard this movement in New- 
 York as we. should a mass-meeting in the 
 Sandwich Islands, voting us a complimentary 
 letter. He will answer it kindly, patronizingly, 
 and cautiously. Such an address is wrong, 
 whichever way you take it. If the Pope really 
 meditated the establishment of a constitutional 
 government, nothing would embarrass him 
 more than such an epistle, and nothing tend 
 more to defeat his purpose ; for the very states- 
 men who now uphold him in his reforms 
 would desert him, and not a government could 
 be found in Europe but would be arrayed 
 against him. If he has no such scheme or 
 wish, but regards all such notions as " Utopian" 
 and senseless, we shall appear simply ridiculous 
 in his eyes. It will be mortifying to the Amer- 
 ican traveller hereafter, to have that address 
 flung in his face on the continent. The dis- 
 tinguished geaitlemen who composed this meet- 
 ing were not to blame, for they could not reject 
 it without occasioning discord. Delicacy and 
 fear of trouble prompted them to let it pass ; 
 but ignorance and vanity should never be al- 
 lowed to hold us up to ridicule. The manner 
 in which that letter will be received, may be 
 gathered from the following extracts of the 
 Pope's recent speech to his new Council of 
 State, compared with parts of it. That address 
 Bays : " We know that you must have already 
 resolved to encounter the untiring hostility and 
 dread of all the unjust or tyrannical rulers, who 
 assume to lord it over any portion of the fair 
 Italian peninsula." This will be news to the 
 Pope, who has already struck hands with the 
 King of Sardinia, one of the most unmitigated 
 despots of Europe. And again : " Short as our 
 national life has been, it has already demon- 
 strated to every thoughtful man, the immense 
 superiority of liberty to despotism," &c. 
 
 The Pope regards it as having demon- 
 strated right the reverse. In his address to hla 
 
 new Council, referring to just such sentiments 
 as these, he says he means to act for the good 
 of his subjects, but " without retrenching in 
 any degree the sovereignty of the Pontificate ;" 
 and he says further, that he has called that 
 Council of State solely to aid him in " his sove- 
 reign resolutions, in which he shall consult his 
 conscience." That is, I want ycu to understand 
 that I am absolute sovereign here, and intend to 
 reign as such. My will is to be law ; and all 
 I wish of you is to aid me in carrying out that 
 will. That sovereignty, he expressly states, 
 they are not to meddle with ; as he intends 
 (to use his own language) to transmit it 
 " full and entire" as he received it. And still 
 further on he says, they " err materially who 
 should see anything else in the creation of the 
 Council of State ;" or dream, as he emphati- 
 cally remarks, that it was designed to be " the 
 realization of their own Utopias.'^ He takes fire 
 at the mere insinuation that he means to give 
 the people power, or weaken, in any way, the 
 absolute sovereignty he wields. He does not 
 object to despotisms, but he does not wish to 
 have his own interfered with. The Pontiff of 
 Rome is to be as supreme as the Emperor of 
 Austria ; and he wishes all to understand that he 
 has no intention of weakening that supremacy, 
 but, as a conscientious despot, not to abuse 
 it. He designs to rule well, but yet to rule 
 alone. This is his decision, expressed before all 
 the world ; and now, how will our congratula- 
 tions, that he is endeavoring to give Italy a libe- 
 ral and constitutional government, be received ? 
 I venture to say, that when that address is re- 
 ceived by the Pope and his Council, it will be 
 regarded as the maddest, craziest thing that 
 ever met their eyes. I have thus spoken of 
 this address, because it gives one a better idea 
 of the movements and plans of the Pope than 
 anything else. A comparison of our opinions 
 with his is sure to set us right, and give us a 
 clearer insight into the principles and spirit of 
 the Pontifical government than a dry and de- 
 tailed account of all the departments and their 
 branches, with their separate relations and 
 powers. 
 
POPE PIUS K. AND ITALY. 
 
 251 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 The Pope regards such schemes as we have 
 been entertaining as Utopian, and promises only 
 to use the power with which he is invested con- 
 scientiously, not surrender a fraction of it. Do 
 not consider me as speaking this to his dis- 
 credit. How can he be otherwise than an ab- 
 solute monarchist ? His education has all 
 been to make him one ; and so has been his 
 experience in the ever-shifting, distracted re- 
 publics of South America. As well might you 
 expect an American, educated a republican, 
 and acquainted only with despotism in its worst 
 forms, to be a despot, as him to be a republican. 
 And more than this, with my knowledge of 
 Italian society, and the policy of European 
 governments, I am free to say, that an attempt 
 at once to establish a republic in Rome, would 
 be the height of madn?s5. The people are 
 not fit for it, any more than the people of 
 Mexico or South America. ^\Tio does not be- 
 lieve that a monarchy would have been better 
 for these chaotic States, than the endless ci\Tl 
 wars and military rule under which they have 
 suffered ? 
 
 But suppose the people intelligent and virtu- 
 ous, would a republic be tolerated ? Not for an 
 hour. No great republic will ever rise in the 
 heart of Europe without rising out of a sea of 
 blool. and being, cemented by the blood of its 
 haughty sovereigns. Look at France : the mo- 
 ment the head of Louis the XVI. rolled on the 
 scaffold, all Europe rose like one man, and 
 moved down on the bewildered republic to crush 
 it. What ! kings be decapitated, and republics 
 rise on their shattered thrones ? No ; self-de- 
 fence compelled them to direct their united 
 strength upon it, and arrest the experiment in its 
 commencement. Even France, one of the 
 most powerful of the European States, could not 
 stand, though she had one of the greatest lead- 
 ers that ever entered a battle field, to head her 
 armies : she fell at last, overpowered by num- 
 bers ; and the allied powers put a king of their 
 
 own choosing on the throne. Poland fell, 
 though for a while victorious. Under the 
 shadow of their capital, within sight of its 
 towers and walls, crowded with their mothers, 
 wives and children, her sons strove with almost 
 superhuman might, to maintain their freedom, 
 and rolled back the Russian thousands over the 
 borders. Yet, under European diplomacy and 
 European villany, she sunk at last; and her 
 patriotic sons crowd the mines of Siberia. 
 
 Switzerland has just made an effort to be 
 free ; and already the plenipotentiaries of Cen- 
 tral Europe are hastening to the victorious 
 army, to bid it pause in its career, or the tread 
 of French, and Prussian, and Austrian legions 
 will be heard on her soil. The whole policy 
 of Europe is to keep out the leaven of republi- 
 canism — it is their great danger. The French 
 Revolution came well nigh upsetting every 
 throne : another such a whirlwind would scat- 
 ter their crowns so that they could not be gath- 
 ered up again. In view of the case, what 
 prospect would there be of succeeding, should 
 the Pope attempt to establish a republican form 
 of government ? None. But take another view 
 of it. Independent of the rest of Europe, what 
 is there in Italy to give hope of success ? Great 
 and enthusiastic hopes are expressed that the 
 day of Italy's regeneration is at hand. This I 
 deem a great mistake, resulting from igno- 
 rance of the condition of the country. Suppose 
 the Pope wished it, and the European powers 
 would permit it, and a republic should be estab- 
 lished in Rome, how would that affect the rest 
 of Italy '? It must be remembered that the 
 Papal States compose only a portion of the 
 peninsula ; and over the remaining portion the 
 Pope has no more power than the President of 
 the United States. Take first the southern por- 
 tion, including the kingdom of Naples and the 
 two Sicilies. There have been recent out- 
 breaks, and symptoms of a revolution : so there 
 alwavs have been, and we have seen t!;e 
 
252 
 
 POPE PIUS IX. AND ITALY. 
 
 attempt for a while successful : but the kingdom 
 fell back again into its former state. Should 
 that now succeed, the Pope would not dare as- 
 sume the control. He has no more right to it, or 
 authority over it, than he has over Ireland. And 
 whatever he might be allowed to do with his 
 own kingdom, he would not be permitted to 
 touch it. France, Austria, and England, would 
 each like to possess that portion of Italy ; but 
 those who maintain the balance of power on the 
 Continent would immediately interfere. Russia 
 looks with a covetous eye on Turkey; but 
 the moment she reaches out her hand, the 
 growl of the English lion compels her to with- 
 draw it, and, strong as she is, she dare not 
 carry out her wishes. And let the Pope under- 
 take to control any portion of Italy, and his 
 crown would not be worth the picking up. 
 There are demonstrations of the people in vari- 
 ons parts of Italy, and the name of the Pope is 
 the watchword ; but not because they expect to 
 unite under him — it is the rallying cry in their 
 own behalf. The duchies of Servia and Mo- 
 dena are mere counties, and not worth tak- 
 ing into the account. Tuscany, the most 
 liberal of the Italian States, maintains, as much 
 as she can, a neutrality ; for the Austrian col- 
 umns are too near her borders. The north- 
 western portion, including Milan and Venice, 
 are directly under Austrian rule ; and that rule 
 will be maintained at whatever cost. She 
 would allow the Pope to invade her capital as 
 soon as exercise the least power over that part 
 of her dominions. There is only one kingdom 
 left, that of Sardinia, including Piedmont and 
 Genoa. This is the most powerful State of 
 Italy. The king has a standing army of eighty 
 thousand men ; and he, doubtless, on the short- 
 est notice, could bring one hundred and fifty 
 thousand troops into the field; a powerful force 
 if thrown on the side of the Pope. Great hopes 
 are entertained of him ; for he has declared his 
 sympathy with the Pontiff, and offered his aid. 
 He has also introduced some reforms into his 
 own kingdom ; and when Sardinia shall reach 
 her hand across the peninsula, and clasp that 
 of the PontiflT, in sacred union, the resistance 
 offered to Austria will be formidable. 
 
 But who is this Carlo Alberto— King Charles 
 Albert — who has threatened to meet Austria in 
 the field, if she attempts to occupy Ferrara, 
 and has offered his services to Pope Pius IX. ? 
 The veriest despot, traitor, and hypocrite that 
 ever escapdH the punishment due his crimes. 
 Ho himself was once at the head of one of 
 
 the most formidable conspiracies ever set on 
 foot for the redemption of Italy. Chief of 
 the Carbonari, he promised constitutional 
 freedom to Italy. That conspiracy counted 
 some of the noblest spirits of the age. But 
 just on the eve of its development, death re- 
 moved the obstructions between Charles Albert 
 and the throne of Piedmont ; and vaulting into 
 it, he immediately seized the conspirators he 
 himself had seduced into his ambitious plans, 
 and, by imprisonment, banishment, and death, 
 rid himself of his old friends, and became the 
 most hated tyrant in Europe. Added to all 
 this, he is a Jesuit of the Jesuits, and as weak 
 as he is villanous. When I was in Genoa he 
 visited the city ; but, as he passed through the 
 streets, none but the lower classes appeared to 
 do him honor ; and, as he walked from his pal- 
 ace past the university, the students in the 
 porch never took off their hats, but turned their 
 backs upon him. He has proved himself one 
 of the darkest traitors, both to friendship and 
 liberty, that ever disgraced humanity ; and who 
 would trust him again ? He upholds the Pope, 
 offers his aid, and talks loudly of the independ- 
 ence and nationality of Italy. Ah ! " Timeo 
 Danaos et dona ferentes.^' I fear such a man 
 when he brings, and iliough he brings gifts in 
 his hands. But, it may be asked, what motive 
 has he for the course he adopts ? Three very 
 powerful ones. In the first place, he is hated 
 intensely by his own subjects ; and he knows 
 it, and fears their anger. This dislike he can 
 remove in no way so effectually as by uphold- 
 ing the Pope ; and already has he found his 
 reward ; for, on his last visit to Genoa, the in- 
 habitants flocked by thousands along the road, 
 to cheer him. In the second place, Austria is 
 the only power he has to fear ; she trenches 
 on his borders, and holds him in perpetual 
 alarm ; and he will willingly seize any event 
 that would injure his enemy, and compel him 
 to evacuate Italy. In the third place, in case 
 of any successful hostilities, he could not 
 but enlarge his territory. If, through his in- 
 strumentality, Austria should be spoiled of her 
 possessions in Italy, he knows he could dic- 
 tate his own terms to the Pope ; and rest as- 
 sured he would be content with nothing less 
 than half of the peninsula. He is the most 
 powerful sovereign in it, and he looks with a 
 covetous eye on those fair portions which tlie 
 Austrians hold. 
 
 But as for wishing the liberty of Italy, or 
 caring anything about its independence and 
 
POPE PIUS IX. AND ITALY. 
 
 253 
 
 nationality, except so far as that nationality 
 consists in being under one despotic sovereign, 
 and he tiiat sovereign, he is innocent. Will a 
 man that has been guilty of the darkest crimes 
 that stain our nature, in order to get a throne, 
 advance measures to overturn it ? No, no ! 
 He is a hypocrite and traitor still, and the peo- 
 ple of Italy will yet find it so, to their cost 
 But there is one other course left — the univer- 
 sal rising of the people, through the length and 
 breadth of the land, and the establishment of 
 a popular government. But can the people 
 withstand their own sovereigns, backed by the 
 powers of Europe ? Every attempt has thus 
 far been a failure. Even if they could, the 
 jealousies prevailing between the different prov- 
 inces and kingdoms are too strong to permit 
 such a union. There are no elements of union 
 in Italy — the whole theory is preposterous. 
 But is there no hope for the regeneration of 
 Italy, in the present movement ? None, that I 
 can see. I discern in the conduct of the Pope 
 only a desire to rule his people well, and not tol- 
 erate any innovation on his power — indeed, no 
 wish to abridge it. It is sad to say so ; it is 
 sad to see the Italian people, who have suffered 
 so long and heavily, expressing the warmest 
 gratitude and love towards their rulers, when 
 they exhibit the least care for them, and yet 
 say that that gratitude is thrown away, that joy 
 premature, and those hopes groundless. How 
 despots can withstand such confidence and of- 
 fered love, seems strange to us, but so it is. 
 They know from the past, that power, once 
 passed over into the hands of the people, can 
 never be recalled. I have said of Italy what I 
 believe to be true. If any one supposes that 
 my incredulity has grown out of a want of sym- 
 pathy, he is much mistaken. My heart bleeds 
 for that country, and no one would delight to 
 find me wrong more than myself. But could 
 I convey to others those views which it is impos- 
 sible to obtain without a residence in Europe, 
 with this very question constantly before their 
 minds, and made a serious study, they would 
 find the reasons I have given have not begun 
 to express the difficulties that lie in the way of 
 the extravagant hopes that are entertained by 
 so many. There are noble spirits in Italy, that 
 would cheerfully die for their country. Many 
 a proud noble in Genoa would send up the 
 shout of freedom, even though it brought the 
 walls of his palace about his ears, could he 
 rouse successful resistance by it. 
 
 Still it may be asked, if I suppose oppression 
 
 is always to exist. No ; it will yet come to an 
 end in Italy, but only as it comes to an end in 
 Europe. Then it will be the result, rather than 
 a cause — the product of convulsions and revolu- 
 tions in more powerful States. If there be one 
 thing fixed in destiny, it is the steady, resistless 
 progress of the republican principle. Struggle 
 as despots may — surround themselves as they 
 will with all the checks and restraints on pop- 
 ular feeling — bind and torture, and exile and 
 slay, the terrible day of reckoning is slowly 
 advancing. Before this single principle Europe 
 is incessantly pushed forward to the brink of a 
 frightful gulf. On that brink despotism will 
 make its last stand and final struggle. The 
 statesmen of Europe see it and know it, and 
 hope only to defer the day of evil. Come they 
 know it will : as Guizot lately said in the Cham- 
 ber of Deputies, All Germany is on fire. I 
 might, if I had time, prove tliis, to the full con- 
 viction of every mind ; but I will only point to 
 Europe now and Europe sixty years ago, as fear- 
 ful corroboration of what I say. Europe is yet to 
 be set afloat on the turbulent sea of democracy. 
 The French Revolution is but one act in the 
 great tragedy yet to be enacted. That, with 
 Bonaparte at its head, whelmed the continent 
 in blood, and made the knees of every monarch 
 smite together, like Belshazzar's of old. The 
 next shall open under their very thrones, as 
 the French Revolution did under the throne of 
 the Bourbons. The people are yet to have the 
 power, and woe then to those who have mad- 
 dened them. It needs not the ear of prophecy, 
 it requires only the ear of reason, to hear the 
 sound of falling thrones in tlie future. Fugi- 
 tive kings are to flit through the realms they 
 have ruined. Now, barrier after barrier is 
 erected, check after check applied, promise 
 after promise made and broken, to arrest tlie 
 waves of popular feeling ; yet they keep swell- 
 in » higher and higher. Soon the last barrier 
 shall be raised, the last check exhausted, and 
 then the increasing flood will burst over. What 
 is to come of it, I cannot tell. Through 
 the blackness of that approaching storm no 
 eye but God's can pierce. Whether anarchy 
 or constitutional liberty is to spring out of 
 it, He only knows ; but the experiment of self- 
 government the people of Europe are yet to 
 try. No power can prevent it. Around the 
 ruins of Italy, and the feudal castles of England 
 and Germany, amid the fore.sts of Russia, the 
 struggle of the people with their rulers is to 
 take place. Every man who wi]l sit down to 
 
254 
 
 WAR. 
 
 the study of modern liistory, with this single 
 fact before him, will turn pale at the conclu- 
 sion he cannot escape. We may not live 
 to see that struggle, but it is the ghost that 
 haunts at this moment the slumbers of every 
 continental monarch. The scaffold of Charles 
 I., and the guillotine of Ijouis XVI., are ever 
 present to their imaginations, and make cow- 
 ards of them all. 
 
 In this great movement, Italy will doubtless 
 participate, and the conduct of the present 
 Pope is only another impulse to it. He is 
 doing more than he dreams of — taking Gteps 
 that can never be retraced ; and do now what 
 he will, he cannot, as he says, transmit the 
 pontifical sovereignty full and complete as he 
 received it. His successor must go onward or 
 downward. 
 
 There is one thought, however, worthy of 
 
 consideration. Italy, old as she is, has wild 
 land. One-third of her surface, through the 
 slight encouragement given to industry, is un- 
 cultivated and waste. All along the coast of 
 the Mediterranean, in Asia Minor and Egypt, 
 where once a mighty population was supported, 
 land now lies neglected and idle. Could a 
 free government be established there, with all 
 the privileges enjoyed in this country, the tide 
 of emigration would set eastward instead of 
 westward. There is the centre of commerce 
 and trade, and it requires only permission to line 
 the Mediterranean with wharves, and cover its 
 sunny shore with thrifty farms, and the stirring 
 sound of commerce. It needs no well-devised 
 plans, and great outlays of nations — it needs 
 only liberty, to fill the Mediterranean with em- 
 igrants who will reclaim the desert and rebuild 
 the cities of that once glorious land. 
 
 WAm 
 
 BY O. S. ST. JOHN. 
 
 Among the saddest of all evils sad. 
 
 That Heaven's judgment ever sent on earth. 
 
 Or hating man inflicts on hated man. 
 
 Is W^ar— relentless, ruthless, bloody War! 
 
 No grave historian yet has truly penned. 
 
 Nor grieving poet sung its direful ills. 
 
 O War ! thou art a cruel, monstrous fiend ! 
 
 Wholesale murderer ! Thy name is Legion ! 
 
 For numerous is thy train of miseries. 
 
 Thou art a gaudy cheat ! a glaring lie ! 
 
 Thy golden-decorated cup is filled 
 
 With nauseous, poisoned, deadly draughts. 
 
 Thou art a sepulchre — all white without. 
 
 Within are dead men's bones and loathsome worms. 
 
 Thy streaming banners and thy martial airs. 
 
 Thy gilded trappings and thy glittering swords. 
 
 Thine epauletled hero's prancing steeds. 
 
 Thy lofty boasts and deeds of high renown, 
 
 Are bul thine outward show— splendid, but false. 
 
 It is in War's unwritten history, 
 
 In those deep, darkest lines no pen can trace, 
 
 Its true and woful character is drawn. 
 
 Tib writ in sighs, and tears, and blood. 'Tis stamped 
 
 On fields made desolate— on hamlets burned— 
 
 On towns destroyed — on pop'lous cities sacked ! 
 
 'Tis heard amid the cannon's roar— the tramp 
 
 Of furious, frighted horse— the clash of arms— 
 
 The maddened charge of hostile ranks, glowing 
 
 With fell revenge, and burning hot with wrath. 
 
 And when the battle's o'er and victory won, 
 
 Tis pitiful to hear the groans and cries 
 
 That rend the midnight air ; to view the ground 
 
 All wel with human ((ore, and strewn with dead ; 
 
 To see the wounded gasping out their lives. 
 
 In writhing throes, and calling out for aid. 
 
 Unheeded and unpitied. Oh ! 'tis sad 
 
 To see the wretched band of mothers, wives. 
 
 And sisters, seeking midst the heaps of cold 
 
 And mangled corpses, brothers, husbands, sons— 
 
 Or grasping in their wild embrace, with loud 
 
 And frantic shrieks, the lifeless forms of those 
 
 That once they loved. 'Tis pitiful 
 
 To see the little weeping orphan girls, 
 
 And little weeping orphan boys, and herds 
 
 Of weeping, human wretches, War drives out. 
 
 To wander, wretched and forlorn, and die, 
 
 Amid the rugged paths of life's dark vale! 
 
 War snaps the ties that bind us to our race — 
 
 Subverts all social life — domestic bliss — 
 
 And renders man a monster ! All tell us 
 
 War is sad — the victor and the vanquished. 
 
 The gallant soldier, from the field of strife 
 
 Returning, where he bravely fought and bled. 
 
 And triumphed o'er his country's foes, exclaims. 
 
 With all his laurels on his brow, and praise 
 
 Th' adniirin;; crowd bestows, and pageant show : 
 
 " Wy soul is sick of War—ils carnage, crime. 
 
 Distress, and stern, severe necessities !" 
 
 The soldier, dying in a stranger land, 
 
 Of wounds received in fight, or fever caught 
 
 Atnid the arid wastes and putrid heats 
 
 Of southern clime — away from home, unsoothed 
 
 By yearning mother's anxious, lender care. 
 
 Or gentle sister's kindly love — parched 
 
 With thirst and racked with pain, and sick nt heart, 
 
 Exclaims, with panting breath—" Oh, War is sad !" 
 
THE SPECTRE-HAUNTED. 
 
 255 
 
 ITIEIIS SlP]ll(S1PIS!g-IEr^lErH^IgI0). 
 
 I WAS detained several hoars, a few days 
 since, at the house of a patient, and to pass 
 away the time, I took up an old number of 
 Blackwood's Magazine, containing a tale called 
 the *' Milkman of Walworth." Whether the 
 singular incidents there detailed ever had any 
 foundation in fact, I know not. They brought, 
 however, to my recollection certain incidents of 
 a very similar character which transpired under 
 my own observation many years since, and 
 which, I doubt not, will be recognized by many 
 of my readers as very familiar to them. Were 
 it not that others, many others, were witnesses 
 of the same facts, they might well be con- 
 sidered, when read, entirely imaginary ; and the 
 similarity between the incidents in the case and 
 those related in the Milkman of Walworth, is 
 so great, that, had the latter been originally 
 published in this country, I should have sup-' 
 posed at once that they had their prototype in 
 the individual who is the subject of the follow- 
 ing sketch. Yet I can hardly suppose that to 
 be so, and as many of my readers have probably 
 read that tale, I shall notice but briefly those 
 facts in which the resemblance is striking, and 
 detail more at large those portions of the case 
 which are different and occurred at a more re- 
 cent period than the others. 
 
 Everybody who lived in , twelve years 
 
 ago, will remember a singular individual who 
 lived there also at that time. He was a tall 
 spare man, of perhaps five-and-forty years, with 
 a bent form, though evidently not from age nor 
 weakness — heavy, scowling, bushy eyebrows, 
 lowering down over and half covering his 
 small, black, and very sharp eyes — a lip that 
 never altered its appearance of being curled in 
 perpetual and unchanging derision and scorn 
 at a large hooked nose and upturned chin, that 
 seemed to be always threatening war with each 
 other whenever his mouth opened and shut — and 
 long, straight, and very black hair, that hung 
 
 loose about his temples, and behind from be- 
 neath an old hat with a very broad brim. He 
 was never seen in the street, but he held by the 
 hand a boy, perhaps ten years old, and in every 
 respect a very miniature of himself. His walk, 
 which seemed to have become a daily and ha- 
 bitual one, was always the same. Emerging 
 
 from his house at the top of street, with 
 
 the lad grasped firmly by the hand, he pursued 
 his way down the broad and straight avenue, 
 at a steady and rapid pace — his tall form bent 
 forward — his eye fixed on the pavement, and 
 never raised to notice any individual he met — 
 and dragging the child, who was obliged to 
 maintain a brisk trot to keep about a step in his 
 rear. Having reached the end of the avenue, 
 he turned the comer, and a few steps more 
 
 brought him into street, at that time the 
 
 principal business street, and generally thronged 
 from morning till night with a passing and re- 
 passing multitude. Entering this busy thorough- 
 fare, with fixed eye and undiminished speed he 
 tlireaded his way through tlie dense crowd, oc- 
 casionally jostled rudely by some passer-by, but 
 always reaching back to retain his hold of the 
 boy. At the end of this street he passed into 
 a narrow alley, leading down to the canal, and 
 continuing on to the last building in that low 
 and muddy part of the town, he paused, and 
 gazing out for a few moments on the open 
 country beyond, he suddenly turned and re- 
 tract his steps, by the same way he had come, 
 to his house. It made no difference what sort 
 of weather it was ; in cold and heat — in fair 
 weather, or stormy with rain or snow — in the 
 bitter, piercing winds of winter — there he was 
 to be seen daily, and always dragging along 
 the unresisting boy. No one knew who he was, 
 nor what the boy was to him. He might have 
 been the Wandering Jew, and the lad the latest 
 of his descendants. Nobody knew, and, after a 
 few months from his taking np his residence 
 
256 
 
 THE SPECTRE-HAUNTEP 
 
 there, nobody seemed to care. Strangers would 
 often })ause to notice his singular appearance, 
 and cast a look of pity on the sad face of 
 the child, but those who were accustomed to 
 tha sight ceased to bestow any regard upon 
 chem. 
 
 His daily route lay by my office door, and I 
 often had opportunities of seeing him. It would 
 be untrue to say that I felt no interest in the 
 strange individual, nor in the poor, sickly-look- 
 ing boy, who was always his companion. I 
 made no little effort to learn something of his 
 history ; and once my curiosity led me to follow 
 him to the end of his walk, when, as he paused, 
 I accosted him politely with some common re- 
 mark introduced to lay the foundation of a fur- 
 ther conversation and acquaintance. But he 
 turned upon me one fierce glance of his sharp 
 eye, and without replying, turned and resumed 
 his rapid walk homeward. This reception ef- 
 fectually quenched my impertinence, though it 
 did not diminish my curiosity. This on the 
 contrary was greatly increased by an incident 
 that occurred a few weeks afterward. 
 
 I was standing in my office door one day 
 looking at him as he came down the street 
 with his rapid and powerful stride towards me, 
 when my attention was called away from him 
 for an instant by a well-dressed woman, who 
 had stopped and was standing upon the side-walk 
 directly in front of me, exclaiming eagerly, "It 
 is he," Her eye was fixed upon the strange 
 man approaching, and in whose path she stood. 
 But she did not move — she did not seem even to 
 breathe for a moment, as he approached with 
 downcast eye as if he would walk directly over 
 her. He did not look up as he turned to pass 
 her, but she exclaimed, " Hiram Fuller I" 
 
 If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, it 
 would have disturbed him less than this simple 
 exclamation. He dropped the hand of the boy 
 — stopped instantly — clasped his hands convul- 
 sively together — but did not utter a word or 
 alter the fixed gaze of his eye upon the pave- 
 ment. He looked as if, when he had clasped 
 his hands, he had been instantly converted into 
 stone. The scene lasted but a moment. The 
 novelty of the incident began to attract a crowd 
 of lookers-on, and reaching back, he resumed 
 his hold of the unresisting boy, and turning 
 about, without continuing his walk, he returned 
 to his house, followed at a short distance by the 
 female. She, however, did not enter with him, 
 but stopping at the door a few seconds, as if to 
 notice the place, she walked on and was soon 
 
 lost from sight. No word had passed between 
 these singular individuals. 
 
 From this time she became the daily attend- 
 ant upon his walk. He did not see her, for he 
 never raised his eye nor turned to look, but he 
 knew she was there, and, as if under her influ- 
 ence, he had moderated his pace, so that she 
 was able without effort to keep at the same 
 distance from him and to follow him easily. 
 Her presence, although it renewed the univer- 
 sal curiosity, and furnished a clue by which 
 many were able to fabricate suspicions of their 
 own as to the relation subsisting between the two 
 individuals, only increased the mystery. What 
 was it? Who was he ? Why was this woman 
 everlastingly following him like his shadow ? 
 
 Who was she ? The good gossips of had 
 
 an unfailing source for speculation. But the 
 mystery remained as dark as night. There 
 she was, in all sorts of weather, and every day, 
 only a few steps behind him, and leaving him 
 only when he entered his house. The manner 
 in which he received her when they first met 
 rendered it almost certain that the same thing 
 had happened before. Else why did he main- 
 tain under such circumstances that same sul- 
 len, dogged, downcast eye, as if he had been 
 all along expecting her, and had made up his 
 mind not to look at her when she should come ? 
 A first surprise of this kind would have dis- 
 turbed him more — would have caused him to 
 look up at her, at the look of unutterable 
 scorn which she poured upon him as he stood 
 like a statue before her. Of the boy she took 
 no notice. Was there, then, nothing in the 
 meeting of the two elder ones, in which he was 
 interested ? Was he nothing to her ? Was 
 he in no way connected with the impenetrable 
 mystery that hung over the others? There 
 are mysteries that sleep forever — whose secrets 
 never come to light. Such might be the case 
 in this. The individuals held no intercourse 
 with each other, except that unwelcome one of 
 constant presence whenever the man appeared 
 out of doors. They never spoke to any one 
 else. She lodged, it was discovered, about a 
 mile distant, in the house of a solitary and very 
 deaf old widow woman, whom she paid her 
 weekly stipend for the small accommodations 
 she received, but who knew nothing of her 
 more than any one else. There seemed no 
 way of getting at the bottom of the matter, and 
 all conjecture ended where it began. 
 
 Foui years ago, after my return from the 
 South, where, I have said before, I passed a 
 
THE SPECTRE-HAUNTED. 
 
 «87 
 
 number of years, I again met the same individ- 
 ual, in another place, and this time without the 
 female or the boy. Were they botli dead? 
 was the first question that came in ray mind ; or 
 the boy only, and was the female still in pur- 
 suit of him to discover the place to which he 
 liad fled from her continual presence ? That 
 the latter was not the case, seemed probable 
 from his altered appearance. His eye was no 
 longer fixed upon the ground, but wandered 
 with a restless and fitful glance from one ob- 
 ject to another, as if he were now in search of 
 her and anxious to discover her. His face had 
 the same expression, otherwise, as it formerly 
 had, and he w~d^3 dressed in the same manner ; 
 but his gait was slow and deliberate, and he 
 often paused to gaze for a few moments eagerly 
 upon the crowd that was passing by him. It 
 seemed to me at the time a singular coinci- 
 dence, that I should meet him again at such a 
 distance from the place in which I had origi- 
 nally seen him. And yet why not meet him 
 as well as any other ? Why not rather ? for he 
 was a wanderer, fixed to no place, and per- 
 haps had been in a thousand other places since- 
 I had seen him. But we had met again, and 
 although all memory of him had before passed 
 from my mind, I now felt revived within me, 
 with greater force, the curiosity to find out 
 sometliing of his singular history, and his con- 
 nection w ith the female and the boy. I wrote 
 
 to a friejid in to ascertain what became 
 
 of them after I had left, and by return of mail, 
 I received a letter informing me jLhat they had 
 continued their walks as formerly for about a 
 month, when all three were suddenly missing. 
 Notliing more had been heard of them till about 
 a year before, when the man had again made 
 his appearance alone, and walking the streets 
 at all hours of the day and till very late in the 
 evening, often looking around him as if expect- 
 inof to see some person. Some sagacious indi- 
 viduals conjectured that he was in search of 
 the woman now, as she had formerly seemed to 
 be in search of him. After a few days he 
 again disappeared, and that was the last of him. 
 This was all I could hear. 
 
 I was however more fortunate than I antici- 
 pated, and in a few days learned from his own 
 mouth the history of his life. The notes I 
 made at the time furnish me the means of 
 giving it as he related it. I shall commence, 
 however, w'ith my first introduction to him, and 
 transcribe the narrative from my diary, omitting 
 so much as contains the matter detailed above. 
 
 December 31. — I have been occupied for 
 some days in arranging the business of the year 
 past, and last evening had sat up to a very late 
 hour for that purpose, when, just as the clock 
 struck twelve, I was aroused by a violent ring- 
 ing of the crffice-bell. Upon opening the door, 
 I was surprised to meet face to face a man of 
 most strange and mysterious cliaracter, whom 
 I saw years ago under singular circumstances, 
 the memory of whicn has been revived by re- 
 cently seeing him again in this place. 
 
 (Here follows the substance of what 1 have 
 already related.) 
 
 As he entered the door last night, I was 
 more than ever surprised at his appearance. 
 He removed his hat as I offered him a chair by 
 the fire, and although the weather was intensely 
 cold, I noticed large drops of perspiration 
 standing on his forehead, which he wiped off, 
 as he sat down, and for a moment gazed upon 
 the fire in the grate. His fane was extremely 
 haggard, and his eye wild and restless, and his 
 hair, long and matted, hung like snakes about 
 his shoulders. I now noticed tliat whenever 
 he turned his eye upon any object, it almost in- 
 stantly forsook it for another — not, as I thought 
 before, as if he were seeking for something, 
 but rather as if everywhere it turned it met 
 something upon which it could not bear to 
 look ; and sometimes a elmdder shook his whole 
 body. 
 
 I presume he had come in, attracted probably 
 by the light he had seen through the window, 
 only to seek a temporary shelter from the cold 
 and to warm himself, for he sat a long time 
 without saying a word. Determined, however^ 
 not to lose the opportunity, I took my seat by 
 the side of the grate where I coa'd have a fair 
 view of his face, and attempted to draw him 
 into conversation. 
 
 " Your name, I believe, is Hiram Fuller ?" 
 
 He started, and again 1 met one of those 
 fierce glances which I saw years before when 
 I made a similar attempt to gain his confidence- 
 Nothing daunted, however, I waited patiently 
 for his answer, which I felt must come. And 
 it did. 
 
 " You know me then ;" and the voice sounded 
 as if it came from the grave, hoarse and hollow. 
 
 " I have seen you before. Do you not re- 
 member me ?" 
 
 He looked in my face an instant, but not as 
 before, and replied : 
 
 " I do. You spoke to me once in .eight 
 
 years ago. It is strange that I recollect it, for 
 
258 
 
 THE SPEOI RE-HAUNTED. 
 
 I have had but one thought in my brain for 
 more than ten years. And you saw her ! Have 
 you seen her since ?" 
 
 I told him that I had ivot, and he continued : 
 
 " I have. I see her now — there she stands, 
 just inside of the door. She will stand there 
 till I go, and then she will follow me, as you saw 
 hervears ago, only now she never leaves me." 
 
 He did not look around as he spoke, but I 
 looked involuntarily in the direction he indi- 
 cated, although I knev,' there could be no one 
 there. The man is mad then, I thought, and 
 began again to speculate upon the probable 
 cause, in connection with what I knew of him 
 formerly. Could it be crime, and if so, what 
 was the nature of it ? Was it some foul wrong 
 done to the miserable woman who had pursued 
 him so relentlessly for a time, till his con- 
 science had goaded him on to madness, and 
 fixed her image forever in his mind to follow 
 him down to the grave ? And had she left 
 him then — or where was she now ? Was she 
 dead, and had this added another sting to his 
 remorse ? It would seem, on the contrary, that 
 that would ha^e been an event calculated to re- 
 lieve him of his load, by removing her from his 
 sight. And what of the boy? A thousand 
 conjectures passed through my mind, but all 
 were unsatisfactory. I was about addressing 
 some further questions to him, when, casting a 
 glance around the office, he said, in a milder 
 tone than he had used before : 
 
 " You are a physician, sir. Can you cure 
 diseases of the mind ?" 
 
 " They are not always incurable," I replied. 
 " But much depends upon the nature and origin 
 of them. Have you such a disease ? 
 
 " Do you see any one standing between me 
 and the door ?" he inquired. 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 " But I do ; or if I do not see her, I know she 
 is there. She always stands, day and night, at 
 just such a distance from me, but not always in 
 the same place. When I sit down she takes 
 her stand there, but when I am walking in the 
 street, look where I will I see her, with her eye 
 fixed upon me. It does no good to shut my 
 eyes^ for I always know she is there, and al- 
 ways will be there. I cannot escape her. In 
 the few hours I can sleep, I am free from the 
 illusion, for such I know it to be, but the mo- 
 ment I wake I see her again. But I must go. 
 I have not spoken as many words at a time in 
 years as I have spoken to you now, and I know 
 not why I have done it now." 
 
 He rose to depart, but out of pity for his mel- 
 ancholy condition, and fear lest I might not 
 have another chance to talk with him, I offered 
 him a lodging for the night, which, to my sur- 
 prise, he accepted without much hesitation. 
 
 Day was just breaking, when I rose this 
 morning. Upon entering the office, I found 
 my strange guest there before me. He liad re- 
 plenished the fire in the grate, and was seated 
 before it, just as he sat last night. I again 
 entered into conversation with him about his 
 delusion. I found that he was a man of strong 
 powers of mind except in this one point, but 
 here he was entirely at fault. 
 
 " Have you never," I inquired, " looked this 
 phantom steadily in the eye and tried to face it 
 down, and reason yourself out of the belief that 
 it is there ?" 
 
 " The latter often," he replied ; " but look her 
 in the face ! No, never. It would kill me, if I 
 were to do it but an instant. I have not done 
 
 it but once since vou saw us in ; and then, 
 
 O God !" 
 
 And he buried his face in his hands and 
 ' shuddered violently. When he recovered, he 
 was still agitated and his eye was restless 
 and wandering, and soon in spite of all my per- 
 suasions he left me, to renew his perpetual 
 tramp out of doors. Here again I am disap- 
 pointed in my hopes of learning more of him. 
 But hoping that I may yet again meet with 
 him, and be able to draw from him the liistory 
 of his singular life, I have written this. Yet 
 he may have left the place, for I have not seen 
 him since he left my office this morning. 
 
 January 1st. — I have already again found 
 my strange acquaintance of yesterday morn- 
 ing. It seems that he has lodged since he has 
 been in the place at the principal hotel, coming 
 in late at night, and leaving early in the morn- 
 ing, and paying punctually for his bed before he 
 retired to it. This morning he did not appear 
 at his usual hour, and when one of the servants 
 entered his room they found him unable to 
 rise, and wishing to see the physician at whose 
 house he had passed the previous night. As 
 he did not know my name, one or two others 
 had been summoned, and when I arrived he 
 said : 
 
 " That is the man, now leave me with him." 
 The servant retired, and I moved a chair to 
 his bedside and sat down. He immediately 
 began : 
 
 " The moment is approaching, sir. I shall 
 Boon be free from her, though she is determined 
 
THE SPECTRE-HAUNTED. 
 
 259 
 
 to stay by me to the last. There she is now, 
 standing where she stood when I shut my eyes 
 last night, and when I first opened them this 
 morning. But though I dare not look at her, I 
 feel that the look is the same — no pity — no re- 
 lenting — and it should be so. I have not sent 
 for you, Doctor, hoping that you can do any- 
 thing to help me, but because I am dying, and 
 because I know you better than any one else 
 here, and because you have shown an interest 
 in me. Do you believe there is a God ?" 
 
 I assured him that I did, and was a firm be- 
 liever in the Christian religion. 
 
 " So do I," he continued — " a righteous God 
 — stem and just — yes, just. And I shall soon 
 stand before his face, and meet her there, and 
 
 then . But before I go, I wish to unburden 
 
 my mind of the load that has weighed me down 
 for so many years. I am not mad now, though 
 I believe I have been. This morning I feel as 
 I have not felt before in many long and dark 
 years, all of which are now before me as plain 
 as she is ; and they have been full of misery, but 
 blackened only with one crime, and that, a 
 damning one. I wish to tell you all, and when 
 I have done, then, if you will, you may call in 
 the ministers of justice." 
 
 I proposed to him that a clergyman should 
 be present, as he might be able to administer 
 some consolation to him, but he refused. He 
 would see one afterwards, and would have him 
 pray with him. But he would relate his story 
 to me alone. So after a pause of a few mo- 
 ments he began : 
 
 " Mean as my appearance is, and has been 
 ever since you first saw me, it is not for want 
 of means. I am rich. I am the eldest of two 
 sons of one of the wealthiest merchants in 
 
 . He died leaving a large fortune, divided 
 
 between my brother and myself. My brother 
 was married at that time, though I was not for 
 several years afterwards. He was brought up 
 to the same business with my father, while I 
 received an education which I finished in one 
 of the Eastern colleges ; and having a turn for 
 letters, I engaged in no active business. After 
 my father's death, I removed to a distant city, 
 where I resided for a number of years. There 
 I became acquainted with a young lady, the 
 daughter of a respectable mechanic, but a girl 
 of rare beauty. I was fascinated with her ap- 
 pearance, and the more I saw of her, the deeper 
 and stronger hold did she gain upon my heart. 
 I thought it was the same with her, though in 
 my personal appearance there was nothing at- 
 
 tractive, but rather the opposite. But I was 
 rich, and gold and tinsel cover up all deformi- 
 ties. I believe it was so with her. She loved 
 me for my money, while I loved her for her 
 beauty. There we were even, for one has 
 turned out as worthless as the other. She was 
 many years younger than I, but that formed no 
 obstacle to our union. We were married. 
 
 " I need hardly gay that the first months of 
 our married life were happy. Nothing oc- 
 curred to interrupt our enjoyment. We both 
 had obtained the object we sought — she, gold, 
 and I, beauty. It is true, that now and then I 
 noticed that she seemed to be suspicious and 
 discontented at my occasional absences from 
 home, but I laughed her suspicions away and 
 thought no more of them. But about a year 
 after we were married, my brother, who had 
 lost his wife, and been ruined by unfortunate 
 business operations, died, leaving his only son, 
 a boy of seven years, to my brotherly care. I 
 hastened to claim the child and bring him to 
 my own house. By some strange freak of 
 nature, although there was little if any resem- 
 blance between my brother and me, yet the 
 boy was the very counterpart of myself. He 
 was no sooner established in the house, but the 
 demon of jealousy took up his abode in the 
 heart of my wife. It first showed itself in her 
 treatment of the child, and once an unguarded 
 word escaped her lips that revealed to me the 
 secret I remonstrated with her — kindly and 
 affectionately told her the whole history of my 
 family, and used every means to convince her 
 of her mistake. It did no good. I laughed at 
 her, and the mild woman became converted 
 into a raging fury, and I left the house. \\Tien 
 I returned, all was changed. The cloud seemed 
 to have passed by, and though she said not a 
 word about what had passed, she seemed to 
 make an effort to drive the memory of it from 
 my mind. This of course was not a difficult 
 matter, and we were immediately restored to 
 our usual harmony. Still, to the boy she 
 could not be kind, and he became very unhappy. 
 Once she tried to persuade me to send him 
 away from home to school. But he was so 
 young, and a desolate orphan, that I could not 
 find it in my heart to do it. 
 
 " But in spite of her efforts to conceal it, the 
 demon was still actively working at her heart- 
 I soon thought I could see she was watching 
 me singularly in all my actions towards the 
 child. She was uneasy when I was teaching 
 him anything or playing with him. The same 
 
260 
 
 THE SPECTRE-HAUNTED 
 
 was apparent before long in other things, and 
 I was annoyed with it. Again I attempted to 
 reason with her, and again she became furious. 
 She taunted me with unfaithfulness, and heaped 
 the vilest epithets upon me and the unoffending 
 child ; and I again left her, to find her again, 
 upon my return, calm and pleasant. I relate 
 ail these things so minutely, that you may see 
 all the steps that drove me on to become what 
 I have been, and what I am. 
 
 " From this time I knew that I was watched 
 in all my motions, and she did not seem to dis- 
 guise it. Wherever I went, she came, only a 
 few steps behind me. It began to be talked of 
 among our acquaintance. I heard it — I saw it 
 in their looks. They pitied me and despised 
 my wife. I felt that my feelings were changing 
 towards her. I began to loathe her presence. 
 I could not bear to be with her, for I felt that 
 her eye was always upon me. Wherever I 
 was I expected that she soon would be, and the 
 sneers of men would follow. My home was 
 unhappy, for now it was the constant scene of 
 scornful and cruel suspicion and reproaches. 
 Now I hated her. I could have felt a sort of 
 joy if she had died. It would have delivered 
 me from what I felt to be a curse. 
 
 " I ceased to visit my friends. I wandered 
 tlie streets half distracted, and here one day, as 
 my attention was suddenly called back, I dis- 
 covered my wife following my footsteps. 
 From tliat moment, I believe, I was mad. I 
 hurried home, and she was there a few minutes 
 after me. All that I said to her I do not recol- 
 lect, but I know that I cursed her bitterly, and 
 swore never to live with her again ; and she 
 vowed, that go where I would she would follow 
 in my footsteps. I went to my attorney, and 
 coolly arranged all my business with him, and 
 left the management of my property in his 
 hands, having settled upon my wife, for her 
 life, nearly one half of what I was worth. I 
 then returned to my house, told her what I 
 had done, and taking the poor boy with me, 
 left that night for a distant part of the coun- 
 try, where I thought she would not find me, if 
 she should search for me. 
 
 " I was deceived. I know not how she dis- 
 covered my refuge, but one day, in my walk 
 which I took daily, I suddenly perceived her 
 following a few paces behind mo. She fol- 
 lowed me to my lodgings atid spoke to me, but 
 I did not answer her, and again she promised 
 never to leave me. Again I fled— from one 
 place to another ; but she always tracked me 
 
 out, though after that she never again spoke to 
 me, or entered the house where I was, till she 
 
 came to , where you saw us. I exerted 
 
 all the cunning I was master of to escape her, 
 but in vain. For days and weeks did I travel 
 without stopping hardly to allow the poor boy 
 to rest, in hopes of wearing out or deceiving 
 her vigilance ; and when at last I stepped in 
 
 , I had a faint hope that I had succeeded. 
 
 Yet though I was there a year before she came, 
 something always seemed to tell me, that come 
 she would, and I tried to be ready. She did 
 come, and met me in the street, and called me 
 by name, and I was in despair. For weeks 
 she joined me in my walks, always^ keeping a 
 few paces in the rear ; but though I did not see 
 her, I always knew she was theie. 
 
 " I cannot tell all the feelings that grew up 
 and crowded together in my brain thrcxigh all 
 this time. I thought of self-destruction ; but 
 the poor desolate child by my side called upon 
 me to live, and I lived on, for him. I knew 
 that I was mad in this one point of my wife 
 and her persecution, and I loathed and hated 
 her with all my soul. But I did not think of 
 ridding myself of her presence by destroying 
 her, though I would have given up all I pos- 
 sessed on earth to be freed from her. I had 
 done so, and was living in all the appearance 
 of utter poverty and without a friend or ac- 
 quaintance. I believe she was mad too — crazed 
 by her terrible suspicion. Why else should 
 she follow me thus ? 
 
 " About a month after she found me in , 
 
 when I returned from one of my daily walks, 
 followed as usual by her, as I entered the 
 house, I neglected to close the door behind me, 
 and she entered and took her seat by the fire. 
 It was a piercing cold day, and perhaps she 
 did it unconsciously. But there she sat till 
 night came on. Midnight came, and still she 
 did not offer to go. The boy had fallen asleep 
 and slept soundly in his chair. I had grown 
 unca.sy through the evening — I felt more and 
 more restless as the hour grew late. She said 
 nothing, neither did she look at me, and I \\'ould 
 not speak to her. As the clock struck one, she 
 looked up — looked rjght in my face, and said : 
 
 " ' Hiram Fuller, you want me to go ; but I 
 shall never leave you again. You will not 
 escape me now ;' and she laughed tauntingly. 
 
 " I rose and walked the floor. A fire was 
 beginning to burn in my brain, that, mad as I 
 was, made me shudder. Again she laughed, 
 and with a bitter taunt pointed at the boy. I 
 
A TRIBUTE TO THE DEP.\RTED. 
 
 261 
 
 coii'd bear it no longer. My hand was on her 
 throat There \yas a short struggle. One 
 moment, and she had ceased to breathe. I 
 looked an instant upon her face, and turned 
 away. There she stood, between me and the 
 door at which she had entered. The same 
 devilish smile was on her face — tlie same scorn 
 curled her lip — and I thought I heard her say, 
 ' I shall never leave you again.' She never 
 has left; me. 
 
 " One hour from that time the body was con- 
 cealed, and with the boy I was on ray way from 
 the place. Mad as I war on this one subject, 
 I was in the full possession 6f my senses on 
 all others. I knew there would be nothing 
 strange in two such beings being missed at the 
 same time, and by day-break I had travelled 
 many miles. Since that time she has been for- 
 ever with me. Look where I will I see her, 
 — go where I will, she follows me. I went 
 back to my home. Men pitied me, but some 
 asked about my wife. I placed the boy in a 
 school, and made my will, leaving all my prop- 
 erty to him. Since that time I have been a 
 wanderer. About a year ago I went back to 
 
 . So heavy had become my burden that 
 
 I longed to be rid of it, even at the expense of 
 
 my life, and I almost hoped I should be sus- 
 pected and arrested for the murder. But I was 
 not, and again I wandered on. I was sustainci 
 by a supernatural strength, till yesterday, when 
 1 lay down for the first time through weari- 
 ness. You have now heard my story. Now 
 call in the officers of justice, and let me die."' 
 
 Such was his singular narrative. But why 
 give him up to the law ? He was evidently a 
 lunatic, and just ready to die, and the whole 
 story might be only one of the vagaries of his 
 wild and disordered mind. After his death, 
 which took place in a few days, I wrote to my 
 
 friend in , and he had the premises which 
 
 the stranger had occupied thoroughly searched 
 as privately as possible, but nothing was dis- 
 covered to corroborate the account he gave. 
 The woman, however, had never since been 
 seen with him ; yet I have satisfied myself, as 
 far as I can be satisfied, that the whole story 
 was the raving of a lunatic, who perhaps had 
 suffered at first from ungrounded jealousy, and 
 had eventually succeeded in evading her search 
 by his incessant wanderings from place to 
 place. But the spectral image haunted him 
 to the last. 
 
 A fllEllOrfIg f(D 'JTIEIIg IDIglP^IR'flgllD. 
 
 One year ago, he stood with us, amid this garden fair. 
 
 He mark'dthe beauty of the flowers, he bless'd the summer air; 
 
 He spoke of sunny climes afar, where joyfully he stray'd, 
 
 While here, chill winter's veil was thrown o'er every hill and glade. 
 
 He look'd as one whose heart was full of gentle thoughts and pure, 
 He look'd as one who'd learn 'd life's lore, to smile, yet to endure ; 
 His eye oft turn'd to her he lov'd— e'en to his sister's face, 
 And aye, though silent, seem'd to speak words full of truth and grace. 
 
 And then he sought to share the glee of a dear little child — 
 Our Willie, darling of fond hearts ! on thee he brightly smiled, 
 Then thought, perchance, how Jesus blest such children when on earth, 
 And how " their angels" look on God — then hushed his careless mirth. 
 
 He said that he was going home — to that dear place and best. 
 
 Home to his father's open arms — home to his mother's breast. 
 
 Oh ! bless'd the weary child of earth, oh ! blessed that pilgrim lone, 
 
 Who yet may hear, " Come home, my child ! come, loved one, to thine own." 
 
262 
 
 THE NUN. 
 
 Tmii MWH, 
 
 A LARGE and brilliant crowd was assembled 
 in the convent-chapel of one of our largest 
 southern cities, to witness the ceremony of 
 " taking the veil." The novice was young 
 and beautiful ; and they wondered that one so 
 lovely should resign the pleasures of the world, 
 to seek the solitude and unvarying sameness 
 of a gloomy convent, in the spring-time of 
 youth and gladness. 
 
 Arrayed in the splendid dress in which the 
 novitiate takes her final leave of worldly 
 scenes and worldly interests, Angelina Dalton 
 was indeed beautiful. Her dark hair was 
 parted on a brow where intellect was written 
 in unmistakable characters, and there was an 
 inspiration in tlie upturned eyes that bespoke a 
 lofty enthusiasm. She seemed totally insensi- 
 ble to the multitude around — carried away by 
 the full swelling notes of the organ, mingled 
 with the soft voices of the nuns that came float- 
 ing on tlie air, wrapping the soul in a sort of 
 dreamy delight. 
 
 " Soon would she call that bright-eyed train 
 sisters — together they would pursue their works 
 of love and charity, secure in their calm re- 
 treat from the disturbances of a malicious 
 world." These were tlie thoughts which filled 
 the mind of Angelina Dalton, during the cere- 
 mony which was to render her henceforth as 
 one dead to the world. There is in the forms 
 of the Roman Catholic religion, something pe- 
 culiarly impressive ; even though we condemn 
 their practices, we cannot wholly shut our eyes 
 to the beautiful solemnity that characterizes 
 them. Angelina was of an ardent and enthu- 
 siastic temperament, and completely carried 
 away by the impulse of the moment. The 
 only child of wealthy parents, she had from 
 her earliest youth been accustomed to consider 
 her own will as a law to those around ; but 
 though pride and vanity had nearly choked up 
 her good qualities, there were moments and ac- 
 tions which indicated, that with proper disci- 
 pline, she might have been an ornament to her 
 wjx. There are some tempers which seem to 
 liave been made just so by nature — to stay 
 just as they are placed — and to require no effort 
 to keep them from becoming worse ; but Ange- 
 
 lina's was one of those natures that must 
 either rise or fall ; become a great deal better, 
 or a great deal worse ; endowed with a perpet- 
 ual restlessness for some change, and of course 
 influenced by surrounding circumstances. 
 
 She had attended a French boarding-school 
 for several years, ac some distance from her 
 native city, and during that time false ideas 
 and impressions were slowly but surely instilled 
 into her mind. There was apparently on the 
 part of her instructors, no desire to change her 
 opinions ; tliere was no railing against Protes- 
 tants, and the Protestant religion ; they re- 
 garded her not as an object of scorn, but of 
 pity. These circumstances awakened her curi- 
 osity, and induced a reflection whether Papists 
 were indeed arch hypocrites, or whether they 
 had not been most strangely belied. Ange- 
 lina's parents were not professing Christians : 
 they were regular in their attendance at church, 
 and their characters stood high in the opinion 
 of the world ; but they had made no public 
 avowal of their faith — they had never taught 
 their child the value of true Christian princi- 
 ples — never directed her footsteps in the road 
 that leads to heaven. There were, therefore, 
 no liallowed ties to counteract the evil influ- 
 ence of these new doctrines — no softening rec- 
 ollections of the prayer breathed at a mother's 
 knee — of her gentle hand upon her child's 
 head, as she invoked a blessing ; there were 
 none of these to undermine the work as it pro- 
 ceeded. All was open to the attack, every 
 point was assailed, and triumphantly did they 
 watch their success. Her keen perception of 
 the beautiful was directed to the seducing cere- 
 monies of tlieir religion, so opposite, in her 
 opinion, to the rigid sternness of the Presbyte- 
 rian forms ; passages were produced from their 
 Bibles, which bewildered her mind, and left her 
 more in the dark than ever. The solemn coun- 
 tenance of the priest, in his full, flowing robes, 
 seemed to rebuke her for harboring a doubt of 
 the purity of tiicir faitli. She was afforded 
 many opportunities of mingling with the nuns; 
 they always seemed happy and cheerful, and 
 s])oko of the cloister as the only Paradise upon 
 earth. Angelina became melancholy and un- * 
 
THE NUN. 
 
 •2fi3 
 
 happy. During her short visits to her parents, 
 ihey noticed with anxiety her pale cheeks and 
 heavy spirits ; but she evaded their questions, 
 and carefully abstained from all mention of the 
 subject nearest her thoughts. The hearts of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dalton were bound up in their 
 daughter ; with fond delight they had beheld 
 the bud expand into a flower of perfect beauty ; 
 and they now felt that to lose her, would be to 
 blot out all the joys of their existence. They 
 regarded with horror the innovations of Poper}% 
 and never suspected that their beloved daugh- 
 ter was becoming a convert to its fascinating 
 influences. 
 
 When at length the intelligence burst upon 
 them, they were completely overwhelmed by 
 the blow. Each gazed into the other's face 
 for words of hope that might not be spoken — 
 for some cheering ray to soften their distress ; 
 but alas ! their lonely hearts replied that it 
 was vain. The time was past to avert this 
 calamity; henceforth their daughter — their 
 onlv, their idolized daughter — was lost to them 
 forever ! 
 
 " We may yet save her," said Mrs. Dalton. 
 "I will try what a mother's influence can 
 effect. She could not be insensible to my 
 entreaties," continued the unhappy parent — 
 " could not despise a mother's prayers and 
 tears, for the counsels of her worst enemies. 
 The unfortunate girl labors under a strange 
 delusion, the falseness of which she may, alas ! 
 discover too late." 
 
 " We will go," replied the father, " and urge 
 her by the remembrance of those early ties, 
 which are ever fresh in the mind, to return to 
 us. She was our idol, and severely are we 
 punished for our blind and selfish love." 
 
 Angelina received her parents with the man- 
 ner of one whose afiections and interests were 
 totally different ; she informed them of her 
 resolution to devote herself to a life of peni- 
 tence and charity, and bid them adieu forever. 
 The mother threw herself on her daughter's 
 bosom, and wept in agony ; while the father 
 knelt before his child, and besought her, as she 
 /alued her own happiness, to abandon her wild 
 lesign, and return to those parents whose love 
 for her would cease only with life itself. A 
 hidden chord was vibrating in the dauorhter's 
 heart ; there were strange feelings and old re- 
 membrances that bound her to her home — to 
 those whose faces had been familiar from child- 
 hood — whose names were the first that trembled 
 on her lips ; but then came stem and mistaken 
 
 thoughts of duty ; and with a strong eflTort, she 
 quelled the rising tenderness, and repeated her 
 intention of binding herself with vows that 
 could not be lightly shaken off. 
 
 The ceremony proceeded, and though the 
 cheek of the lovely novice was pale with emo- 
 tion, there was high determination in the small 
 firm mouth ; she felt in her beautiful delusion 
 as though the gates of the celestial world were 
 already opened, and heavenly messengers beck- 
 oned her in. 
 
 At length the young girl appeared for the 
 last time to the eyes of the admiring multitude. 
 Clad in a robe of black, with her bright tresses 
 severed from her head, there was nothing but 
 her peerless beauty to distinguish her fro.m the 
 train that waited her approach. She carried 
 in her hand a lighted taper, and having ex- 
 pressed her perfect willingness to resign the 
 world, Angelina Dalton was lost in the sister 
 Constance. As she disappeared with the nuns, 
 there was a heavy groan, and the lifeless form 
 of the unhappy mother was borne from the 
 chapel. 
 
 The desolate parents returned to their joy- 
 less home, where everything reminded them of 
 the daughter they had lost. Plans had been 
 formed for the time when she would return to 
 them in matured loveliness ; the realization of 
 their hopes was now suddenly blasted, and 
 neither could comfort the other in their distress. 
 They turned to their long-neglected Bibles, and 
 found there words of hope and light. It was 
 not too late to retrieve the errors of their past 
 lives, and hand in hand they sought that com- 
 fort, which the world can neither give nor take 
 away. With humble hearts they approached 
 the throne of grace, and prayed for the erring 
 one who had planted a thorn in their hearts. 
 " She may yet return to us," said the mother, 
 with a sad smile ; " she may return a penitent 
 child, ready to atone for her fault. In her 
 dreary solitude memories of home will come 
 sweeping across her heart ; and perhaps, even 
 now, her pillow is nightly bedewed with tears 
 for the parents whose hearts are yearning to 
 receive her." 
 
 Mr. Dalton mournfully shook his head, and 
 gazed into the fire, as if to read the meaning of 
 the uncouth images that presented themselves 
 to his view, among the decaying embers. Since 
 his child's desertion he was an altered man ; 
 his old occupations no longer afforded him 
 pleasure ; all appeared strange to liim, and he 
 would sit for hours brooding over his loss, in- 
 
264 
 
 THE NUN. 
 
 capable of makincj the least exertion. At the 
 opening of a doot he wonld start, and a flush of 
 pleasure tint his pale cheek, as though expect- 
 ing to see the beloved form once more sit down 
 by him as in times of old, and with her arms 
 about his neck, prattle to him in her sweet, 
 childish tones. Then, as sad consciousness re- 
 turned, he would sink into his usual apathy, 
 apparently indifferent to all that took place 
 around him. Mrs. Dalton would often steal to 
 her daughter's chamber, and weep in solitude. 
 The furniture had never been disturbed ; all 
 was just as she left it; her favorite volumes 
 still filled the shelves ; the walls were adorned 
 with her drawings ; and her pet canary occu- 
 pied his old position, fed always by the hand 
 of Mrs. Dalton, who felt that in doing so, she 
 was in some way fulfilling the wishes of her 
 absent daughter. 
 
 Angelina entered with enthusiasm upon her 
 new mode of life ; all was couleur de rose, and 
 the novelty of her new employments contributed 
 in a great degree to prevent that feeling of irk- 
 someness attendant upon a routine of duties 
 that never varies. She mistook the effect of 
 brilliant and imposing ceremonies, for feelings 
 of deep and holy devotion ; and she regarded 
 the quiet and subdued manner of her sister 
 nuns, as an emblem of their purity, and an 
 evidence of the holy calm that reigned within. 
 The abbess treated her with peculiar and 
 marked attention — never imposed heavy pen- 
 ances on her — and affected a motherly kind- 
 ness towards her. 
 
 All this was delightful to one of Angelina's 
 temperament ; but by degrees things began to 
 change ; she could discover that in many in- 
 stances, beneath that calm, saint-like demeanor 
 of the nuns, there lurked a hidden desire to see 
 something of the great world that was pro- 
 nounced so bad. Most of them had resided in 
 the convent from their earliest childhood, and, at 
 a suitable age, took the veil, scarcely knowing 
 that there was a world beyond the limits of 
 their prison. Our heroine slowly opened her 
 eyes to the fact, that her companions were not 
 the perfect mortals she had supposed them to 
 be — that they were endowed by nature with 
 the same passions as their fellow-creatures — 
 and that a calm exterior cannot entirely subdue 
 the heart. There were many points about her 
 new doctrines that puzzled her; and con- 
 science whispered that all was not right. How 
 nhe longed for some friend, to whom she could 
 tiiiburthen her difficulties — one who would en- 
 
 able her to see things in a clearer light. The 
 priests and heads of the convent evidently sus- 
 pected her of a lingering heresy, and strove to 
 destroy the effect of her inquiries by some 
 master-piece of reasoning that silenced, but did 
 not convince her. She bitterly regretted her 
 haste in taking the veil, and felt a longing de- 
 sire to see her parents, and revisit her home 
 once more. " Perhaps they might be dying — 
 dying from her cruel neglect, and she would 
 never see them again f" These thoughts dis- 
 turbed her mind, and she resolved to return 
 home, and throw off the fetters that were wear- 
 ing her down. She would be obliged, she 
 knew, to effect this by stratagem, for the ab- 
 bess denounced, with the utmost horror, those 
 who broke their vows to the church; and she 
 watched an opportunity to escape without the 
 knowledge of her companions. Often was she 
 foiled in her attempts, till she almost began to 
 despair ; but at length she succeeded, and once 
 more breathed the free air. She experienced 
 a delightful sensation on feeling that she was 
 indeed free ; and turning her back on the 
 gloomy convent, she directed her steps towards 
 her native city, fully confident of reaching 
 home on foot, and by her own exertions, while 
 under the bracing influence which the first 
 consciousness of freedom always bestows. She 
 had proceeded several miles on her journey, 
 when, overcome by the unusual fatigue, she 
 paused for rest at a cottage on the road. The 
 door was opened by an elderly woman, in reply 
 to her tremulous knock, and, unable to an- 
 nounce her errand, she sunk down upon the 
 threshold insensible. 
 
 A long period of delirium followed. At one 
 moment she would chant the convent services 
 in a voice of tremulous sweetness, and then 
 pray to return to her parents, in a tone of dis- 
 tress that drew tears from the eyes of her at- 
 tendants. During the time of her illness, a 
 familiar form seemed to flit around her bedside; 
 a soothing hand held the cordial, and smoothed 
 the snowy pillow ; a well-known, voice seemed 
 to be ringing in her ears ; and, as if fearing to 
 awake from a pleasant dream, Angelina raised 
 herself on the couch, and was folded in the 
 embrace of her mother ! 
 
 Long tliey wept in each other's arms, and the 
 father, with the tears of joy streaming from his 
 eyes, exclaimed, " The lost is found !" — " And 
 never, I hope, to wander again !" replied the 
 penitent girl. " Oh mother ! if you but knew 
 what I have suffered, you would think me suffi- 
 
OLD TRADITIONS. 
 
 265 
 
 ciently punished ! I reflect with horror upon the 
 idolatrous error of wliich I have been guilty. 
 No consideration would induce me to return !" 
 When tlie abbess and sisterhood discovered 
 that the bird had flown, their rage and astonish- 
 ment exceeded description. A search was in- 
 stantly commenced, in hopes of recovering the 
 fugitive, who was at length traced to the house 
 of her parents. The abbess waited upon An- 
 gelina in person, and denounced her as one be- 
 yorfd the pale of mercy — as a criminal of the 
 deepest dye. 
 
 But little more remains to be told. Angelina 
 was once more the joy of the family circle ; and 
 though her spirits never recovered their former 
 elasticity and playfulness, there was a serene 
 smile on her pale countenance, and a light in 
 the soft eyes, that told of contentment within. 
 The lesson had been a severe one ; but she 
 rose from the bed of sickness, purified from pas- 
 sions that left their withering mark. 
 
 BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. 
 
 " Shapeless sights come wandering by — 
 The ghastly people of the realm of Dream." 
 
 PROMETHEnS UNBOUND. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S WALL. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE EAKLY AGES OF CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 In the valley between Blankenburg and the 
 Rosstrappe there stood, in olden time, a ham- 
 let — Blanka — all trace of which has long since 
 disappeared. The Blankenburg which is still 
 in existence, was at first peopled by its inhabit- 
 ants, who found greater security in a more ele- 
 vated situation, and in the neighborhood of the 
 castle. There stood, in the days of Charle- 
 magne, some distance above the hamlet, a 
 grove, in the midst of which was the altar con- 
 secrated to Croto, the deity of the caverns. Here 
 the loveliest of the maidens who dwelt in that 
 region, was accustomed to meet her lover — • 
 Egbert, the bravest and noblest among all the 
 young knights. 
 
 He lived in a castle some leagues distant ; 
 and had first seen and loved the beautiful Thus- 
 nelda in her quiet home, during her father's 
 absence at the feast of Stufib — the god of wine 
 in the creed of the ancient Germans. Their love 
 met with the obstacle usual in romance : the 
 father of the maiden forbade her to think of Ec- 
 bert, and informed her that he had promised her 
 hand to a kinsman of his own. His opposition 
 arose from the difierence in religious belief. 
 Luitprand, the father, was a zealous votary of 
 
 the ancient creed in which his ancestors, from 
 immemorial time, had worshipped. Egbert was 
 an ardent convert to the Christian faith, then 
 preached, witli flaming zeal, throughout the 
 country, by missionaries from distant lands. 
 
 It was the chief desire of Egbert's soul to 
 win his beloved to the same holy faith he had 
 embraced, and to open for her the heaven which, 
 its ministers taught, awaited the true believer. 
 When they met, time after time, by the heathen 
 altar, in the shadow of that solemn wood, his 
 talk was of the wonders of redemption, which 
 so many prophets and wise men had desired in 
 vain to behold. The tender heart of Thusnel- 
 da received what she heard ; and though she 
 could not comprehend the full glory of the doc- 
 trine revealed from heaven, the simple and 
 spiritual precepts it inculcated were deeply im- 
 pressed in her childhke and gentle nature. 
 She, in her turn, spoke to her young compan- 
 ions of the new and marvellous things that 
 had been told her, and strove to persuade 
 them also to embrace the new belief. 
 
 It was not long before intelligence of his 
 daughter's apostacy from the faith of her fa- 
 thers, reached the haughty and fiery Luitprand. 
 
266 
 
 OLD TRADITIONS. 
 
 The tempest of his wrath was poured in all its 
 fury on the head of the young girl, who, stead- 
 fast in her reliance on a higher power, avowed 
 her conversion, and confessed her secret in- 
 terviews with the knight, her lover. When 
 the first burst of rage was over, her father 
 ordered that she should be kept a prisoner in 
 her chamber, and that his anned servants 
 should watch to intercept any who came to 
 the house. 
 
 The day and the hour came, on which 
 Thusnelda had promised, according to her 
 wont, to meet Egbert. She was surprised by 
 a visit from her father, and still more by his 
 command that she should go forth to the altar 
 of Croto, and there abide the coming of her 
 lover. 
 
 A fierce light gleamed in the old man's eyes 
 as he gave this command; and the maiden 
 divined too well its dreadful import. She 
 knew that by means of her, and through his 
 trusting love, the young knight was to be be- 
 trayed into an ambush, to gratify the ven- 
 geance of his enemies. She implored her 
 father not to compel her to go to the wood ; 
 but her entreaties and her tears were in vain. 
 His violence terrified her, and, pale and trem- 
 bling, she rose and went forth, followed at a 
 distance by Luitprand and his armed attend- 
 ants, towards the altar on which perhaps her 
 lover was doomed to be immolated as a victim. 
 
 Meanwhile Egbert, mounted on his good 
 steed, was ascending the mountain up which 
 the road led to the sacred wood. A storm 
 came on suddenly with great violence. Masses 
 of black clouds obscured the sky, rent ever and 
 anon by vivid flashes of lightning, and the rain 
 poured down in thick sheets of dark water. 
 The swollen streams roared through the forest, 
 and came rushing down the declivity, bearing 
 with them masses of lock and sweeping trees 
 from the soil. The brave horse struggled on- 
 ward, but in vain ; his strength failed, he lost 
 his footing, and stood still, as if unwilling to 
 pursue 80 perilous a journey. 
 
 To return was at present even more hazard- 
 ous ; and moreover, the young knight would 
 have thought it shame to be driven back by a 
 storm, from going to the place of rendezvous 
 at the appointed time. He remained, therefore, 
 in the same spot, waiting for the violence of 
 the tempest to abate. 
 
 But it seemed to increase ; the winds roared 
 more fiercely, crashing the boughs of the forest ; 
 and tlic torrents rushed more rapidly under his 
 
 very feet. The horse could scarcely stand 
 upright, and Egbert kept his seat only with 
 extreme difficulty. Through the gathering 
 darkness he now discerned the tall figure of a 
 man descending the mountain, and walking in 
 the midst of the rushing waters. Almost be- 
 fore he could make out what it was, the figure 
 stood close beside him. 
 
 " You must return home," said the man, 
 authoritatively, taking hold of the bridle to 
 turn the horse round. " I will lead your steed 
 down the hill, for I am well acquainted with 
 the road." 
 
 Egbert looked surprised at the stranger who 
 thus unceremoniously addressed him. In his 
 small, keen, piercing eyes was a strange ex- 
 pression, which caused a secret shudder to pass 
 through his frame. 
 
 " Thusnelda sends me," continued the un- 
 known. 
 
 " Thusnelda !" repeated the knight. " And 
 she says " 
 
 " You must return home." 
 
 " Never ! She did not say that." 
 
 " There is a snare )'onder," said the stranger, 
 pointing towards Croto's grove. " Luitprand 
 and his men lie in wait for you." 
 
 Egbert believed not the words of the un- 
 known. And if it were true, he said, that 
 the servants of Luitprand lay in wait, he wished 
 but the opportunity to chastise them. A host of 
 serfs could not stand before the sword of a free 
 knight. 
 
 " But you will be the cause of Thusnelda's 
 destruction," persisted the stranger. " Thor 
 himself commands your return, sending this 
 fearful storm to arrest your steps. You strive 
 in vain against his will." 
 
 And in truth, further advance, against the 
 raging tempest, appeared impossible. There 
 seemed no hope of its abating ; and Egbert re- 
 luctantly suftered the unknown to turn his 
 horse round. He led him safely down towards 
 the valley ; and at each step it seemed that the 
 fury of the storm diminished. The rain had 
 ceased entirely when they reached the valley. 
 
 "I will bring you further news," said the 
 strange man. " But you must come no more 
 to Blanka." . 
 
 Egbert had many messages to send to his 
 beloved ; but the unknown seemed in haste, and 
 quickly disappeared, before the knight could 
 perceive in which direction he had gone. 
 
 The next day, Egbert sent secretly a mes- 
 senger to Blanka, who had orders to bring him 
 
O.D TRADITIONS. 
 
 367 
 
 intelligence of all that had passed. His own 
 measures he would then take. The messen- 
 ger, on his return, confirmed the assertions of 
 the stranger in the forest. 
 
 What Luitprand had done was known to the 
 inhabitants of the hamlet; and the wood was 
 watciied by detachments of armed men, who 
 relieved each other. It was plain that the 
 people of Blanka had made common cause with 
 Luitprand, and, burning with zeal for the re- 
 ligion of their fathers, were determined to root 
 out heresy from the land with fire and sword. 
 Of the unknown, who had brought warning to 
 Egbert, the messenger could discover no trace 
 whatever. 
 
 The young knight was one who could not be 
 deterred by obstacles from the pursuit of an ob- 
 ject. He had already made a beginning in the 
 enterprise of carrying the new faith into the 
 hamlet ; he spumed at the dangers to be en- 
 countered, and resolved to enter into a league, 
 for the accomplishment of his purpose, with a 
 band of converts to Christianity in the neigh- 
 borhood. They were to aid him in the in- 
 vasion of Blanka, and in opening the eyes of 
 those deluded worshippers of heathen divinities. 
 The rescue of Thusnelda from the power of 
 her unfeeling father, was an object near hi* 
 heart, which, however, he did not make osten- 
 sible to the others. 
 
 The league was soon formed, and the day 
 appointed for carrying the scheme into execu- 
 tion. The confederates met for consultation in 
 one of the caves, which were in those days the 
 resort of hermits. They determined to set out 
 that night on the road to Blanka, with such 
 force as to compel submission ; to enter the 
 hamlet in silence, surprise the inhabitants, and, 
 if possible, force them to yield themselves pris- 
 oners without the shedding of blood. 
 
 At the hour named, the well-armed proces- 
 sion began its march through the forest. The 
 night was starless and dark ; it seemed as if a 
 veil had been drawn over the heavens. The 
 men moved forward slowly and with difficulty, 
 on account of the ruggedness of the path. 
 
 They had passed the most toilsome part of 
 the journey, and were drawing near to the ham- 
 let, when, to their astonishment, they perceived 
 just before them a high and precipitous wall of 
 rocks. What this meant they could not tell ; 
 their guide, to whom the way was familiar, 
 assured them that they had not deviated from it. 
 The existence of such a stupendous mass of rock 
 was unknown to any one in the whole country. 
 
 A feeling of superstitious terror began to 
 possess the minds of those who had embarked 
 in the adventure. The deities they had ab- 
 jured — such was their thought — had thus visi- 
 bly interfered to protect their ancient domain, 
 and prevent the advance of those who would 
 destroy their altars and worship. So tottering 
 was their belief in the faith they had lately em- 
 braced, that they trembled before the anger of 
 those they had declared to be no gods. They 
 remembered not that it is only the prince of 
 darkness and his agents, who oppose the pro- 
 gress of the kingdom of heaven ; and that the 
 kingdom of Satan must inevitably fall before 
 the might of invincible truth. 
 
 Weary and discouraged, the confederates at 
 last determined to await the return of daylight. 
 As the morning dawned, they saw with aston- 
 ishment that the wall extended far as the eye 
 could reach, and appeared to be without limit. 
 The hearts of all, even of Egbert, began to fail 
 them ; for they discerned too plainly that a 
 supernatural agency had been here at work. 
 Nothing had been seen of the rocky wall a few 
 days previous. It could have been built by no 
 human hands. But the young knight did not 
 yield to dismay ; for liis spirit was bold, and 
 his faith strong. " Who will venture," he cried, 
 " to climb this wall with me ? It is but a delu- 
 sion of the Evil One, and will doubtless van- 
 ish, if we persevere, like true believers I" 
 
 His words inspired his companions with con- 
 fidence. Those at least who mistrusted were 
 ashamed that their courage should be called in 
 question ; and all declared themselves ready to 
 follow Egbert. The shout that answered him, 
 however, was uttered by many in faltering 
 tones. 
 
 The knight and the more zealous of the 
 confederates sought a place where the ascent 
 seemed practicable, and began to climb the 
 rocks. They were half way up the precipice, 
 when, from above, sounded hollow, unearthly 
 voices — " Help us, Thor ! Save us, mighty 
 Thor! 
 
 At the same moment came a shower of 
 pieces of rock upon the heads of the adven- 
 turers, hurling them to the ground, where many 
 lay stunned, while others made their escape as 
 quickly as possible. Egbert, who alone re- 
 mained unhurt, heard a sound of mocking 
 laughter, repeated by the echoes of the forest 
 before it died away. Bewildered by terror, he 
 clung to the rock, in the midst of the fearful 
 ascent ; his head swam, his knees trembled ; 
 
268 
 
 OLD TRADITIONS. 
 
 lie dared not look up, nor downwards, and could 
 with ditBculty keep his hold. Suddenly he 
 heard a voice beneath, saying, "Keep still, 
 Master Egbert ; I will help you." 
 
 It was the unknown who had encountered 
 him on the night of tlie storm. He climbed 
 the rocks, encircled Egbert with a powerful 
 arm, and lifting him with apparent ease, de- 
 scended to the ground so rapidly, that the 
 young man, to whom such a feat seemed in- 
 conceivable, looked at him with wonder and 
 fear. 
 
 " What are you doing, Egbert ?" said the 
 stranger. " Will you, so weak, strive against 
 the Mighty ? Behold the folly of your enter- 
 prise ! You would destroy the kingdom of the 
 great and glorious Thor ; and with a breath 
 he blasts the presumptuous undertaking, and 
 scatters as the dust his enemies, who have 
 leagued with you to war against him. Young 
 man ! give up your vain dreams, and return to 
 the gods of your fathers. Save yourself, ere 
 it is too late ! For this once hath the mighty 
 Thor spared you, because he remembered your 
 service and offerings of old. Beware how you 
 tempt his wrath again ! he will pardon no 
 more ; and your new gods — you see that they 
 cannot aid you !" 
 
 " Silence, miscreant !" cried Egbert, in an- 
 ger. "I laugh to scorn the anger of thy gods !" 
 A peal of unearthly laughter again sounded 
 from above, and died away in the echoes. 
 
 " But Thusnelda— what of her ?" said the 
 unknown. 
 
 " How — what knowest thou of Thusnelda ?" 
 answered the knight 
 
 " She is dying ; her heart is breaking with 
 Borrow and anxiety, for she loves you well, 
 and cannot hope you will ever meet again, if 
 you turn not from your apostacy." 
 
 « And if " faltered Egbert. 
 
 "If you will return, I will this moment con- 
 duct Thusnelda to your arms." 
 
 The young knight was strjcken to the heart 
 at thought of the anguish of her he loved. The 
 voice of conscience was stifled into silence. 
 A torrent of wild thoughts rushed through his 
 brain. To feign a return to the worship of llie 
 ancient gods, while in his heart he remained 
 steadfast in the Christian faith, and by his pre- 
 tended recantation to procure himself the prom- 
 ised gift of Thusnelda, seemed to him the best 
 course. He would thus, he thought, secure 
 both his temporal and eternal welfare. " The 
 all-benevolent Saviour," he said to himself, 
 
 " wills not the suffering of any of his servants, 
 and He will grant me pardon." 
 
 He signified to the unknown that he would 
 profess anew his allegiance to the old divini- 
 ties. 
 
 " Then sign this !" said the stranger, pre- 
 senting a pen and leaf of parchment. " Sign, 
 and with your blood, that the bond may be 
 true." 
 
 The shudder that passed through Egbert's 
 frame, was the warning of his guardian angel, 
 that he should awake from his delirium, and 
 strive against the tempter. But all the facul- 
 ties of his mind were in confusion ; the vision 
 of his soul was darkened ; and the unknown, 
 calm and resolute to urge him on, stood beside 
 him. They spoke together a few moments ; 
 and Egbert took the parchment and the pen. 
 Again the convulsive shudder passed tlirongh 
 his frame ; and thoughts floated vaguely 
 through his mind of what he had heard — that 
 the prince of darkness often misleads, with 
 deceit and cunning, the souls of men. He 
 could not read the characters written on the 
 parchment; but he hoped to deceive the de- 
 ceiver, and therefore signed at the bottom 
 another name than his own. 
 
 The unknown hastily snatched the parch- 
 ment from the hands of Egbert, and, without 
 examining it, concealed it in his bosom. Then, 
 taking the knight by the hand, he led him up 
 the rocks. They were at the summit of the 
 wall before Egbert was fully aware of what 
 passed. 
 
 " Wait here," said the stranger, when they 
 stood on the verge of the precipice ; " wait 
 here ; I will bring Thusnelda to you. But stir 
 not from this spot, even when you see me com- 
 ing with her. A single step forward will cost 
 you your life." 
 
 He disappeared. An hour passed, which 
 seemed an age to the expectation of Egbert. 
 At length he saw the unknown approaching 
 through the forest, and leading a female figure, 
 which could be no other than Thusnelda. 
 
 The loving heart of the young knight beat 
 high, and he exulted at thought of the decep- 
 tion which had gained him so dear a boon. 
 Scarce could he restrain the impulse to rush 
 towards the maiden. His foot was lifted to 
 advance ; but conscious of his peril, he stamped 
 on the ground impatiently, and stood as if root- 
 ed to the rock, stretching forth his arms to- 
 wards the fair girl. 
 Thusnelda drew near. The light gleamed 
 
SOUL. 
 
 269 
 
 upon her marble brow, and she seemed an 
 angel just descended from above. "My Thus- 
 nelda I" exclaimed her enraptured lover. 
 
 Still nearer she came, till he folded her in 
 his arms, and pressed her wildly to his throb- 
 bing breast. 
 
 But what meant the icy coldness of the 
 form he clasped ? Why answered no gen- 
 tle voice to his whispered words of love ? 
 Why did not the soft eyes of his adored one 
 unclose to meet his earnest gaze ? Unhappy 
 Egbert ! he held a corpse in his arms ! The 
 body of Thusnelda was indeed there, but the 
 spirit had fled forever ; and near him stood 
 the unknown, in his own fiendish shape, with 
 eyes gleaming infernal hate, and voice that 
 his.'jed tauntingly in his ear — " Deceiver and 
 forsworn !" 
 
 Like the lightning, that shatters where it 
 penetrates, the terrible truth flashed in an in- 
 stant on the unfortunate knight. Paralyzed 
 by horror, his hold relaxed ; he fell backward, 
 and lay a crushed and lifeless mass at the foot 
 of the rocky wall. 
 
 This frightful occurrence soon became known 
 through all that region ; and such were the 
 doubts and superstitious dread thereby spread 
 
 abroad, that the progress of Christianity was 
 for a long time impeded. Tlie rocky barrier, so 
 strongly built up, concerning which there was 
 no question tchose workmanship it was, was 
 from that time called " Th« Detil's Wall." 
 
 Some remains of this wall, which was ap- 
 parently of great extent and height, but is now 
 levelled, and in part destroyed, are still to be 
 seen, according to rumor, in the Lower Hartz. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Instruction was formerly inculcated through 
 traditions, parables, legends, &c. The moral 
 to this is evident, and all-important No man 
 can start on a religious course without the 
 devil rearing a mighty wall of obstacles in his 
 way. In overcoming this he must be impelled 
 by no worldly motive, or depend on no earthly 
 means. The moment he loses his faith he 
 loses his strength ; and when he shall dare to 
 make a compromise with his conscience and 
 the enemy, he is a lost man. The very worldly 
 object, for which he turned hypocrite, will be- 
 come a corpse in his arms ; and his whole 
 moral nature will lie crashed and rained at the 
 feet of the tempter. 
 
 ^dDiorOf. 
 
 B7 J. HAGEH. 
 
 TEEMBLUfG on earth's verge I stood, 
 
 And heard his awful voice of power, 
 While foamed and raved the mighty flood, 
 
 As if impatient to devour ; 
 And I beheld a form of life 
 
 Unmoved beside the billows stand, 
 Which, calmly gazing on the strife, 
 
 Thus spake in accents of conmiand : 
 " Think not I fear thy boisterous wave. 
 Proud Ocean — thou shall be my slave !" 
 
 And much I marvelled when I saw. 
 That one so impotent and tVail 
 
 Could, by some strange mysterious law. 
 O'er such a nughty strength prevail ! 
 
 The feats by fabled giants done. 
 
 Were but the acts of childhood's play. 
 Compared with his, this daring one, 
 
 Who taught the Ocean to obey ! 
 And make him, as his master, know 
 To bear his burthens to and fro. 
 
 Loud roared the Wind, and in its wrath 
 
 Spread desolation far and near. 
 And all the beings in its path 
 
 Fell prostrate to the earth with fear! 
 Save this strange one ! who smiling said, 
 
 " Vainly, dread Tempest, dost thou rave ; 
 Thee will I summon to my aid — 
 
 The Wind must also be my slave !" 
 When lo ! he did the Wind subdue. 
 And made of him a servant too. 
 
270 
 
 TO HESPERUS. 
 
 I saw the all-consuming Fire 
 
 Yield in obedience to his will ! 
 Back from his dreaded path retire, 
 
 A menial post for him to fill ; 
 To aid him in bis searchings deep 
 
 Into creation's secret things, 
 And give to him the power to sweep 
 
 O'er earth and ocean as on wings ! 
 Then like a humble friend become, 
 To warm his hearth and light his home ! 
 
 The Lightning flashed athwart the sky ! 
 
 The adamantine rocks were riven — 
 Its voice of thunder loud and high, 
 
 Echoed till trembled earth and heaven. 
 Yet I beheld that being pale 
 
 Tlie Lightning grasp without a fear ! 
 And o'er its fearful strength prevail. 
 
 To bear his mandates far and near, 
 I^ike post-boy travelling day and night. 
 Yet swift as on the wings of light. 
 
 As round us in the vast expanse. 
 Creation's glories were unfurled, 
 
 I saw that being, at a glance. 
 Measure, and weigh, each sun and world ! 
 
 I could no longer hold, but cried, 
 
 " Who may this wondrous creature be ? 
 Unlike all earth-born things beside. 
 
 He grasps almost infinity, 
 And doth the elements control !" 
 A voice replied : " The human Soul." 
 
 Yet I beheld that very Soul 
 
 Become of meanest things the slave ! 
 Subject to Passion's fierce control. 
 
 Its powers laid prostrate in the grave ; 
 Or living but itself to curse, 
 
 With ghastly fears and tortures fell ; 
 And more than even this, and worse — 
 
 A weight to drag it down to hell ! 
 Thus did it sink despised by all, 
 Spurned by the very things that crawl ! 
 
 And is it always thus to be ? 
 
 Shall man still play the suicide ? 
 He who, when in his purity. 
 
 Walked with his Maker side by side ? 
 No ! thanks to the redeeming power 
 
 Of the Creator's boundless grace, 
 Not long shall be delayed the hour. 
 
 Which erring man again shall place 
 Once more upon the smiling eartli, 
 As pure as at Creation's birth. 
 
 ^(B Hi^sjp^mw^ 
 
 Thou wandering star ! 
 Tell us what lies beyond thine airy home ? 
 Is there a heaven in the boundless dome 
 
 And worlds afar ? 
 
 Canst thou behold 
 The battlements of pearl, the crystal river ; 
 And hear the song enchanting roll forever 
 From harps of gold ? 
 
 Art thou a heaven, 
 Beaming transcendent in a lonely star ; 
 And rolling ever thy triumphal car 
 
 Through holiest even ? 
 
 Or do they throng 
 Pure and unransomed oft a countless host ; 
 And touch the lyre, and sing of us long lost— 
 
 A sweet strange song ? 
 
 Or art thou cold 
 And pulseless — beats no heart 
 In starry sympathy with those apart 
 
 Who thee behold ? 
 
 No voice below — 
 It is enough, when, like a parting scroll 
 The bending heavens together roll, 
 
 That we shall know. 
 
POOR AND RICH. 
 
 271 
 
 ip®®m AH® mssisr. 
 
 PART I. — THE GARRET. 
 
 The incidents I am about to relate came 
 under my observation dunng my pupilage, as 
 a student of medicine, and while I was at- 
 tending my final course of lectures, in the old 
 Medical College in the city of New York, 
 located, at that time, in Barclay street. They 
 are, therefore, only reminiscences of that period 
 of my life ; but as they serve to develop some 
 peculiar traits of life and character, they may 
 fitly be detailed as portions of my professional 
 experience. Yet, being dependent upon my 
 memory for the details, I will be pardoned if I 
 deviate a little from that trueness to life which 
 I have endeavored to maintain throughout the 
 characters I have been portraying in my se- 
 ries, albeit some of them may wear much of the 
 air of romance, rather than reality. Still, I 
 shall endeavor to remain as true as possible to 
 memory, in relating a short history of degraded 
 poverty and wealth — the mysterious linking to- 
 gether of the two — the consequences of the 
 deep and debasing love of money, which, the 
 same in almost all hearts, the soul-absorbing 
 idolatry of the present day, leads one to lavish 
 enormous wealth in outward pomp and show, 
 and another to hoard up the slow and care-ac- 
 cumulated gains of days, and months, and years, 
 while he starves upon a crust, or the bone he 
 has drawn from the filth of a gutter, that every 
 night he may shut to and bolt and bar his soli- 
 tary and inhospitable door, to open his chest 
 and bring out and worship his gilded Mam- 
 mon. Miserable idolatry ! whether of the ex- 
 ternal pomp or of the heart's internal devotion. 
 
 I boarded in strcet, in the family of 
 
 Mrs. A n, a lady who was a leading spirit in 
 
 an association of many of her own warm-hearted 
 se.x, for the relief of the suffering poor in a cer- 
 tain district of the city ; and by this means I 
 had been placed in a very fortunate position 
 
 for applying the pnnciples to practice wnich I 
 was daily listening to in the medical school, 
 and at the same time bring no small amount of 
 relief to a class of persons who are often left 
 to suffer in sickness, from the want of medical 
 aid. In fact, I became a sort of physician to 
 this society, and spent much of my leisure 
 time in attending upon the sick who came un- 
 der their care. In this way, in the course of 
 the winter, my list of patients swelled to a con- 
 siderable size, unprofitable, it is true, pecunia- 
 rily, but valuable in the way of my studies, 
 and essentially important in the training which 
 my heart and sympathies thus underwent. 
 And should any of my readers belong to the 
 class of individuals to which I then belonged, 
 I mean students of medicme, I would recom- 
 mend them to avail themselves of similar facili- 
 ties whenever they offer. They will aid them 
 as they did me ; and when, in after life, they 
 rise in their profession, and find themselves 
 called to the bedside of the rich and proud, they 
 will often find their memory turning back to 
 these early scenes, to remind them, in their pros- 
 perity, that " The poor ye have always with 
 you ;" and they may thus be restrained from 
 neglecting those whom God loves, when they 
 are in suffering. 
 
 On my return home, one evening, I found 
 two new ones added to my list. They lived at 
 a considerable distance, more than half a mile, 
 from my boarding house. 
 
 " There does not appear to be anything very 
 
 urgent in either of them," said Mrs. A n, 
 
 " and you may as well call as you go down 
 town in the morning." 
 
 " I shall be passing near tliere to-night," I 
 replied, " and as it will not be much out of my 
 way, I will drop in and see them." 
 
 A few steps brought me to Broadway, then I 
 
 passed down street, all lined with tlie 
 
 splendid and costly mansions of the rich, from 
 
272 
 
 POOR AND RICH. 
 
 which, as I passed, came out the sounds of 
 mirth and music, and the bright glare of bril- 
 liant lights. I turned a corner, and all was 
 changed. Suddenly I stood among the miser- 
 able dwellings of the poor. Here and there, 
 at a distant corner, shone out the dim light of 
 a half-burning lamp, scarcely piercing a few 
 paces through the thick darkness of the narrow 
 and filthy street. Now and then, as I hurried 
 on, I could hear the sounds of laughter, min- 
 gled with oaths and blasphemy, from some of 
 the haunts of low dissipation with which that 
 part of the city was then full. At length I 
 stood in front of the dwelling I was seeking. 
 It stood in the darkest and most solitary part 
 of the street, and only from a window in what 
 seemed to be the very top of the house could be 
 seen any light. This came, probably, from the 
 
 room of one of my new patients. Mrs, A n 
 
 had informed me that one, an old man, lived in 
 the garret, and the other in the basement, or 
 more properly the cellar. I must confess to some 
 little, perhaps foolish, fear, as I carefully picked 
 my way up stairs, through the dense darkness 
 of the narrow passage, stumbling from step to 
 step, and calculating the turnings by which I 
 was to reach the chamber of the sick man. 
 But after climbing three flights of stairs, I dis- 
 covered a light issuing from a chink in the 
 door, at which I knocked for admittance. It 
 was opened by a woman. I was mistaken. 
 My patient lived still higher up, and the woman 
 lighted me up the rude steps to his room. 
 
 It comprised the whole upper loft of the 
 house, and was a miserable tenement even for 
 a beast. In many places the bricks had fallen 
 out, and the old decayed roof admitted almost 
 unhindered the cold blasts from without. There 
 was no place for fire, and the wretched occu- 
 pant hved there without ever feeling its genial 
 warmth. I fomid him lying upon what could 
 only be called a pile of rags, for bed it was 
 not, yet it was the only furniture of the room, 
 except a large oaken chest, which sat close 
 by its side, and within reach of his hand. 
 
 " Who's there ?" exclaimed a weak, squeak- 
 ing voice, as I opened the door, and the faint 
 light of the candle in the woman'? hand pierced 
 into the gloomy darkness of the dismal apart- 
 ment. I took the light, and approached him. 
 With what seemed supernatural strength in 
 the miserable skeleton frame, he suddenly sat 
 upright, and clutching in his bony fingers a 
 •tout staff that leaned against the chest, he 
 raiaed it, exclaiming : 
 
 "Keep oflf! I know you. You have come 
 to rob me, but I will resist to the last. Stand 
 off, I say ; don't come any nearer, or I'll cry 
 murder, and alarm the house. Murder ! — mur- 
 der! — watch! — watch!— help!" and he fell 
 back, exhausted. • 
 
 The voice, though full of agony and fear, 
 scarcely found an echo in the narrow walls 
 of the garret, so weak was it, and faint, as if 
 coming from the lips of a dying man. 
 
 '• He's been so ever since he has been sick," 
 said the woman, " and so we have thought lie 
 was crazy, and have been afraid to come near 
 him. Before, he klways kept his door locked, 
 and would let nobody come in." 
 
 " And how has he lived ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Like all the rest of us in the house," she 
 replied — " by begging, or some less honest 
 means. But he must have seen better times, 
 for he raves all the time about being robbed, 
 as if he had anything worth the taking now. 
 But he's crazy, poor man, and I suppose is 
 thinking about the time when he was better 
 off." 
 
 I dispatched the woman to procure another 
 candle, and sat down by his side, and tried to 
 assure him that I had come to assist him. But 
 it was some time before I could succeed. He 
 seemed still under the impression that I had 
 come to rob him, and while he gasped for breath 
 he covild be heard murmuring : 
 
 " You must take my life before you get it.'" 
 
 " Fool !" I at length said, " of what could I 
 rob you ?" 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " I am poor, very poor. 
 But what I have got I love as well as others. 
 Yes, I am very poor — poor — poor." 
 
 When the woman returned with the light, I 
 dismissed her, and proceeded to examine my 
 patient. I could detect no signs of active dis- 
 ease, but he seemed very old and emaciated, 
 and I thought that this was probably all lliat 
 ailed him. For this, of course, tlicre was no 
 cure. It is the lot of tliose who live to grow 
 old, to fade and wither, and waste away, and 
 decay. Life often in them goes gradually out, 
 like a lamp expiring for want of oil, and yet 
 they are unconscious of the approach of death. 
 With slow and silent pace year after year 
 glides on, each one adding its furrows to the 
 cheek, and new blossoms to the almond tree, 
 and bowing lower the decrepit form with the 
 burden of weary age ; and yet new years totter 
 on, to swell the century full, before the old and 
 worn-out frame refuses to perform, in part, at 
 
POOR AND RICH. 
 
 273 
 
 least, its office ; and then, all at once, the flame 
 begins to flicker, trembles in the socket, flashes 
 brightly up, and — goes out. Such men have 
 we all seen — such seemed the miserable being 
 before me. Yet, to all the wasting and despoil- 
 ing influences of age, I was afterwards com- 
 pelled to add another cause of his wretchedness. 
 I did not know it till he was actually dying. He 
 was starving. In the midst of a city abounding 
 with wealth and plenty, he was dying of hun- 
 ger. And this of his own choice. It was not 
 because he could not obtain food. He was too 
 stingy and penurious to eat sufficient to sup- 
 port life. His history I learned from his 
 brother, a hard-working mechanic, who found 
 out that he was dying, and came to see him in 
 his last hours. 
 
 From his very boyhood he had been noted 
 for his penuriousness, and as he grew up to 
 manhood, the passion, if it may be called so, 
 increased upon him. He labored hard, for he 
 worked for money. The all-absorbing love of 
 gold had full possession of his soul. As he gath- 
 ered it in, little by little, from the wages of his 
 daily toil, he hoarded it up, and lived upon the 
 poorest fare. Appetite had no power over him. 
 He would have sold the very food he was put- 
 ting to his lips, for money. As his little store 
 increased, the mania became stronger. He did 
 not invest it in any way that would make itself 
 increase. He dared not do this, from fear of 
 losing it ; and, besides, he wanted it in his own 
 possession, where he could see it, and count it 
 over, and feast his eyes and his craven soul 
 upon the sight. It was his god ; he loved it 
 for itself. He did not use it — he gloried only 
 in being its possessor. 
 
 But the daily wages of his labor now began 
 to add too slowly to the paltry heap. He was 
 not satisfied with the drop-by-drop accumula- 
 tion. He forsook his work, and resorted to 
 the miserable life of a street beggar. From 
 this time he was only known from his occupa- 
 tion. No one knew what was his success. 
 His lodgings had been, for years, in the 
 wretched garret in which he now lay dying. 
 When he left it, early every morning, he care- 
 fully locked his door, and was not seen there 
 again till evening. He then returned, and 
 closing his door, bolted and barred it against all 
 intruders. None were admitted. His life was 
 an utter solitude ; he made no friends among 
 the other tenants of the same house. They 
 all supposed him to be one of their own kind, 
 and to live as they lived. Had it been sus- 
 
 pected that he had money, no matter how little, 
 there would have been no security for him. He 
 therefore kept his own counsel, and lived in 
 this dismal room, in the top of a house filled 
 with thieves, and the only furniture he pos- 
 sessed was that I have mentioned above. 
 
 Old age crept upon him prematurely, for 
 he was now only sixty. But privation, and ex- 
 posure, and cankering care, took the place of 
 years, and ploughed deeper furrows in his face. 
 Still he pursued his calling, and day by day 
 dragged his tottering footsteps from door to 
 door. It was probably the most profitable pe- 
 riod of his life. Men pitied the miserable old 
 man, whose feeble steps seemed trembling 
 on the edge of the grave, and alms grew 
 plenty. 
 
 But one day he did not appear. His door was 
 not opened in the morning, and his footstep was 
 not heard overhead by the woman who lived 
 under him. She thought strange of it, for she 
 missed his accustomed presence, as he passed 
 down from his room. About noon, fearing that 
 he might have died alone, she knocked at his 
 door, and after some little delay she heard him 
 making an effort to open it At length he suc- 
 ceeded, and as she looked in she discovered 
 that he had crawled to the door, for his feeble 
 limbs had refused to bear him. He begged her 
 to bring him some water, and dragging himself 
 back to his bed, he received it, and soaked in it 
 a dry crust, which he ate by morsels. From 
 this time his door was never fastened, for he 
 had not the power to do it. In this condition 
 he had been found by the charitable ladies who 
 had sent me to see him. Such was the history 
 of the wretched man, up to that time. 
 
 Thenceforth, the remainder of his life wore 
 out in unceasing vigilance and care. It will 
 be understood, however, that the facts narrated 
 above never came to light till just before his 
 death, when his brother discovered his condi- 
 tion, and came to see him. All who saw him 
 believed him to be deranged, and that he fan- 
 cied himself rich, and that all who approached 
 him came to rob him. I supposed it to be a 
 sort of hallucination, affecting the enfeebled 
 mind of an old man who had lived a life of the 
 deepest poverty, and now, in his last days, was 
 revelling in dreams of fancied riches, which he 
 clung to as a child hugs the toys another seeks 
 to deprive him of. There was one thing, how- 
 ever, which often excited my surprise. The only 
 seat in the room was the old chest, but if any 
 one attempted to sit down on it, he drove them 
 
274 
 
 POOR AND RICH. 
 
 furiously away. Did it contain stolen goods ? 
 and was he afraid of discovery ? 
 
 His death, which occurred in a few days. 
 answered the question. Sceeped in poverty as 
 the man had seemed, he was actually enor- 
 mously rich. The old chest contained large 
 sums of money, in gold and silver— the base 
 idol of the departed possessor. By his death 
 it fell into the hands of his brother, an industri- 
 ous and worthy man, who was thus suddenly 
 and unexpectedly raised from his humble posi- 
 tion to affluence. 
 
 PART II. — THE CELLAR. 
 
 I have related the above by itself, though it 
 occurred in connection with the following. It 
 will be remembered that it was night when I 
 climbed into the garret. Thence I descended, 
 and sought admission into the cellar ; but fail- 
 ing in my efforts, I was obliged to defer my 
 visit there to the morning. 
 
 Descending a steep flight of uneven steps 
 from the pavement, I pushed open the door 
 without knocking, and drew back with a shud- 
 der. The damp and foul air of the apartment 
 sent a chill over me, that made me hesitate a 
 moment before I entered. Could it be possible 
 that human beings lived in this hole in the 
 ground, and in such a city as this ? I had seen 
 notliing before to compare with it : the garret 
 above was a palace to it. No wonder I shud- 
 dered. I stepped in. Hovering over a few em- 
 bers on the hearth, sat a little girl, of perhaps 
 ten years, and clothed in rags. In one corner, 
 upon a bed, which I afterwards learned had 
 been, the day before, made somewhat comfort- 
 able by the ladies mentioned above, lay another 
 girl, two or three years younger. Supposing 
 her to be the sick one to whom I had been 
 sent, I approached her, and laid my hand on 
 her forehead. Her skin was very hot and dry. 
 Upon examination I found that she was in a 
 high fever, and perfectly unconscious. Di- 
 rectly a female entered, in all respects the very 
 one in appearance to be the tenant of such a 
 place. But when she discovered that I had 
 come to see her sick child, she evinced a deep 
 feeling of gratitude, though she had not 
 thought the girl was dangerously sick. But 
 when I assured her that her case was a critical 
 one, and already one of great severity, the 
 whole woman was changed. I could not ac- 
 count for it at the time, nor for a considerable 
 period afterwards. For a moment she seemed 
 M if struck dumb by the information. Then, 
 
 rushing wildly to the bed, she clasped the child 
 in her arms and wailed bitterly. 
 
 "My poor — poor little Ellen — sweet bird! 
 Oh ! do not tell me she will die — my darling 
 child — no — no — no. It will break my heart. 
 Is it for this I have suffered, and made you suf- 
 fer so much — to lose you now — to have you 
 die here in this miserable place ! It cannot 
 be — and vet, O God ! it is but just. Poor fool 
 that I am i And I have killed you, my sweet 
 child — my own little Ellen !" 
 
 And in this strain she continued to talk for 
 some time. The manner and tlie words struck 
 me as belonging to one of too refined a heart to 
 be living in such a place ; and throughout the 
 whole course of the child's sickness, the same 
 was to be observed. I say I could not account 
 for it then. I knew that many are cast down 
 from affluence and high life into abject pover- 
 ty, but if they retain their moral and human 
 feelings, they never sink so low as the outward 
 circumstances of this woman seemed to indi- 
 cate her to be. Their better natures bear them 
 up, and they will contrive, by some means, to 
 live in at least a decent manner. But this 
 woman, living in all the destitution and ffllli of 
 the most degraded poverty, still, under the 
 influence of her warm maternal heart, when 
 assured that her child was like to die, poured 
 forth her feelings in words that would seem to 
 belong to one who had lived in far different 
 circumstances. 
 
 I continued to attend the sick child, from 
 day to day, and saw, each time I called, an ap- 
 parent improvement in the condition of the 
 place. The mother was anxious that her little 
 Ellen should be removed to more comforta- 
 ble quarters, but it was impossible in her then 
 condition. She therefore continued, by some 
 means, to make her under-ground apartment 
 take on an air of more comfort than I at first 
 believed it could. A cheerful fire was now al- 
 ways burning on the hearth. The little com- 
 forts of a sick room were found there, and the 
 mother was the steady and faithful and ever- 
 watchful nurse of the sick girl. I was, 
 therefore, less surprised tlian I should other- 
 wise have been, to find her soon begin to im- 
 prove, and in due time she was restored, and I 
 lost sight of them. But the day after I ceased 
 from attending the child, I received a note, in 
 a delicate female hand-writing, as follows : — 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I owe you the life of my darling 
 Ellen. For this my heart will be ever grateful 
 
POOR AND RICH. 
 
 275 
 
 to you. I have been a fool — nay, more — I have 
 been cruelly wicked. If we ever meet again, it 
 will not be as we have met. The inclosed is 
 but a poor tribute, and is no way commensurate 
 with my heart's thanks." 
 
 The inclosure was ten dollars. I could hard- 
 ly believe the evidence of my eyes, and yet 
 there could be no mistaking the source from 
 which it had come. It was the mother of the 
 little sick girl. I puzzled my brain not a little 
 to reconcile it with all I had seen in that mis- 
 erable cellar, where there was nothing but the 
 wretched trappings of the most abject poverty. 
 I pocketed my first fee, and let the matter drop. 
 The winter passed by. The lecture term 
 closed, and with my diploma in my pocket, I 
 
 went to the little village of T n, to begin 
 
 my professional career. I had been there but 
 a few days, when, one evening, just before 
 sunset, while walking a short distance out of 
 the village, as I passed a neat little cottage, I 
 heard a child, who was playing by the door, ex- 
 claim : 
 
 " Look, Anne, there's Doctor P." 
 
 I knew the voice, and opening the gate, in a 
 moment I had little Ellen in my arms. In the 
 house I found her mother. No longer the mis- 
 erably poor beggar in the filthy cellar, she was 
 now the owner and the inhabitant of this cot- 
 tage, living in comfort and elegance. She told 
 me her story. Pardon me, reader, if I seem to 
 tell an improbability. I could not have be- 
 lieved it if I had not received it from her 
 own lips, and known her in both phases of her 
 life. 
 
 Brought up in afl3uence — the child of proud 
 and wealthy parents — married, before she at- 
 tained to womanhood, to a man of her own rank 
 in life, she was ill prepared, in a few years, 
 when a fatal epidemic took them all away, to find 
 herself left poor, and with two children to share 
 her hard lot. When her grief had become in 
 a measure allayed, she cast about to contrive 
 by what means she could live. A life of pov- 
 
 erty she could not think of. What should she 
 do ? She had heard of the large sums of 
 money which the beggars in the streets of New 
 York are said often to amass, and loathsome as 
 was the thought, she resolved to make trial of 
 its truth. If she should succeed, she might di- 
 vide her time between poverty and comfortable 
 competence. She made the attempt. Changing 
 her own and her children's garb, for the rags 
 becoming her new profession, she rented the 
 basement in which I first saw her, and com- 
 menced business. At first it was a hard life ; 
 but the gains which she found rewarding her, 
 drawn from those who felt pity more for the 
 suffering children than the mother, gradually 
 reconciled her to the lot. Her success more 
 than fulfilled her best expectations. In one 
 winter she amassed enough to enable her to 
 retire, the following summer, into the country, 
 and pass her time at a genteel house, as a 
 fashionable widow. With the return of cod 
 weather she returned to the city, and to her 
 dark abode. But now a new plan was con- 
 ceived in her mind. It was to devote herself 
 to her new business steadily, till she had accu- 
 mulated enough to retire, and live economically, 
 but genteelly, in the country. Through what 
 sufferings she went, and to what hardships she 
 exposed her tender children, it is impossible to 
 relate. Gradually she became hardened to her 
 new life, and callous to the feehngs of her chil- 
 dren ; and the thirst for gain, only for itself, 
 began to take deep root in her mind. She no 
 longer looked forward to the end she had at 
 first proposed. Just at this time the little Ellen 
 was taken sick. The discovery of her danger, 
 and the consciousness that she had provoked 
 it, produced a powerful revulsion in her mind, 
 and revived all her refined love for her child. 
 Upon her recovery she retired to this village, 
 and, with the proceeds of her humble and mean 
 occupation, purchased a cottage, and was Uving 
 in comfortable ease. And two happier, or 
 more beautiful children I never saw, than were 
 Anne and Ellen. 
 
276 
 
 A PAPER ON CORALS. 
 
 A IPAIPISIE ©H ©(DIAILS. 
 
 I saw the living pile ascend. 
 The mausoleum of its architects, 
 Still dying upwards as their labors closed — 
 Slime the material, but the slime was turned 
 To adamant, by their petrific touch. 
 Frail were their frames, ephemeral their lives. 
 Their masonry imperishable. All 
 Life's needful functions, food, exertion, rest. 
 By nice economy of Providence, 
 Were overruled to carry on the process 
 Which out of water brought forth solid rock. 
 Atom by atom thus the burthen grew. 
 Even like an infant in the womb, till Time 
 Delivered Ocean of that monstrous birth — 
 A Coral Island, stretching east and west. 
 
 Thi observations made on corals as seen in 
 the beds where they grow, at the Sandwich 
 Islands, and recorded on the spot, as in previous 
 correspondence, have induced me to compare 
 the results thus obtained with what has been 
 written on this subject by certain late authors. 
 
 To begin with Sir David Brewster. In a 
 recent article, copied into the Eclectic from the 
 North British Review, he says : — " Our readers, 
 no doubt, are aware that the coral rocks, which 
 form islands and reefs hundreds of miles in ex- 
 tent, are built by small animals, called polypus, 
 that secrete, from the lower portion of their 
 body, a large quantity of carbonate of lime ; 
 which, when diffused around the body, and de- 
 posited between the folds of its abdominal 
 coats, constitute a cell, or polypidom, or poly- 
 pary, into the hollow of which the animal can 
 retire. The solid thus formed is called a coral, 
 which represents exactly the animal itself. 
 These stony cells are sometimes single and 
 cupped ; sometimes ramifying, like a tree, and 
 Bometimes grouped, like a cauliflower, or imi- 
 tating the human brain. ♦ * * The calcareous 
 cells which they build, remain fixed to the rock 
 in which they began their labors afler the ani- 
 mals themselves are dead. A new set of 
 workmen take their places, and add another 
 itory to the rising edifice. The same process 
 goes on from generation to generation, until 
 the wall reaches the surface of the ocean, 
 where it necessarily terminates. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 ** These industrious laborers act as scaven- 
 gera of the lowest class ; perpetually employed 
 
 in cleansing the waters of the sea from impuri- 
 ties, which escape even the smallest Crustacea ; 
 in the same manner as the insect tribes, in 
 their various stages, are destined to find their 
 food by devouring impurities caused by dead 
 animals and vegetable matter in the land. * * * 
 
 " Were we to unite into one mass the im- 
 mense coral reefs, three hundred miles long, 
 and the numberless coral islands, some of which 
 are forty and fifty miles in diameter ; and if we 
 add to this all the coralline limestone, and the 
 other formations, whether calcareous or silicious, 
 that are the works of insect labor, we should 
 have an accumulation of solid matter which 
 would compose a planet or a satellite — at 
 least one of the smaller planets, between Mars 
 and Jupiter. And if such a planet could be so 
 constructed, may we not conceive, tliat the 
 solid materials of a whole system of worlds 
 might have been formed by the tiny, but long- 
 continued labors of beings that are invisi- 
 ble !" &c. 
 
 Now here is a mixture of fancy and fact, 
 which a single personal inspection of a coral 
 reef by the learned theorizer, would have very 
 considerably modified. He would become sat- 
 isfied, I think, that the great reef itself, as it 
 appears at the Sandwich Islands, so far from 
 being the work of insect labor alone, is the 
 basis which nature herself lays, (in the way be- 
 fore referred to, by the precipitation of carbon- 
 ate of lime, through electrical agency, from 
 8ca-water,) for the coral insect to build upon, 
 and garnish with his beautiful structures, and 
 
A PAPER ON CORALS. 
 
 277 
 
 from time to time add to, it is true, by their 
 decay, but never rear alone from the depths of 
 the sea. To theorize in the study is one thing ; 
 carefully to examine and compare the pro- 
 cesses of niture in the sea and on the land, 
 is quite another ; which, if more critically and 
 oftener done, would preclude, or quite annihi- 
 late, and always modify, the learned labors of 
 many a philosopher. 
 
 Coral was generally deemed a vegetable 
 substance until the year 1720, when M. de 
 Peyronnel, of Marseilles, commenced, and con- 
 tinued for thirty years, a series of observations, 
 by which he ascertained the coral to be the 
 production of a living animal of the polypi 
 tri be. The general name of zoophytes, or plant- 
 animals, has since been applied to these marine 
 insect?, though sometimes called lithophytes, or 
 stone plants. They occur most frequently in 
 the tropical seas, and decrease in number and 
 variety as we approach the poles. 
 
 " The various species of these animals," 
 says Dr. Milner, Gallery of Nature, p. 381, 
 " appear to be furnished with minute glands, 
 secreting gluten, which, upon exudation, con- 
 vert the carbonate of lime in the ocean, and 
 other earthy matters, into a fixed and concrete 
 substance, twisted and fashioned in every va- 
 riety of shape. The formation of coral is one 
 of those chemical processes in the great labo- 
 ratory of nature, which the skill of man has 
 not enabled him either to imitate or to compre- 
 hend ; but the fact is clear, that large masses 
 of solid rock are formed by those diminutive 
 living agents, sea-workers, toiling and spin- 
 ning to the music of the waves ; w-hose con- 
 structions are capable of resisting the tremen- 
 dous power of ocean, when most agitated 
 by winds and tempests, and ultimately become 
 a secure habitation for man himself. The 
 corai substance appears to bear the .same rela- 
 tion to the insect, as the shell of a snail or an 
 oyster does to either of those animals, without 
 which they cannot long exist ; and it is upon 
 the death of the animalcules that their separate 
 structures become firmly knit together by some 
 mysterious cement, and serve as the basis for 
 the erections of fresh races, which, as they die 
 off, increase the growth of tlie firm and solid 
 fabric." 
 
 Millions of millions thus, from age to age, 
 With simplest skill, and toil onweariable. 
 
 No moment and no movement unimproved. 
 Line laid on line, on terrace terrace spread. 
 To swell the heightening, brightening, gradual 
 
 mound. 
 By marvellous stnictare climbing towards the 
 
 day. 
 Each wrought alone, yet all together wrought. 
 Unconscious, not unworthy instruments. 
 By which a hand invisible was raising 
 A new creation inthe secret deep. 
 Omnipotence wrought in them, with them, by 
 
 them ; 
 Hence, what Omnipotence alone could do. 
 Worms did. 
 
 Captain Flinders, while surveying the coasts 
 of New Holland, examined the coral formations 
 in process there ; and his remarks seem to me 
 to give the true theory of coral reefs, if there be 
 added the fact of the natural precipitation of 
 carbonate of lime from the sea-water in which it 
 is held in solution, and the formation of the ce- 
 ment by electrical agency and heat. " It seems 
 to me," he writes, « that when the animalcules, 
 which form the coral at the bottom of the ocean, 
 cease to live, their structures adhere to each 
 other by virtue eitlier of the glutinous remains 
 within, or of some property in salt water ; and the 
 interstices being gradually filled up with sand 
 and broken pieces of coral washed by the sea, 
 which also adhere, a mass of rock is at length 
 formed. Future races of these animalcules 
 erect their habitations upon the rising bank, 
 and die in their turn, to increase this monu- 
 ment of their wonderful labors. The care 
 taken to work perpendicularly in the early 
 stages, would mark a surprising instinct in 
 these discriminative creatures. Their wall of 
 coral, for the most part, in situations where the 
 winds are constant, being arrived at the sur- 
 face, affords a shelter, to leeward of which 
 their infant colonies may be safely sent forth ; 
 and to this, their instinctive foresight, it seems 
 to be owing that the windward side of a reef, 
 exposed to the open sea, is generally, if not 
 always, the highest part, and rises almost per- 
 pendicular, sometimes from the depth of two 
 hundred, and perhaps many more fathoms."* 
 
 * CommaE''.'i vVjlkes, of our Exploring Squad- 
 ron, sounded only one hundred and fifty fathoms 
 from the perpendicular coral cliff of Aurora Island, 
 but found no bottom with a line of that length. 
 
278 
 
 PIONEER LIFE 
 
 iPir(DMigigm iLH^is. 
 
 BY SOW, JR. 
 
 It was in the spring of forty-four that I 
 found myself, wife, and little ones seeking a 
 home in the wilds of Western Michigan. No, 
 dear reader, not strictly seeking; for that home 
 was yet to be created in the beautiful, sparse, 
 opening forest, with which that region abounds. 
 
 The spot for our house was already selected, 
 and we were soon domesticated in the family of 
 a settler, one and a half miles from the site of 
 our future home. 
 
 Assisted by a carpenter, and the strong 
 arms of the sturdy backwoodsmen, 1 soon 
 reared a comfortable log cabin. I would in- 
 form tlie reader that the labor of a carpenter is 
 usually dispensed with in building a log-liouse ; 
 consequently my domicil presented, compara- 
 tively, a trim appearance, and was tolerably 
 convenient in its inside arrangement. This 
 did not excite the envy of my neighbors, who 
 had many a hearty laugh at my ignorance of 
 log-house architecture. In a few days the 
 
 house was completed ; and Mrs. G , the 
 
 little ones, and myself, were ensconced within 
 its fort-like walls. 
 
 For tlie curiosity of those who have never 
 seen a western log-house, I will give the " Plan 
 and Specifications." First, a large tree is fallen 
 as near the site of the dwelling as possible : 
 two logs are cut off, and drawn around parallel 
 with each other, at a suitable distance apart ; 
 These form the side sills, and of course deter- 
 mine the width of the building, which varies 
 with the want or caprice of the immigrant. 
 Two other logs are now lain in a transverse 
 position, across the ends of the first. The 
 foundation now being laid, a cellar, of not very 
 ample dimensions, is dug, and the dirt thrown 
 over the sills, and levelled off. The sides of 
 the cellar being dug shelving, the necessity of 
 a wall is obviated. The logs are now cut of 
 the proper length — being about twelve incites 
 in diameter — and left, duly arranged, around 
 the foundation. Neighbora are summoned for 
 miles around ; and many a weary mile will the 
 sturdy backwoodsman travel, to assist at a log- 
 
 house raising ; for the recollection is fresh in 
 his memory when like favors were as freely 
 rendered to him. 
 
 Now comes the tug of war. After duly 
 arranging the sleepers for the floor, an expert 
 axe-man is stationed at each corner. As the logs 
 are rolled up, the ends of each are squared, 
 and fitted for the reception of its fellow. The 
 pile is soon reared ; and the owner is left to 
 finish the structure according to his means and 
 taste. If the means of the immigrant allow it, 
 the gables are boarded and the roof shingled : 
 if not, logs complete the gable; and strips, 
 three feet in length, and four to six inches in 
 width, riven from the oak, supply the place of 
 shingles. Openings like portholes are chopped 
 through the sides, and supplied with glass win- 
 dows. Doors soon swing on wooden hinges. 
 Loose boards are thrown upon joist infixed in 
 the walls, and a chamber is created. A scuttle 
 door gives entrance to the cellar. The logs are 
 hewn down within to give an even surface ; 
 the interstices are filled in with wood and mud, 
 to keep out the cold ; a huge fireplace yawns 
 on one side, and the backwoodsman's castle is 
 complete. Its embellishments are few, but 
 characteristic. On one side of the room is a 
 large chest, which answers the double purpose 
 of wardrobe and settee. On the opposite side 
 hangs an antique carved frame, containing the 
 fragments of a shattered looking-glass ; the 
 feather bed, in which it was wrapped, was not 
 a sufficient protection against the rough usage 
 which it received in its long and wearisome 
 journeyings. In one corner of a room stands a 
 bed, from under wliicli a well-used axe show^ 
 its silvery edge. On two hooks, fastened in a 
 beam over the yawning fireplace, hangs the 
 rifle : as if to attest tlie certainty of its aim, in 
 close proximity hang the antlers of a noble . 
 stag. Such, dear reader, you may imagine to 
 be the home of many a backwoodsman. Such, 
 in many respects, was my own loved and ever 
 to be remembered home in the wilderness of 
 Western Michigan. 
 
THE POETRY OP THE HEAVENS. 279 
 
 ■ITIEIIg ]P(DIgirmY (DI? flSriS IEIISA¥3EHS. 
 
 BT ANDREW DICKINSON. 
 
 Hast thou e'er scanned, at silent midnight hour, 
 Yon sparkling volume of ethereal light — 
 Those star-illumined pages of the heavens ? 
 Deep shining words of wonder, pure and true. 
 Beam on the eye, and flash through all the soul, 
 Kindling strange raptures. Oh, how numberless 
 The starry hosts of Night ! The thoughtful mind 
 Looks with astonishment, transfixed with awe. 
 
 Great was the throng of preachers, when His word 
 Spake out of darkness all the shining orbs 
 That bum forever in the temple-dome 
 Of the Great King Eternal. They went forth 
 In glorious pomp and silent eloquence. 
 On their eternal mission in the skies ; 
 And nightly sprinkle down their golden light, 
 As kindly messages to darkened Man. 
 
 Book of eternal wonders ! lit with gems 
 Of unknown glory — decked with myriad stars 
 Scattered through boundless ether : teaching truths 
 Of wondrous meaning. Man from death shall rise 
 Like orient planets from the grave of Night, 
 And the soul live in the eternal heavens. 
 
 Unnumbered constellations deck the sky : 
 How peerless is their splendor ! emblems pure 
 Of Hope celestial, and the destiny 
 Of the immortal Spirit in the realms 
 Of cloudless glory. There, the pure in heart 
 Shall shine like stars around th' eternal throne, 
 And see the matchless beauty of the King. 
 
 Planets and suns, what countless multitudes ! 
 Orion's golden lamps ; the Pleiades, 
 Pale-shining ; and Arcturus with his sons : 
 Some shed cold-trembling beams along the gloom, 
 Whose awful travels down the boundless sky. 
 On their long journey since the world began. 
 But yesterday have reached this mundane sphere. 
 Ah ! wha can count the myriads of heaven 
 Along th' illimitable ocean-void ? 
 
 I love the music of the starry spheres, 
 Where orbs of diff'ring glory swell the maze, 
 Convolved and complex to th' untutored eye, 
 Yet order and harmonious beauty all. 
 To the instructed soul. Delightful songs 
 In harmony of numbers please the ear 
 Of listening Fancy : sympathetic chords 
 
280 
 
 BYRON AND SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Of the rapt spirit breathe a soft response 
 To the celestial music of the skies ! 
 
 Are Heaven's foundations laid among the stars ? 
 Dotli yon bright galaxy of ocean-light 
 Come from the towers of New Jerusalem — 
 Mansions of bliss — celestial palaces ? 
 Th' Almighty Builder of the starry dome 
 Veils his resplendent throne from mortal gaze : 
 Imagination never yet hath scanned 
 The boundless path along the Milky Way, 
 Or caught the faintest glimpse of His abode : 
 The daring soul would take ambitious range 
 Through heaven and hell, but finds no beacon-star 
 To guide the fearful pilgrim on his way 
 To the eternal city. Boundless wastes 
 Lie all around the star-bespangled path 
 Through vast creation's dreary solitudes : 
 Heaven's awful Architect dwells everywhere ! 
 
 Alone, in midnight silence, let me view 
 The glittering arch, and hear the Morning Stars 
 Praise Him in brightness, and together sing, 
 While all the sons of glory shout for joy : 
 They praise but One, worthy of endless song, 
 Who is himself the Bright and Morning Star ! 
 
 IBYmcDM AUHD SIEIAESIPlEAmig 
 
 The impressions left upon the mind of one 
 who has just closed the works of Lord Byron, 
 are far too favorable to his character as a man 
 of universal genius. He strikes the various 
 chords of the human heart with great skill, but 
 it is only those of a lower key that give a strong 
 response. The melancholic, the despairing and 
 the awful, are strings which own his sway, and 
 vibrate fully at his slightest touch. He there- 
 fore exerts an undue influence upon the reader, 
 and it is only when we compare him with other 
 poets, the universality of whose genius is 
 acknowledged, that we truly appreciate him. 
 
 It has always been considered a course of 
 policy, for the one who has a peculiar and 
 extraordinary bent for any one branch of lite- 
 rature or science, to devote himself to the cul- 
 tivation of that propensity. Whether this be 
 the wise method, is a doubtful question ; yet it 
 is evidently tlie one upon which Lord Byroa 
 
 acted. His success, therefore, in one particular 
 department, ought not to be estimated as the 
 measure of his power in another. 
 
 As a poet, when compared with Shakspearc, 
 he resembles an unbalanced and distorted tree, 
 whose branches and foliage, at one angle, ex- 
 hibit the green luxuriance of health and vigor, 
 but at every other are dry and crumbling 
 standing side by side, with the symmetrical 
 oak, whose majestic proportions veer only in 
 the tumult of the terrific tornado. We doubt 
 not that individual passages may be found in 
 Byron, which equal any penned by the hand of 
 Shakspearc. This only proves that the former, 
 i with his passions lashed to the utmost fury, was 
 capable of producing what the latter has given 
 U8 in a peaceful calm. Imagine, if we can, 
 that gigantic and world-absorbing intellect, that 
 deepest of souls, in turbid commotion, and then 
 may we judge of tlie comparative energy of the 
 
BYROx^I AND SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 281 
 
 two posts. Byron's flashes would appear like 
 a village bonfire, when contrasted with the 
 cloud-piercing volcano, whose mouth belched 
 out oceans of flame, threatening to inundate 
 the universe, and whose sides were torn with 
 rivers of living lava, " red, right onward, and 
 irresistible." 
 
 It would seem no very difficult task for a 
 man of ordinary ability, to exhibit upon the 
 stage his own personal feelings and motives — 
 his injuries and estrangement from the world. 
 In his plays Byron has done scarcely more. 
 His heroes are but Lord Byron slightly trans- 
 muted. But Shakspeare wanders over the 
 whole world, seizing every character, and in- 
 stead of creating them all Shakspeares, he 
 breathes Shakspeare into their own person- 
 ality. They stand forth natural men and 
 women, but touched by a master hand. Here 
 is Byron's great defect as a dramatist. Upon 
 his characters the direst judgments of Heaven 
 create no veneration — no fear. Bold-faced, 
 they gaze upon the convulsed elements, and 
 utter imprecations upon that hand " which 
 tempereth the vvind to the shorn lamb," as it 
 guides the forked lightnings past and leaves 
 them unscathed ; while, on the other hand, 
 in Shakspeare, the forsaken and the afflicted, 
 though they give way to sad complaints, yet 
 recognize the Omnipotence of Him " who doeth 
 all things well." In the first case, we see na- 
 ture perverted to the state of a demon ; in the 
 last, we see her as she is. To illustrate this 
 point, compare the humane and dejected Jaques 
 with the misanthropic, heaven-excluded Man- 
 fred. 
 
 But neither of these poets confines himself 
 to the natural world. Byron, like a " wild 
 diver," pierces the depths of Pandemonium, and 
 drags his spirits from their black abodes. Shak- 
 speare, with the motion- of his magical wand, 
 calls them to rise or sink at will. Airy sprites 
 become invested with the human form, and 
 then vanish into emptiness. To the latter they 
 come like obedient servants ; the other pos- 
 sesses an irresistible yet questioned control 
 over them, and when the charm is broken, they 
 flit away as an angry cloud, 
 
 Byron's non-conformity to nature, not only 
 discovers itself in the development of individual 
 
 character, but also in the general plot of his 
 plays. True, they have catastrophes, yet there 
 is but a slight connection between the principal 
 events and these catastrophes. His plays 
 appear like sets of discordant circumstances 
 forced into company, having no classific re- 
 semblance, and converging toward no grand 
 idea. The distinct parts might as properly be 
 spoken by one person, as by different persons. 
 Not that the words do not delineate some char- 
 acter, but that each representation exhibits 
 some characteristic element of the same char- 
 acter. 
 
 In Byron there is no dramatic action. We 
 are compelled to sit such a time, and then 
 comes the climax. By Shakspeare we are hur- 
 ried along with the speed of reality. Armies 
 bristle, engage, and are conquered in an hour. 
 Our minds take in the scope of years at a 
 glance. Byron's dramas have many of the 
 excellencies of poetry, few of the excellencies 
 of the drama. 
 
 With their works for our standard, what shall 
 we say of them as men ? The one roams about, 
 an exile from home, native land, and happiness. 
 The other liveth a cosmopolite. All nations 
 extend to him the hand of brotherhood. They 
 gaze with wonder upon the forced flights of the 
 one, while they love and venerate the ready, 
 and easy, and no less lofty course of the other. 
 As moralists, we behold the former desecrating 
 the holiest ties of our nature, and trampling 
 upon all rule but the guidance of a corrupt 
 soul. He unfolds the sensual with such deli- 
 cate strokes and fanciful allusions, that we are 
 borne along witli him before we are aware of 
 his purpose. The immorality of Shakspeare,. 
 if such it may be called, never corrupts us by 
 its fascination, for it issues abrupt and undis- 
 guised. 
 
 As bodies revolving in the same literary 
 heavens, Byron will shine, a star, cold and 
 cheerless to the human heart, yet with lonely 
 splendor. Shakspeare, as an universal sun, 
 will radiate heat, health and life ; and if in the 
 dim vista of past ages his brilliancy be obscured 
 by human ignorance and pride, other planets 
 shall arise, and with borrowed rays, i]!umin& 
 the Night of Time. 
 
282 
 
 OUR COUSINS ACROSS THE WAY. 
 
 (D¥IE (SdDirSIEIIS MKD^S ^Mlg WAYc 
 
 BY THEODORE THINKER. 
 
 A VERT singular sort of people were those 
 cousins across the way. So we always regard- 
 ed them at our house, that is, at Uncle Mike's ; 
 for I went to live with him when I was a boy, 
 and very narrowly escaped becoming a farmer 
 under his tuition. When any stranger came 
 to visit us, and inquired at all about the neigh- 
 bors opposite, I remember we generally used to 
 evade their questions by saying, with a some- 
 wiiat knowing air, " Oh, they are odd sort of 
 folks." For a good many years we never said 
 anything better of them, at any rate. Why 
 should we ? They were the oddest set of crea- 
 tures in the world, in our way of thinking. 
 
 To begin with, Uncle Miah was a Democrat, 
 and piping hot at that ; and Democrats, in the 
 region of Blue Hill, where we lived, were 
 scarce enough to be put into the museum with 
 stuffed alligators and flying-fish. Then he 
 was a Methodist — " a shouting Methodist," we 
 used to call him — and Aunt Sibyl and all the 
 children were as bad as he was. Oh, such ugly 
 looking bonnets as the girls wore ! We could 
 not bear the sight of them. Every Sunday 
 morning, just as regularly as the sun rose, and 
 almost as early. Uncle Miah would rig out his 
 old lumber waggon, and the whole family would 
 pile in, and ride half a dozen miles to the Meth- 
 odist meeting. That provoked us a good deal ; 
 for there was a Presbyterian church close by 
 us, on Blue Hill. I am sure I don't know what 
 possessed them to do so. Uncle Mike once 
 told our minister that he did believe Uncle Miah 
 got into the habit of doing some things on pur- 
 pose to be odd ; and so it always seemed to me. 
 
 You ought to have seen the hat he wore, and 
 the coat too. We boys used to make ourselves 
 very merry at the expense of the old man's 
 Sunday uniform, as wo called it on our s-ide of 
 tl>e way. Besides, Uncle Miah had an odd 
 way of managing his farm. He never did any- 
 thing as we did. Oh, he was a most bungling 
 farmer. For instance, he drove the old sorrel 
 horses that ho went to meeting with, in the 
 place of oxen. Once, I know, when he liad 
 pitched a pretty large load of hay on his cart, 
 
 the horses took fright at something, and away 
 they ran down the hill, and came up all stand- 
 ing, against the stone fence at the bottom. 
 One of the horses got his leg broken. Uncle 
 had one of his boys on the load, too, and he was 
 tlirown off, and pitched over the fence — into the 
 ditch, for aught T know, for the old man had a 
 deep ditch somewhere in that vicinity. It 
 served him right, we all thought across the 
 way. He had no business to use horses ; next 
 time he should cart hay with oxen, as we did. 
 Oxen would never run away. Uncle Miah 
 might have known better. 
 
 As for Aunt Sibyl, she was forever doing 
 some outlandish thing or another. We thought 
 it was a wonder how they ever got along at all, 
 with such management in the house. Such 
 odd cheeses as she made, you never dreamed of. 
 She had a bed of tansy in the garden in front 
 of the house ; and I do believe I have seen 
 her gathering tansy there — for it was in 
 plain sigiit from our house — as many as fifty 
 times. I have twenty times, I know. And 
 what do you think the woman did with that 
 bitter tansy ? The girl that lived at our house 
 said she could take her oath that she had seen 
 Aunt Sibyl boil it down strong, many a time, 
 and put it into her cheese. But I cannot re- 
 member half the strange stories I have heard 
 about Aunt Sibyl's housekeeping. 
 
 An odd sort of people were those cousins 
 across the way. Now my Uncle Mike was a 
 Federalist, and went for the Hartford Conven- 
 tion, and everything else that was good, accord- 
 ing to the notions of the folks that lived about 
 Blue Hill. Besides, he was a tithing man in 
 the Presbyterian Church ; and you must know 
 that atithingman, in Connecticut, was, in those 
 days, very much looked up to. He was ap- 
 pointed by the parish, I believe, to keep order 
 in the meeting; and, as the precise limit 
 of his authority was never very clearly defined, 
 and the boys were sometimes quite unruly, in 
 securing order, he made a great deal of disor- 
 der once in a while. The little urchins on Blue 
 Hill knew but little about delicate thin calf-skin 
 
OUR COUSINS ACROSS THE WAY. 
 
 283 
 
 s!:oes in that age of the world, I can tell you ; 
 and when the tithing man caught a mischie- 
 vous youth in the gallery, cutting the panels 
 of the old-fashioned pew with his jack-knife, 
 and when the poor fellow was made to march 
 half across the meeting-house, with his cow- 
 hide boots on, to the tithing man's seat, you 
 could almost fancy a horse was trotting over 
 those white oak floors. Such was the tithing 
 system. The business of a tithing man, as 
 you see, was a kind of military service. It was 
 to conquer a peace ; and I don't know, now I 
 think of it, but that was the reason why Uncle 
 Mike was always called captain in our neigh- 
 borhood, for I never heard that he was so dis- 
 tinguished at the militia trainings. 
 
 Of course our family was a great deal more 
 respectable than Uncle Miah's. Everybody 
 knew that Uncle Miah held some kind of office 
 in the Methodist meeting ; but what it was I 
 never could find out, only that it had a very 
 barbarous name. I believe the Blue H.ll folks 
 used to make fun about it, sometimes. We 
 did, at all events, on our side of the w;iy. 
 
 The truth is, we did not like our ccusins on 
 the opposite side at all, and they did DDt like us 
 much better, I should think. I cannot tell how 
 bad it was before I came to Blue Hill to live. 
 But it was bad enough then, I am sure. Our 
 folks would not let me have anything to do 
 with the other family, if they could help it; 
 though I confess I did steal away sometimes, 
 to chat with cousin Mary — dear little Mary. 
 She is in heaven now, God called her home 
 while she was young. She is an angel now ; 
 she seemed one then. When I was quite a 
 child, I remember that one of the boys on our 
 side of the way threw stones at Uncle Miah's 
 sheep, because they got into our pasture, and 
 hit one of them, so that it always went lame 
 afterwards. I remember, too, hearing Uncle 
 Mike say it was good enough for them ; that 
 they might keep their rascally sheep at home 
 next time ; and that they ought to be thankful 
 the sheep got off without having its neck 
 broken. This made a good deal of a tempest, 
 across the way; and Uncle Miah said, he 
 guessed he could take care of himself, and 
 that he meant to come up with us one of these 
 
 Well, he had a chance to come up with us 
 before long. We had some unruly hens. They 
 were not satisfied with scratching up all 
 the seeds in our garden ; but one morning, 
 before Uncle Miah and his boys had got out 
 
 i into the field to work, over they went, the 
 whole tribe of them, and commenced opera- 
 tions with the garden across the way. Uncle 
 Miah was very nice and particular about his 
 garden, and he had just finished planting it. 
 It must have been rather vexatious to the old 
 gentleman, to see those hens scratching up his 
 seeds. He did not wait long to deliberate 
 about what it was best to do ; but he took 
 down the musket, which once did service in 
 the Revolutionary war, and which, I suspect, he 
 kept loaded on purpose, and blazed away at our 
 hens. We heard the noise, and ran out to see 
 what on earth was the matter ; for such a 
 thing as shooting, except on training days, was 
 rare enough around Blue Hill. 
 
 Well, sure enough. Uncle Miah had stopped 
 the crowing of two as fine roosters as any one 
 need wish to see, and coolly took them up, and 
 tossed them over into our yard. 
 
 " What does that mean ?'' said Uncle Mike. 
 
 " It means that I have brought you some- 
 thing to keep thanksgiving with," said Uncle 
 Miah ; " and it means, that if I catch the rest 
 of those hens in my garden again, I'll let day- 
 light shine through the whole batch of them, if 
 I can. That's what it means." 
 
 And tlie two uncles looked daggers at each 
 other. 
 
 " I'll teach you to shoot my hens," said the 
 one from our side of the fence ; and he took 
 up the larger of the roosters, and hurled it at 
 Uncle Miah. It hit him on the breast, all over 
 blood as it was. "There, take that," said 
 Uncle Mike, " for your thanksgiving supper — 
 and that," throwing the other fowl ; though he 
 was not so successful in his aim that time. 
 
 I have forgotten on which side of the fence 
 the poor roosters finally rested. But I remem- 
 ber well, that they were thrown back and forth 
 a number of times, and that we boys had a 
 boisterous laugh about the arms and ammuni- 
 tion used in that skirmish — a skirmish which 
 goes by the name of " the Battle of Blue Hill," 
 in our town, to this day. Uncle Mike, how- 
 ever, never liked to hear about that affair. I 
 have many a time seen a cloud gather around 
 his brow, and heard more or less thunder, when 
 the thing was hinted at. He was ashamed of 
 it, I think. 
 
 There was one of Uncle Miah's odd whims, 
 which, at the time of it, worried his brother, 
 the Federalist, more than this shooting of his 
 hens, a great deal. Indeed, it always seemed 
 to me, from the manner in which the thing was 
 
284 
 
 OUR COUSINS ACROSS THE WAY. 
 
 spoken of on our side of the way, that this was 
 the first of Uncle Miah's long catalogue of 
 offences ; for, in some way or another, when 
 the family talked over the matter among them- 
 selves, the whole stream of the troubles was 
 frequently traced up to that source, and there 
 they stoppad. That wliim of Uncle Miah's 
 was sotting up the Jefferson liberty pole. I 
 must tell you about tiiat liberty pole, though it 
 was put up before my recollection. 
 
 As far back as the last war — we used to call 
 it the last war, though I don't know but we 
 shall have to drop that way of talking now — the 
 fever of politics was pretty high, as it has been 
 since, sometimes. It raged violently about 
 Blue Hill. Nobody died with it, that ever I 
 could learn, but a great many took it, and had 
 it very hard. There was something quite sin- 
 gular, and almost ludicrous, about the political 
 excitement at Blue Hill, however. It was 
 nearly all on one side. The Federalists were 
 as plenty as blackberries ; and they always had 
 it pretty much their own way. There were 
 only two full-grown men in town who were 
 known as Democrats ; one of wlwm, as I have 
 said before, was Uncle Miah. He was the only 
 one, in fact, that made the opposite party any 
 trouble. The other belonged to that class and 
 order of men, who go through the world with- 
 out hitting anybody with their elbows. He 
 was a quiet sort of a man, and contented him- 
 self with believing and voting just as Uncle 
 Miah said, of course. He was very much 
 thought of by the folks across the way. Un- 
 cle Miah was heard to say once, that you 
 might go a good ways in the world, and not 
 stumble over another such a clever fellow as 
 Billy Tompkins. 
 
 How natural it is for us all to have a toler- 
 ably good opinion of those who agree with us, 
 and who perhaps flatter us a little, once in a 
 while, and make us think that we know rather 
 more than most people think we do. " My 
 wife's nephew," eays my friend, the Doctor, 
 (who, you should know, lias written a volume of 
 poetry, and was once a candidate for Congress) 
 •' my wife's nephew is a sensible lad. He 
 reads my book ; likes my stories ; admires my 
 pinging, and thinks as I do in politics. He is 
 a youth of parts, and con^iidcrablc promise." 
 
 But about that liberty pole. A week <r 
 more before one Independence day. Uncle 
 Miah and Billy Tompkins went into the woods 
 belonging to tho farm across the way from 
 oar house, and cut down just tho tallest, straight- 
 
 est, and smoothest tree they could find, hitched 
 the sorrel horses to it, brought it home, and 
 dropped it right in front of Uncle Miah's door. 
 
 " What now ?" said the uncle on the other 
 side of the way, for they were on good terms 
 before that. 
 
 Uncle Miah was never a great talker, but in 
 this case he dealt out his words more sparingly 
 than usual. " I'm going to teach the Blue Hill 
 folks which way the wind blows," said he ; and 
 that was all anybody could get out of him. 
 
 By and by the fourth of July came round, 
 and early in the morning, about the time the 
 old cracked bell on the Blue Hill meeting-house 
 began to ring, Uncle Miah, with the help of 
 Billy, was seen from our door-yard, setting up 
 that long cedar pole in the ground, right in 
 front of his door. Uncle "Mike then began to 
 " get his eye-teeth cut," as they used tc say in 
 Connecticut. " Well, Miah is an odd sort of 
 a chap," thought he ; "I wonder what he'll do 
 next." 
 
 The liberty pole went up, and all the folks on 
 the opposite side of the way came out into the 
 yard, to look at it. Of course tliey did not like 
 it at all, and I will tell you why. On the top of 
 this pole was something, in its appearance about 
 half way between a woodchuck and a guinea 
 hen, though not much like anything in the 
 heavens above or the earth beneath, made so 
 that it would move around with tiie wind ; and 
 on both sides of this odd-shaped image, 
 
 " If shape it could be called, which shape had none," 
 
 were the words, painted in large letters, " Jef- 
 ferson and Liberty." That was too bad. Uncle 
 Mike, according to tradition, was quite out of 
 patience, and stormed rather furiously, for 
 a good-natured man, as he generally was. 
 " Thunder and lightning," said he, " I can't 
 stand that. It's a disgrace to the whole town. 
 It has got to come down, and I'll cut it down 
 myself, if he don't. I declare I can't stand it." 
 
 However, tho liberty pole stood it, whether 
 Uncle Mike did or not, and it was standing 
 when I went to live on Blue Hill, and a good 
 while after that, too. It seems that the naughty 
 Democrat, after getting a terrible scolding, told 
 Uncle Mike that he guessed he should do as he 
 liked about the polo, as it was on his own land, 
 and that tho folks across the way had better 
 mind their own business. Take care. Uncle 
 Miah. " A soft answer turneth away wrath." 
 Youra is too hard for tfiat, methinks. 
 
 It was not long after that before there was 
 
OUR COUSINS ACROSS THE WAY. 
 
 285 
 
 another liberty pole, on the opptosite side of the 
 way, and on the top of it there was very mach 
 such a strange-looking animal as figured on the 
 Jefferson pole, only it puzzled our schoolmaster, 
 who was something of a naturalist, a little 
 more, to tell whether it belonged to the land, 
 the air, or the water. He finally concluded it 
 was amphibiou&, I belie\'e ; for myself, I set it 
 down as amliiffiious. This fish, or whatever it 
 was, had some Vords on it that Uncle Miah 
 did not relish any better than Uncle Mike did 
 " Jefferson and Liberty." I cannot remember 
 what they were, but I do remember they had a 
 very bitter taste across the way from our house. 
 
 The two families did not have much to say to 
 one another, from that time. The two liberty 
 poles, standing, year after year, on opposite 
 sides of the way, frowning at each other, be- 
 gan the quarrel, and they kept it up. Things 
 grew worse and worse. They always do, you 
 know, in such cases. Unless you can bring peo- 
 ple together, and have them settle up all the old 
 scores, the breach must grow wider and wider. 
 ft was a sad state of things. We all knew 
 that, on our side of the way — perhaps they did 
 on the other side. You must not suppose that 
 either of these uncles was a bad man. As the 
 world goes, they were very far from that. Not 
 that I mean to whitewash over this quarrel of 
 theirs, and make quite an innocent thing of it ; 
 but what I want to get at is this — that these 
 folks were not " sinners above all the Galile- 
 ans." At any rate, I can't think that we were, 
 on our side of the way. However, we did show 
 some of the old Adam in this affair, I always 
 thought. 
 
 Well, time passed away — years, a good 
 many of them, I am sorry to say — and things 
 were no better. There was scarcely a day but 
 something happened to add a little fuel to the 
 fire that had been burning so long. There was 
 no blazing up of the flame. It was more like 
 a fire partly confined in the bowels of the earth, 
 which now and then shows itself, in the form 
 of an earthquake. There were a great many 
 shocks, little and great, in the course of a year. 
 We children would have got along well 
 enough, if the old folks had let us ; but they 
 really seemed to be afraid we should make up. 
 Human nature is a queer compound, is it not ? 
 
 One pleasant evening, in the fall of the year, 
 the family across the way were all assembled, 
 as their custom was, to read the old family 
 Bible together, and bow before God in prayer. 
 Uncle Miah always prayed with his family, 
 
 night and morning. So did Uncle Mike, for 
 that matter. Good men are strangely incon- 
 sistent, sometimes. After the scions of religion 
 are grafted on the old thorn-bush of human na- 
 ture, some of the branches will, once in a while, 
 bear a very sour and crabbed sort of apples. 
 They don't belong to the new scions, though. 
 But I must not preach any more sermons. 
 
 They spent a longer time tlian usual at 
 Uncle Miah's, that evening, in their worship. 
 It was the eve of a day very dear to a New 
 Englander. The harvests had been gathered 
 in ; the grain was thrashed. A season, to the 
 farmers one of comparative repose, had come. 
 The chief magistrate of the State had issued 
 his annual invitation — perhaps it .savored more 
 of a command, at that period — for the Thanks- 
 giving festival. Then it was more customary 
 than it is now, for parents and children, sepa- 
 rated, perhaps, during the rest of the year, to 
 meet around a common table, well filled with 
 tlie good things they had in store, and to praise 
 together the Giver of them all. It was the day 
 before this precious festival. Aunt Sibyl's 
 kitchen had been a scene of bustle and confu- 
 sion never presented but once in a year. They 
 were looking forward to a happy thanksgiving. 
 John had come home from the West, with iiis 
 young wife and babe ; Sally, too, who was 
 living with an aunt in Hartford, was expected 
 as soon as the stage came in, and one of the 
 boys was as sure as could be he heard the 
 driver's horn two or three different times, 
 tliough, it must be confessed, he was as often 
 mistaken. Those drivers were not uoied for 
 coming in very punctually, at that time. The 
 family had just risen from their knees. Uncle 
 Miah had made an humble, earnest ap[>eal to the 
 throne of grace, ending, as he almost always did, 
 with that beautiful model which we call the 
 Lord's Prayer. The family were all seated 
 around the fire, in the " best room." Was 
 there anything wanting to complete the hap- 
 jMness of that group? Yps, there was one 
 thing. 
 
 " Mary," said the father, addressing the 
 youngest child, and the pet, by common con- 
 sent, " come here ; I want to tell you some- 
 thing." And Mary came and took her place on 
 her fkther's knee. She was not more than seven 
 or eight years old, then, I think. Dear, dear 
 little Mary ! I seem to hear her sweet voice 
 now, asking questions about God, and Jesus 
 Christ, and heaven. She was a very serious 
 child, for one of her years. Was her heavenly 
 
2S6 
 
 OUR COUSINS ACROSS THE WAY. 
 
 Father preparing her 80 early for her home in 
 U»e skies ? I cannot tell ; but she had learned 
 much of the language of lieaven. 
 
 "Mary," said the old gentleman, "let me 
 hear you say the Lord's Prayer." 
 The child repeated it. 
 
 " That is a good girl. Do you know what 
 that prayer means, Mary ?" 
 " Yes, pa, I think I do." 
 " Well, let me see." And he began to ques- 
 tion her on each clause by itself, beginning 
 with " Our Father." Uncle Miah was sur- 
 prised and delighted. He did not remember 
 that the same God who called Samuel speaks, 
 tliough in a different way, to little children now. 
 His heart was full, and he kissed tiie child of 
 his old age again and again, and called her his 
 "darling Mary." So he went on with his 
 questions, till he cama to the words, " Forgive 
 us our trespasses, as we forgive those who tres- 
 pass against us." 
 
 " Well, my child, can you tell me what that 
 means ?" 
 
 "I don't know, certainly. I suppose it 
 means we may ask God to forgive us just as 
 much as we forgive the folks who are not good 
 to us, and make us feel bad. Doesn't it, pa ?" 
 and Mary turned iier loving blue eyes full upon 
 her father's face, and was silent. 
 
 That was too much for the old man. He 
 was silent, too, for a moment ; but it was only 
 a moment. The tide was rising within him, 
 and soon the channels of tears, which had 
 been so long dry, were opened again, and a 
 shower poured down those wrinkled and 
 weather-beaten cheeks, as he pressed his dar- 
 ling child to his breast. Uncle Miah said no 
 more, at that time, for he was a man of few 
 words, you know. But Aunt Sibyl and the 
 children knew well enough what his thoughts 
 were. There was a good deal of meaning in 
 timt thunder shower, coming up, as it did, 
 against the wind, and almost witliout any cloud. 
 It was late in t^e evening before the subject 
 was broached again. Sally lad come home, 
 and answered all the questions about the Hart- 
 ford cousins. The children were sleepy. One 
 after another had got tired of talking, and gone 
 to bed. The fire, from sympathy, seemed to be 
 nodding too. The old folks were left alone, 
 on opposite sides of the hearth-stone. Uncle 
 Miah nt and thought for a long time. Aunt 
 Sibyl laid nothing. Slie knew something was 
 coming from the other side of the heartli ; and 
 it came, at last. 
 
 " Wife," said the old man, " I've been think- 
 ing that that Mary of ours is an angel." 
 " May be so," was the reply. 
 " I tell you, wife, that child is an angel." 
 There was not much use in arguing with 
 Uncle Miah, after he had once made up his 
 mind, whatever you might tliink of his notions ; 
 and so Aunt Sibyl simply said, " Well, I don^t 
 know what to think of Mary. She isn't like 
 otiier children, that's certain."' 
 
 Then there was another pause, and more 
 musing, on both sides of the hearth, until Uncle 
 Miah said, by and by, " That liberty pole won't 
 be standing to-morrow night, I reckon." 
 
 And the old Democrat reckoned right. He 
 was not bad at figures, by the way. He liad 
 ciphered all through Daboll's Arithmetic, and 
 that was a good deal for one who was born 
 before the Revolutionary war, and on Blue Hill, 
 too. The next morning, bright and early, be- 
 fore anybody else was up in the house, he was 
 chopping away at the liberty pole in front of 
 his door. Tiiere he was at work, with his coat 
 off, and his sleeves rolled up, notwithstanding 
 the Governor's proclamation, which always said 
 at the bottom, in those days, " all servile labor, 
 and vain recreation, on said day, are by law 
 forbidden." The noise of that axe, a-going at 
 that rate, sounded strangely on the hill. The 
 folks on both sides of the way were waked up 
 by it, and, as they rubbed open their eyes, they 
 wondered if it was not a dream. Whack, 
 whack, went the axe, and by and by down went 
 the pole, with a noise like a small earthquake. 
 That brought all the folks out, in both houses, 
 to see what was the matter. 
 
 " What upon earth does all that mean ?" 
 said Uncle Mike, as he saw the pole lying on 
 the ground, and the staunch old Democrat with 
 the axe in his hand. 
 
 But there was no explanation till after the 
 cows were milked, and breakfast was over. 
 Then Uncle Miah went across the way, and 
 walked straight into the house, where Uncle 
 Mike and the family were still eating breakfast. 
 People did not use to knock at their neiglibors' 
 doors, at that time, on Blue Hill. 
 
 " Mike, I've chopped down that old Jefferson 
 liberty pole." 
 
 " Going to put up one for Jackson, I sup- 
 po.se." 
 
 " No, I reckon not ; I've got enough of lib- 
 erty poles." 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder. You needn't think I'm 
 going to cut mine down, tiiougii." 
 
INVOCATION TO THE 3MUSE. 
 
 287 
 
 " I wasn't thinking about that. But look 
 here, brother, there is no use in our keeping 
 up this quarrel any longer. Fm sick of it. It 
 began on our side of the way, I suppose ; at 
 any rate, I'll do anjnhing to stop it." 
 
 Uncle Mike was taken all aback, as the 
 sailors say. He had kept on eating before, or 
 tried to do so, but now he stopped, dropped his 
 knife and fork, and turned round his chair from 
 the table. Perhaps he was beginning to think 
 there was another sort of breakfast to be eaten. 
 If so, he was not much mistaken. 
 
 " God sent an angel to me last night." 
 
 Was Uncle Miah crazy ? We thought it 
 was likely enough. He was always odd — poor 
 man! 
 
 " He did ; and the angel told me how foolish 
 and wicked it was for me to keep saying the 
 Lord's Prayer over, and to be asking God, every 
 night and morning, to ' forgive us our tres- 
 passes.' " And he told the whole story. He 
 had to stop a good many times before he got 
 through, though, for he wept Hke a child. Yes, 
 all unmanly as it was, he wept. So did we 
 all ; for it was like the breaking up of ice in 
 the spring, when the banks of the rivers are too 
 narrow for the flood. Few words were spoken. 
 
 as those brothers shook hands together. Words 
 are nothing, at such a time. 
 
 When the old lumber waggon across the way 
 was rigged out for meeting, that morning, and 
 the folks had all crowded in. Uncle Miah drove 
 straight to the Presbyterian meeting-house ; and 
 after he got home, and they were talking about 
 tlie sermon, he said he didn't think the folks 
 up there were so blue, after all. There was 
 an odd sort of a thanksgiving dinner on Blue 
 Hill, that afternoon, in the best room across the 
 way. Our large table was lugged over, and 
 placed by the side of Aunt Sibyl's, and the 
 chicken pies, the roasted turkeys, and puddings, 
 of both houses, met together at that mammoth 
 table, and around it we all gathered, with some- 
 thing of gratitude, I think — with much of hap- 
 piness, I know. 
 
 That rude mansion always seemed sacred to 
 me, after that. It seemed as if an angel dwelt 
 there. Years have passed. Changes have 
 taken place. Those uncles lie side by side in 
 the grave-yard on the Hill, and little Mary is 
 sleeping near them. I am no longer a child. 
 Yet even now, there is scarce a spot on earth so 
 hallowed in my memory as that which was 
 once the home of " our cousins across the way.** 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE MUSE, 
 
 BY E. J. EAMES. 
 
 Wilt thou too leave me — thou, who wast the first 
 
 And fairest vision of my happiest youth, — 
 Who at my side the germs of Poesy nurs'd, 
 
 And blent wild fiction with the hues of Truth ; 
 Thou, who didst follow wheresoe'er I roam'd? 
 
 In the wood-path — by the sunny stream — 
 By the red rose tree, when the twilight " gloam'd "- 
 
 Thou wert my Inspiration, and my dream. 
 Oh ! angel of the faded year ! I need 
 
 The Glory of thy Presence once, once more, 
 And on thy beauteous forehead fain would read 
 
 The Prophecy the Sibyl wrote of yore. 
 I do not ask thy stay for long, sweet Muse — 
 Oh, then do not tliis last request refuse ! 
 
THE SAILOR'S WIDOW 
 
 BY MISS H. F. GOULD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ah ! sad the morn to me ; 
 
 Though bright are earth and sky; 
 And on the smiling sea 
 
 T look with streaming eye ! 
 Where yonder line, so pale, 
 
 Scarce parts the wave and air, 
 I watched his flying sail, 
 Till lost to vision there. 
 Passing away, in distance far, 
 It vanished like a setting star ! 
 My day-star, once, it neared the shore; 
 But now 'twas sunk to rise no more. 
 
 II. 
 To hear my orphans call „' '■ 
 
 Their father's name in vain, 
 Brings gloom that's like a pall, 
 
 And tears, that shower like rain. 
 They ask, " Why don't he come 
 
 His little ones to take ?" 
 I sit, with sorrow dumb. 
 
 And feel my heart-strings break. 
 Wild raged the storm that dismal night; — 
 It plucked him from our mortal sight ! 
 His spirit up to God it gave ; 
 While ocean yawned, his restless grave. 
 
 m. 
 My light of life is past ; 
 
 And from that fatal hour, 
 A shade of death is cast 
 . On each fair earthly flower. 
 Oh ! whither can I go, — 
 I dare not look above, 
 Nor yon cold flood below, — 
 For my departed love ? 
 Just Heaven would spurn my envious prayer; 
 In ocean's cave dwells dark Despair; 
 And, O thou sea ! thou hungry sea ! 
 A daily death I die by thee! 
 
Fiom H C CoTtculd^" 
 
 i I: tfr^rarcd by i>o B Ellis 
 
 T !H! E © E ? A 1 T 2; 1 E . 
 
A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF A PHYSICIAN. 
 
 289 
 
 A iPASSAdig urn TmiE Mwi^ ©IF A wwt^mmm. 
 
 BELLA H N. 
 
 I WAS summoned, on the last day of the win- 
 ter of 18 — , to the house of Mrs. H n, a 
 
 wealthy widow lady, who resided a short dis- 
 tance from the village. At the decease of her 
 husband, ten years before, she had been left 
 with a large inheritance, and the care of hex 
 two daughters, the one twelve, and the other 
 but eight years of age. Still young herself, 
 and of rather uncommon beauty, it was uni- 
 versally thought at the time, that when the 
 season of her mourning should be over, she 
 would at once launch out upon the world to 
 display and enjoy the various charms of which 
 she was the possessor. It would not have 
 been strange, in many another woman, situ- 
 ated as she was, had she taken that course. 
 It might have been perfectly natural. But 
 the community were doomed to be disap- 
 pointed. The days of her mourning endured 
 longer than had been anticipated. Bound to 
 her husband during his life with a true affec- 
 tion, she did not bury her love in the grave 
 with him, but clinging to his memory with a 
 faithful heart, she devoted herself to the care and 
 education of her children, as a duty she owed 
 not only to them, but to him who was gone. 
 Society she did not refuse nor withdraw herself 
 from, but she avoided all display, and was espe- 
 cially active in schemes of benevolence. This 
 was, perhaps, to be attributed, in part at least, 
 to the principles and habits acquired in early 
 life, for she had been brought up in an humble 
 sphere, and in the simple manners of a country 
 village, and was naturally of a quiet and sedate 
 mind ; so that, when she was married to the 
 
 wealthy Mr. H n, although externally she 
 
 conformed to the more fashionable and showy 
 walk in which he was accustomed to move, she 
 still retained the simplicity of her former 
 habits, at home. Left, by his death, without 
 any bonds to hold her to her then mode of life, 
 and having the interests of her growing girls 
 
 near her heart, and fearing the influence upon 
 their young minds of the example of only 
 fashionable society, she returned at once to her 
 primitive mode of life. 
 
 Ten years had passed away, and Grace and 
 
 Bella H n had become beautiful young 
 
 women. Educated under the eye of a tender 
 and solicitous mother, they were as near as 
 human frailty can approach what young wo- 
 men ought to be at that age in life. But they 
 were not alike beautiful and lovely. Their 
 forms, their features, or their minds were not 
 cast in the same mould, nor made after the 
 same pattern. Grace — the elder of the two — 
 was tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed. To one 
 unacquainted with her she seemed haughty. 
 But she was not. The impression came from 
 her noble and dignified appearance and man- 
 ners. Isabella — or, as she was always called» 
 Bella — was fairy-like in form, and had laugh- 
 ing blue eyes and light hair, and was altogether 
 one of the very sunniest beings I ever beheld. 
 Always lively and gay, she presented a striking 
 contrast with her more sedate and queen-hke 
 sister. Yet, to a mother's heart, they were 
 alike lovely, and the three were bound together 
 by the fondest and dearest ties. Such were 
 they at the date of my narrative. I copy froni 
 my diary. 
 
 February 2dth, 18—. * * * * * * 
 
 Mrs. H. n met me at the door and led me 
 
 into the parlor, and sat, for a few moments, in 
 a paroxysm of irresistible grief. I saw at once 
 that some terrible affliction had fallen upon her, 
 and did not interrupt her tears, till I saw that, 
 she was becoming more composed. I then in- 
 quired as to the cause of my being sent fur. 
 
 •'Bella — my poor Bella" — and she again 
 gave way to a flood of anguish. 
 
 I took a seat by her side and endeavored to 
 calm her excitement, but it was some time lie- 
 fore I could succeed. I then besought her to^ 
 
290 
 
 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF A PHYSICIAN. 
 
 tell me calmly the cause of her distress. It 
 required but few words to make me acquainted 
 with all, but those few words were broken with 
 Bobs and tears. 
 
 Alas ! that we sliould be always so ready to 
 enshrine idols in our innermost heart, and bow 
 down and worship them, only to see them torn 
 down and broken, and ground to dust before 
 our eyes. A child — a husband — a wife — a 
 lover — pleasure — ambition — gold, the sordidest 
 of all sordid idols — some one of these finds an 
 altar and a worshipper in every bosom. It is 
 not so strange that natural affection should 
 raise up its false worship to the objects of its 
 love, as that the meaner propensities — vain 
 phantoms without form or substance — mere 
 images of the mind's making — should find a 
 place in the real, for the worship of their 
 shadowy unrealities. Yet all have their hold 
 upon the affections, and one will pursue the 
 unreal shadow with all the zeal of another in 
 chase of the more substantial object, as if the 
 things of this momentary life were worth a 
 single instant's harboring in an immortal mind 
 — a mind destined to breathe the air of heaven, 
 and drink in infinite and unfading joy and hap- 
 piness there. These idols are all shadows, 
 creatures of our own making, and soon or late 
 will be destroyed. Why not, then, cast tliem 
 out at once — trample them down in the dust, 
 and learn to despise them as such ; and, while 
 natural affection rejoices in its objects as the 
 blessed boon of a beneficent Father, hold them 
 all subject to His will, and resign them cheer- 
 fully when He says. Give them back to me ! 
 We are not conscious of the hold they gain 
 upon our hearts till they are taken away, and 
 then we first learn how deep has been our 
 idolatry. 
 
 I learned from Mrs. H n, that her daugh- 
 ter Bella had been for some few months under 
 
 engagement of marriage to Ernest L e, a 
 
 young physician, who had formerly been a stu- 
 dent in my office. He was a young man of 
 sterling character, and in all respects worthy 
 the love of any woman, although he was in 
 but moderate circumstances, while Bella would 
 be very rich. But this was, in the mind of 
 
 Mrs. H n, no hindrance to be thrown in the 
 
 way of her daughter's happiness. Bella loved 
 liim. And why should she not? A more 
 noble and whole-hearted man never won a 
 woman's love. But they were both young, and 
 when EmeHt had finished his studies as my 
 pupil, Mr«. H n proposed that he should go 
 
 to Paris, and spend a year there in the schools 
 and hospitals, to perfect his education. With a 
 generosity, eminently characteristic of her, she 
 offered to defray all his expenses, and he ac- 
 cepted the proposal as readily as it was made. 
 This was the first I knew of these matters. 
 He took his departure with joyful anticipa- 
 tions of returning, at the end of the year, with 
 improved mind, to marry Bella, and embark in 
 his professional career. All was hope, and 
 neither of them was inclined to yield to any 
 forebodings of evil. 
 
 Two months passed away, and no letters 
 were received, and nothing had been heard 
 from him. Another passed, and still no 
 news. A gloomy cloud seemed to be settling 
 down upon the bright spirit of Bella. She 
 wrote to the agents of the vessel in which 
 Ernest had sailed, but they had not heard from 
 her, yet they hoped that all was well. The 
 poor girl was in an agony of suspense. The 
 happy smile had deserted her lip, and she be- 
 came gloomy and thoughtful. She would sit 
 for hours leaning her forehead on her hand, 
 apparently unconscious of all that was going 
 on around her. Three days since, a letter was 
 received from the agents, saying that they had 
 given up all hope of the vessel's safety, and 
 were compelled to fear that she had been lost. 
 
 In spite of all the fears of this kind which had 
 harassed the heart of Bella for some time, this 
 news fell upon her with awful severity. There 
 had been a little hope till now ; but that was 
 past. She sunk under the blow. The first day 
 she spent in tears, in the solitude of her own 
 room, and the kind mother did not interfere, 
 thinking this natural burst of grief would pass 
 away and leave her more calm. But the fol- 
 lowing night she spent also in sleepless grief; 
 and from that time no words of comfort had 
 any effect upon her. She had become calm, to 
 be sure, but the smile had gone, and the bright 
 hue from her cheek, and she talked much to 
 
 herself; and Mrs. II n was fearful that her 
 
 mind was becoming disordered. She had sent 
 for me that I might see her, and to know my 
 opinion. 
 
 I found Bella in her room ; she was reclining 
 on the sofa, with an air of deep and thoughtful 
 melancholy in her face. She looked up as I 
 entered the room, but did not seem surprised to 
 see me, although she did not know that I had 
 been sent for. I endeavored to draw her into 
 conversation ; but though she woul^, answer 
 my questions, sbo would instantly relapse into 
 
A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF A PHYSICIAN. 
 
 291 
 
 her listless mood. I referred to her loss in as 
 kind and cautious a way as I could, and for a 
 moment she was aroused. 
 
 "Oh! it is a terrible thing, Doctor," she 
 said, " and came upon us so suddenly. He 
 was so noble and true-hearted ; and to be taken 
 away thus, when all the world was looking so 
 bright to him ! But we shall not be separated 
 long." 
 
 "No — no, Bella," said I, "you must not 
 talk so." 
 
 " It is so, Doctor ; my heart tells me it is so. 
 And I would not live longer. You do not 
 know how dark the world looks to. me now. 
 And I believe mother and Grace feel it almost 
 as much as I. And why should they not ? for 
 Ernest was very dear to all of us." 
 
 Although such was the tenor of all she said 
 to m(* yet I could not regard it as anything 
 more than the effect of the shock, which time 
 would alleviate ; and so I told her mother, be- 
 fore I left. 
 
 " I hope so, indeed," replied Mrs. H n, 
 
 " but I cannot help fearing it will not." 
 ****** * 
 
 April 3. — How little the world knows of the 
 misery that lies cankering in its own bosom. 
 We see around us, every day, the denizens of 
 want, shrouded in rags and fdth, and we hear 
 of the doings of famine, and disease, and pes- 
 tilence in other places ; but all this has become 
 a matter of course with us. But in the man- 
 sions of wealth, in their gorgeous panoply, that 
 seems to shut out the very thought of care and 
 wretchedness, and where the children of pov- 
 erty stop as they pass, and gaze, and wonder 
 if the indwellers know what want is — in such 
 places misery lies hid, but is none the less real. 
 Down deep in the bosom of the sufferer, be- 
 neath a brow all bright and cheerful, beats often 
 a poor heart, rent, and torn, and crushed with 
 consuming sorrow. No class, nor age, nor 
 condition is exempt. If this world were all 
 smiles and happiness, we should forget, ingrates 
 that we are, to look beyond. 
 
 More than a month has passed since I was 
 called to see Bella j and although the exter- 
 nal signs of her grief have become less mani- 
 fest — perhaps from our habit of seeing them — 
 yet the smile has never visited her face again. 
 
 " O Doctor, how I wish it had been me," 
 said her sister Grace to me, one day, as she 
 followed me to the door. 
 
 " Why so, my dear Grace ?"' I asked. " Do 
 ycu think you could have borne it belter ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not," she replied, " but then the 
 others would not have felt it so. It is so sad 
 to see Bella, once so gay. and the life of the 
 house, now so changed. It throws a gloom 
 over us all. Had I suffered just as much, it 
 would have fallen upon others with less severi- 
 ty. W^e did not know her before, Doctor, nor 
 how dear she is to us." 
 
 " Let us take courage, Grace, and trust in 
 God." 
 
 Bella's mind does not seem to have suffered 
 any in its powers, but her health is already 
 beginning to give way ; and she still talks of 
 the certainty that she shall soon meet Ernest 
 again. Her heart was early imbued with the 
 spirit of religion ; and now she has mingled 
 with her hopes of a future life, the idea of being 
 there united, in communion at least, with him 
 she has lost. She will talk of nothing else. I 
 have advised the family to try change of scene, 
 
 and to-morrow Mrs. H n is to set out on a 
 
 journey in her own carriage, to try its effects 
 upon her daughter. God grant it may h^p to 
 wile away her mind from its perpetual gloom. 
 
 Mrs. H n is still building a hope for the 
 
 future, on the idea that the vessel is not lost, 
 and that some accident has driven her out of 
 her course, and that they shall yet hear from 
 Ernest that he is alive. But our dear patient 
 cannot be induced to rely upon such possibili- 
 ties. They raise no hope in her mind. 
 
 April Atli. — She has started this morning. 
 The preparation, though made with as much 
 ostentation as possible, made no impression 
 upon her. In some things she herself assisted, 
 but with a sort of mechanical air that showed 
 her utter indifference. I was with them to the 
 last. 
 
 " I appreciate, deeply, all your kindness 
 and sympathy. Doctor," said Bella, as I sat by 
 her while waiting for the carriage ; " and I 
 wish, for your sake, and mother's, and Grace's, 
 that it may be of service to me. But I fear 
 not. I cannot arouse myself. There is such 
 a constant weight here, on my heart, that 
 I struggle in vain to throw off. I wish I 
 could, for I am grieved at the constant misery 
 I see around me, and of which I am the cause." 
 " Yet, Bella, will you not, for our sakes, con- 
 tinue to make the effort ? Think less of your- 
 self, and let your heart be open to the influences 
 of the scenes through which you pass." 
 
 " I will, indeed, try. Doctor. I am trying 
 ail the time. But should I not come back 
 again — — " 
 
292 
 
 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF A PHYSICIAN. 
 
 " No, Bella — none of that. Let it be one 
 of your most constant efforts to keep such 
 thoughts out of your mind. Come back ! to be 
 sure you will, my dear girl, and I hope gladden 
 all our hearts again. But here is the carriage 
 all ready. Now, good bye. God be with you." 
 
 I saw a tear on her cheek as I seated her in 
 tlic carriage, and I took it for a good omen. 
 
 O love ! love ! no wonder that the ancients 
 deified thee, and gave thee a quiver and a bow. 
 Thou art the ruler of all hearts. Yet how dif- 
 ferent the wounds thine arrows make. To the 
 young lover, with his fond one folded to his 
 bosom, all is joy. Clouds may gather round 
 them and darken their path, but the clouds 
 throw no shadow on their hearts. All is bright 
 to them. The heaviest ills of life look light 
 and easy to be borne. Care knocks at their 
 door in vain. Poverty is but the name of an 
 unreal fear. And borne up by unfading mutual 
 love, they wed, and children cluster round 
 them — the blossoms and fruits of their affec- 
 tion — and what know they of sorrow ? Labor ! 
 it is the zest of home's joys. Absence ! it is 
 only the surety and pledge of a new happiness 
 when the meeting time comes, and the loved 
 ones shall gather to his bosom, and make his 
 heart swell with thankfulness and honest 
 pride. Yet some, with hearts as passionless as 
 the lichen on the dry rock, sneer at the pas- 
 sion, and live unloving and die unloved. Mis- 
 erable men ! 
 
 But turn the picture — for turn it we must. 
 Let death with his unsparing hand tear them 
 asunder — or, worse, far worse, let coldness, and 
 suspicion, and discord, and hate — yes, hate — 
 show their ugly forms and poison all the pure and 
 holy feelings which were growing up in those 
 breasts ; and, like a solitary tree in the midst 
 of the desert, upon which the thunderbolt has 
 fallen and blasted its roots, and drank up its 
 eap, and withered its leaves, leaving only a 
 seared trunk and gnarled limbs as the witness 
 of the lighlninf/s power and wrath — so will be 
 that lone and desolate spirit, blighted, and 
 crushed, and down-trodden — the world, a desert 
 of human hearts. But I do not love to look 
 upon this side. 
 
 * * * <i> * * * 
 
 T]\e family of Mrs. II n were absent 
 
 several tnonths. I received frequent letters 
 from them in relatioti to Bella, and once she 
 wrote me herself. Her bodily health was im- 
 proved, but her mind was still sunk in gloom. 
 
 ** No, Doctor," she wrote, " the bloom may 
 
 come back to my faded cheek, but the green- 
 ness and joy to my heart — never. It is crush- 
 ed and withered. Nothing moves me. I stand 
 in the midst of scenes that a few months since 
 would have made my heart leap to enjoy their 
 beauty. I see their charms. I hear others 
 speak of them in the most glowing language — 
 but my poor heart lies still, and passionless, and 
 cold in the midst of all. I struggle against it ; 
 1 make efforts to break my chains ; but I sink 
 back powerless as a bird with broken wing 
 There is something wanting — a terrible void. 
 * * * * Why is it? They love me — 
 they seem to idolize me. Yet, though I wish 
 earnestly, ardently to show that I am deeply 
 sensible of their love — though I tell them so, 
 as I now tell you, there is no outward exhibi- 
 tion of it. I see and feel that I am cold as tlie 
 marble statue. Why is it ? It is not that the 
 principle of true affection is gone from me, for 
 that I feel is not so. Is it because the passion 
 lies in the ocean grave with Ernest ? I be- 
 lieve that is the true cause. 
 
 « * * * J fegi that I have done wrong in 
 yielding, as I have, to the influence of my feel- 
 ings. I have duties to perform — a destiny to 
 fulfil ; and now I am strengthening myself for 
 the work. I have told this to mother, and it 
 seemed to be a satisfaction to her. Perhaps on 
 this she builds a new hope of my recovery. 
 And why deny to her even such a small com- 
 fort? I could hope for her sake that such might 
 be the case. Dear Grace is my guardian angel, 
 and my heart weeps bitter tears, when I think 
 how ungrateful I must seem to them." 
 
 They returned. There was a remarkable 
 change in the appearance of Bella. The smile 
 was not there, but she was more beautiful than 
 before. It was the beauty of the mature wo- 
 man — matured suddenly and by sorrow, and 
 with a shade of sadne.ss that made her doubly 
 interesting. And the others seemed to have 
 become, in a measure, reconciled to the change 
 in her. She became an active woman in deeds 
 of benevolence, and all who loved her before, 
 loved her far more now, though they mourned 
 for the cheerfulness and gayety which she 
 had buried in the grave of Ernest. 
 
 Bella ceased to be my patient. I met her 
 often at the bedside of the sick, where she 
 came like a ministering angel, and soothed the 
 anguish of disease by her gentle, and calm, 
 and aflfectionate kindness. And in this way 
 more than a year passed by. I was one even- 
 ing called to the house by some trifling illness 
 
TRUST NOT. 
 
 293 
 
 of her mother, and after I had prescribed for 
 her, I took my seat in the parlor with the 
 young ladies. I talked with Grace for some 
 time, for Bella rarely joined in the convei"sa- 
 tion. At length she left her seat and went 
 to the window. It was an evening of great 
 beauty, and the fiiK moon, just risen in fi-ont 
 of the house, poured its full light upon the 
 entrance, and the broad gravel walk leading 
 up to the door. I heard tlie latch of the gate 
 as some one entered, and suffered it to swing 
 back. An instant afterwards we were startled 
 by hearing Bella exclaim, with a peculiar tone, 
 ♦' Doctor ! Grace !" and, springing to my feet, 
 I saw her stand with both hands pressed con- 
 vulsively to her breast, and her eyes strained 
 eagerly towards some object out of the win- 
 dow. I stepped quickly to her side, and re- 
 ceived her in my arms as she fainted. But I 
 had seen the cause of her distress. A gen- 
 tleman was approaching, and Grace at that 
 instant exclaimed, " It is he — it is Ernest !" 
 
 I carried Bella hastily into the adjoining 
 room, and laid her upon the sofa, wh'de Grace 
 ran to the door to admit the visitor, and lead- 
 
 ing him into the parlor, came to us just as our 
 patient was murmuring — 
 
 " O ! I had such a dream, Grace," she said, 
 as she opened her eyes. " I thought he had 
 come back, and " 
 
 " It was no dream, dear Bella," said Grace. 
 " It is no dream. He is here — here in the 
 house." 
 
 As I am not writing romances, I will not 
 attempt to describe the effect of his sudden 
 an-ival. His story was soon told. The ship 
 in which he had sailed had been lost at sea. 
 The crew deserted her in the boats, with as 
 many as they could caiTy. After tossing about 
 for several days, the boat in which was Ernest, 
 had been taken up by a vessel bound for the 
 East Indies. Of course he went along, and 
 returned by the first opportunity. No chance 
 of ever sending a letter had occurred, which 
 could give notice of his safety before his own 
 return. He brought the news himself, and 
 with it the joys of other days. Bella has 
 never regained the same smile she wore be- 
 fore ; but cheerfulness and peace have visited 
 her again. 
 
 TISiGrSIP H(D^, 
 
 Trttst not, trust not ; 
 The world is full of change : 
 Though Fortune smile, her frown erewhile 
 May warmest friends estrange : 
 Then trust not 
 
 Trust not, trust not ; 
 The sun at rosy mom, 
 With gladsome light, may promise bright, 
 Yet herald cloud and storm : 
 Then trust not 
 
 Trust not, trust not 
 The smooth and placid sea ; 
 Its rocks lie deep, and tempests sleep, 
 To wreck thy bark and thee ; 
 Then trust not 
 
 Trust not, trust not 
 The love that gold may buy ; 
 In poverty 'twill turn from thee, 
 With cold and altered eye : 
 Then trust not 
 
 Trust not, trust not 
 To aught beneath the skies ; 
 Earth's promised joys are gilded toys, 
 To cheat the longing eyes ; 
 Then trust riot 
 
 Trust not, trust not. 
 But they — the tried and true, 
 And then a pang, from falsehood's fang. 
 Thy heart shall never rue : 
 Then trust not 
 
294 
 
 SKETCHES OF WESTERN LIFE. 
 
 SEl'IPdJIEIlSS ©IF WliSflglEM IIjHIFI, 
 
 B7 MRS. E. MARIA SHELDON. 
 
 NE W SA RATOGA 
 
 About two years after the paper-city mania, 
 in this Wolverine State, being on a visit to a 
 
 relative, in the village of D , it was one day 
 
 proposed that we should take an excursion on 
 horseback, to Prospect Hill, about seven miles 
 distant. The proposal was hailed with pleas- 
 ure by us all, and the next day fixed upon for 
 the ride. 
 
 The morning proved cloudy, and of six 
 couples, all except three individuals gave up 
 the project from fear of a storm . 
 
 " No, indeed, we won't give up, will we ?" 
 
 said Helen N , a fine, spirited young lady, 
 
 to Mr. H , my relative, who was preparing 
 
 to accompany us. 
 
 " I don't anticipate a storm," he replied, " and 
 as this will be the last opportunity we shall 
 have before Cousin leaves us, I am anxious to 
 go. We will show Emily all the beauties of 
 the hill, then go to New Saratoga, and dine at 
 theWhite Cottage," he added with a quiet smile. 
 
 New Saratoga ! thought I ; I never heard of 
 that place before, and that smile has meaning 
 in it. But I was not Yankee enough to ask 
 questions, and too much Wolverine to be taken 
 by surprise. 
 
 Up and away ! we were soon riding leisurely 
 through the village, greeted with a polite bow 
 now and then, from an acquaintance, and an 
 ominous shake of the head from one and another 
 of the more judicious part of our party, who 
 chose to stay at home. 
 
 The village passed, we resolved to try the 
 mettle of our " bonnie steeds," and away we 
 galloped over the undulating " openings," till 
 fatigue sobered us, and an easy pace gave us 
 opportunity to observe scenery, and enjoy the 
 reading of Nature's book. 
 
 The season was early spring-time. The 
 very fir^t tiny blossoms were peeping up among 
 the dry loaves ; here and there, in the valleys, 
 were patches of green ; but the old oaks spread 
 oat their huge arms above us, leafless and 
 
 apparently dead, and only now and then could 
 we see the least vestige of green beneath their 
 broad shadows. All nature seemed in a " sweet- 
 ly melancholy mood." The air was soft and 
 warm, but there was not wind enough astir to 
 sway the smoke that rose lazily from the cabins 
 seen at intervals by the wayside. The clouds, 
 that hung heavily over all tlie face of the heav- 
 ens, seemed coming down to rest on the tree- 
 tops. Not a robin's note was heard, and the 
 squirrels running across the road, or looking 
 down saucily from some overhanging limb, did 
 not chatter as they were wont. Our own little 
 cavalcade gradually partook of nature's pen- 
 siveness : gleeful sallies and the merry ringing 
 laugh subsided into sober remark, then a long 
 silence succeeded, and each drank into the 
 spirit the purifying gladness of pleasant reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 Beautiful, most beautiful, at any season, is 
 the scenery on our " heavy-timbered oak open- 
 ings," — for this is the term used for those sec- 
 tions of country where the timber is mostly 
 large, sturdy oaks, thickly set, but without 
 underbrush. The surface of the land is as if 
 it had once been an ocean, and the Almighty 
 fiat had changed it to earth while its billows 
 were rolling. Thus, for miles you will see a 
 succession of billowy hills and intervening 
 valleys covered with these forest monarchs. 
 Can such scenery be otherwise than beautiful 7 
 
 On, on we rode over these hills and valleys 
 in silence, but not in gloom, till another road 
 intersecting ours woke us from our day-dream. 
 
 " Asleep ! horses and all," exclaimed Mr. 
 
 H . " Come, Speedwell, you must step 
 
 quicker, or we won't get to the ' White Cot- 
 tage' in time to see the boarders." 
 
 I glanced at Helen, and the would-be grave 
 expression of her countenance was enough. 
 
 " We will take this road, girls," said Mr. 
 
 H , reining his horse to tlie right, " and 
 
 then wo can ride to the top of the hill." 
 
SKETCHES OF WESTERN LIFE. 
 
 295 
 
 I began to think « Prospect Hill," " White 
 Cottage," and all, would prove to be a hoax, 
 from the mischievous looks 'of my companions ; 
 but determined to be surprised at nothing, and 
 to enjoy all I could find worth enjoying, I rode 
 on without remark. 
 
 " Away, away !" shouted Mr. H , spur- 
 ring his horse into a gallop. In a moment we 
 were all bounding over the ground at full 
 speed. The aspect of the country began to 
 change ; it was lower and more level ; beech, 
 maple and elm almost displaced the oak, and 
 the thickly-set black ash in the distance be- 
 tokened our approach to a larger stream than 
 the brooklets we had crossed. Presently huge 
 saw-logs appeared, scattered by the wayside, 
 and a little further on, it would have required 
 a skillful hand to steer a carriage through such 
 straits. 
 
 " Heigh ho ! we can't gallop here," said Helen 
 as we walked our horses, " Indian file," through 
 this scarcely more than footpath. 
 
 " I should think we must be near your famous 
 city, from appearances," I remarked to Mr. 
 H ; " they seem to be making large build- 
 ing preparations." 
 
 " New Saratoga is about a mile from here," 
 he replied, and again that smile. 
 
 " There is one of the seven lakes, that I told 
 you we could sec from the top of the hill," ob- 
 served Mr. H , pointing with his whip to the 
 
 right, " and this river just below is its outlet." 
 
 Yes ; there lay the lake, a broad, beautiful 
 sheet of silver, encircled by tall forest-guards, 
 but it seemed scarcely possible that this rapid 
 river could be the outgushing of waters, which 
 were there so placid and still. A little further 
 on was the uncouth, noisy saw-mill, with its 
 usual medley of boards, planks, slabs, &c. 
 
 « To the left, to the left," shouted Mr. H 
 
 to Helen, who, having emerged from the mill- 
 yard, was riding rapidly toward the river. 
 
 "I will lead the way presently," he said, as 
 we wheeled off into the dense forest 
 
 " Look out for veils and plumes," was our 
 next much-needed advice. " This footpath leads 
 directly to the top of Prospect Hill, ladies," 
 
 added Mr. H , with the most polite bow 
 
 imaginable. 
 
 We soon began to ascend a gentle elevation, 
 60 gentle at first that it was scarcely percepti- 
 ble, our pathway winding among the trees, 
 and the horses, now and then, treading on a 
 cluster of spring blossoms which we would 
 gladly have saved from such destruction. A 
 
 few moments' ride, and the ascent became more 
 steep. 
 
 "Hold a tight rein and look well to your- 
 selves ; if the horses falter don't spare the whip," 
 
 said Mr. H . " Excelsior 1 away, away !" 
 
 he shouted, and dashed on up the ascent. 
 
 " Excelsior ! Excelsior .'" echoed through 
 the wood, and our own " bonnie steeds " were 
 not far in the rear. Up, up we went, and still 
 above us rose the hill, and the trees seemed 
 climbing higher and higher above their fellows. 
 " Excelsior" rang again and again through the 
 forest. Our panting horses scrambled on un- 
 used to such steeps, till, at last, we reached the 
 summit. 
 
 " Here we are," is our simultaneous excla- 
 mation, and the tightly drawn bridles are thrown 
 on the horses' necks. Here we are, in the 
 midst of nature's loveliness. The broad level 
 summit of this towering height is covered with 
 stately trees, which, as if proud of their eleva- 
 ted position, are lifting their heads still higher, 
 till they almost reach the clouds. But the 
 " hill " has not an appropriate name ; surround- 
 ed and covered by a dense forest, surely tliere 
 is no " prospect " here. Not quite so fast ; first 
 impressions are often false : there, there, and 
 there, are vistas, through which are most ex- 
 quisitely disclosed the beauties of the far-off 
 landscape. The glassy surfaces of five lakes 
 are spread out in different directions, and were 
 these heavy clouds swept from the face of the 
 heavens, two more would be visible. At the 
 base of this almost moimtain, on the west side, 
 is a lovely plain, shaded, and only shaded, with 
 oaks ; and just beyond is the largest lake in this 
 region, the Portage, seven miles long and three 
 wide. How beautiful it looks. There are but 
 few rushes on its margin, and slippered feet 
 might step unharmed from the bank into the 
 light canoe dancing on its bosom. That white 
 ridge, just beyond the middle of the lake, is a 
 sand-bar which extends entirely across the lake, 
 with but one opening, probably kept clear by 
 the current of the waters. 
 
 How came the ridge in such a place ? what 
 action of the waters heaped up the little grains, 
 whose multitude form the danping hall of the 
 Naiades, till a vein of pearl divides the emerald 
 in twain ? 
 
 Swiftly to me the past comes back again, 
 and busy imagination repeoples this quiet spot 
 with the habitants that have but just passed 
 away. There, on that plain just below us, is 
 the camp-fire again built, and those rude wig- 
 
296 
 
 SKETCHES OF WESTERN LIFE. 
 
 warns erected — tlie dwellings of a day ! Look 
 at that dusky mother bending over the camp- 
 kettle, in which she is preparing coarse food for 
 her little ones. Just within that hut is a 
 young mother, carefully adjusting the bands 
 that fasten her first-born to the hard board, its 
 only cradle. Strange tenderness this seems 
 to us ; but are not those upright forms some- 
 what the result of such rugged caresses ? By 
 yonder tree, with his right hand grasping the 
 trusty rifle, stands the husband of that young 
 wife, the proud father of that wailing babe. 
 In him, perchance, he sees the future warrior, 
 mighty in the battle, fortunate in the chase, 
 and one of those who shall protect these favor- 
 ite hunting grounds from the despoiling tread 
 of the hated pale-faces. See him instinctively 
 search for his tomahawk : at the very thought 
 hie eye kindles, and that scowl shows the fear- 
 ful storm of passions in his bosom. Hark I a 
 sweet voice calls ; the storm subsides, and the 
 savage is a man, with true and loving heart — 
 the seat of all kindly affections. Oh, the om- 
 nipotence of love! 
 
 'TIS night : torches are glaring and flashing 
 over the lake ; birch canoes are paddled swiftly 
 to and fro, by young maidens, while fathers and 
 brothers sit in stately silence, unconscious of 
 any wrong in this unnatural vassalage. Now 
 they rest, and the quick eye and true spear 
 rapidly gather spoils from the placid waters. 
 
 Yonder is one canoe apart from the rest : look 
 closer — two young girls are its only occupants ; 
 how much engaged they seem with their fish- 
 ing tackle, yet that paddle moves oftener than 
 it need, and the canoe is most unnaturally float- 
 ing up stream, towards that little cove. 
 
 A bird-like note floats over the waters : see 
 them start ! now another, and a low warble 
 from the elder of the two maidens is the le- 
 fiponse. Gradually they near the cove, suddenly 
 the torch is shaded, quick as thought the boat 
 touches Uie strand, the elder sister leaps out, 
 and the younger shoves off'; the light appears 
 again, while 'neath the shadow of yon " tryst- 
 ing tree " the beautiful and pure-hearted Indian 
 girl, and her dark-browed lover, plight their 
 TOWS of changeless fidelity. 
 
 " Halloa, the house !" shouted Mr. II ; 
 
 and with telegraphic speed the Indians were 
 beyond the Mississippi, and there were Mr. 
 
 II and Helen, leaning over their horses, 
 
 gazing in at the open door of a house built on 
 this tip-top of all Michigan — a building worth 
 describing: dimensions, seven by nine, one 
 
 story, built of logs, minus roof, windows, chim- 
 ney, and inhabitants. 
 
 " This magnificent structure," remarked Mr. 
 
 H , " was planned by a two and sixpenny 
 
 speculator, for a refreshment house, when New 
 Saratoga was first settled." 
 
 " But where is New Saratoga ?" I inquiied. 
 
 " Spread out before you, coz, in all its beauty, 
 on the plain between us and the lake ; and 
 there, almost on the very shore, is the ' White 
 Cottage ' I spoke of." 
 
 Sure enough, there was a little, uninhabited, 
 one-story building, with the brick chimney and 
 oven visible on one side, while the other side, 
 and one end, were painted white, whence its 
 name. 
 
 Oh how contemptible those two monuments 
 of human folly looked in the midst of all that 
 handiwork of the great Architect ! We could 
 not laugh at such a spectacle, for we felt 
 ashamed of our own humanity. 
 
 Large rain-drops began to fall now and then, 
 as if admonishing us to take our leave ; so we 
 gave heed to the admonition, descended the 
 hill on the west side, crossed the site of the 
 would-be village, rounded the head of the lake, 
 and galloped off" through the woods in seach of 
 a tavern about two miles distant. The road 
 winding around the foot of this hill, and turn- 
 ing out to avoid that little spot of low ground, 
 made these Michigan miles, as the Dutchman 
 said, " narrow, but very long." 
 
 " A river, with pure, deep waters, for me," 1 
 exclaimed, as we came in sight of a beautiful 
 stream rushing along through a little valley 
 just before us, as if in haste to reach the lake, 
 lest that great reservoir should be exhausted. 
 
 " What ! a deep river, if you have to ford 
 it .>" asked Mr. H . 
 
 " But there's a bridge," said I, pointing to a 
 rude causeway thrown across the stream. 
 
 " Yes, an impassable one. Don't be so fidgety, 
 girls, there is no danger," he added, laughing. 
 
 " Oh no ! Mr. H was mistaken ; we were 
 
 not fidgety ; not in the least afraid ; we would 
 love dearly to ford the stream — 'twould be a 
 novelty, something worth boasting of." So— 
 as boys whistle in the dark, to keep their cour- 
 age up— we were very busy, gathering up our 
 riding dresses, adjusting caps, whip and bridle, 
 for the plunge. Bravely we rode to the very 
 brink, but there was a catching of breath, and 
 nervous grasping of the rein, as tlie sudden 
 descent threw us forward in tlie saddle. "Twaa 
 only momentary ; the stream was not deep, 
 
SKETCHES OP WESTERN LIFE. 
 
 297 
 
 and we enjoyed the splashing through those 
 limpid waters, more than any other part of the 
 ride. 
 
 " What is the name of this river ?" I in- 
 quired. 
 
 " It is the Portage, flowing into the lake 
 yonder, which bears the same name, you re- 
 member," was the reply. 
 
 " All ashore ! halloa, the house !" sung out 
 Mr. H , as we gained the bank. 
 
 " Where ? where ?" Oh yes, through the 
 woods yonder, we could descry the looked-for 
 hotel — that is, a common-sized log house, with 
 a huge sign creaking before it. 
 
 A few minutes' ride, and we were alighting, 
 while the landlord held our horses, and the 
 usual knot of loungers were watching the most 
 interesting process of dismounting. Then the 
 horses were handed over to the boys, and, " This 
 way, ladies," said the unpolished, but kind- 
 hearted landlord, throwing open the door to the 
 
 " square room." Mr. H left us to order 
 
 dinner; and we, throwing off" our riding habits, 
 began to look about for some amusement, while 
 said dinner was being prepared. There was 
 not a book nor paper in the room ; we were too 
 tired to be sociable ; the dark clouds were rush- 
 ing across the sky, and presently the big rain- 
 drops began to patter against the little panes of 
 glass in the two little windows, thus keeping 
 us within doors. The room, though not large, 
 was clean ; the well-worn furniture was neatly 
 dusted, and one could not help feeling comfort- 
 able, though in an unpretending way. 
 
 "Oh! here is just what we want," said 
 Helen, as her eye fell on a gaily painted map 
 hanging above the mantle-piece. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. H , who was enter- 
 ing the room, "that is just what you want, for 
 it is a map of New Saratoga." 
 
 " What ! the place we passed on Portage 
 plain ?" I exclaimed. 
 
 " That same," said Mr. H , laughing. 
 
 We both ran to the map, and, truly, there 
 was Saratoga in all its painted beauty ! A city 
 as large as Rochester, New York, with its 
 broad streets, and spacious squares ; its shady 
 parks, and gushing fountains ; its splendid 
 mansions and public buildings, and numerous 
 " spires pointing up toward heaven ;" all spread 
 out to the astonished view ! Here were the 
 " mineral springs," that gave name to the place ; 
 and there, just out of the village, were the mill- 
 seats with their astonishing water-power. 
 
 As I gazed on this beautifully executed map, 
 and read, " hotel erected," " flouring mill in 
 progress," " bath house," &c., and listened to 
 
 Mr. H 's account of the manner in which 
 
 the proprietor, taking advantage of the times, 
 went to New York, and actually, by his map 
 and misrepresentations, succeeded in selling 
 many of these " city lots ;" I thought how low 
 such a man must have descended in the scale 
 of morality, thus to take advantage of his fel- 
 low-man's credulity ; and when there came 
 a summons to dinner, I turned away from 
 that beautiful falsehood, mentally exclaiming, 
 " Surely, surely, ' the love of money is the root 
 of all evil' " 
 
 Discussing a well-cooked dinner, when one 
 is hungry, will restore cheerfulness, though the 
 viands be more substantial than delicate. So 
 it was with us : by the time our repast was 
 finished, we were chatting merrily, and were 
 " ourselves again." Another hour, and the 
 clouds liad broken up their council,-- brushed 
 away their tears, and were running a swift 
 race along the pathway of the sky. 
 
 Mounted, and " homeward bound," we bade 
 adieu to the neat log tavern, and wended our 
 way back again. In fording the river on our 
 return, I carelessly allowed my horse to go 
 lower down the stream than my companions, 
 who were a little in advance ; presently I saw 
 
 Mr. H look back and motion up stream, 
 
 with anxiety on his countenance. Immediately 
 reining my horse as directed, and quickening 
 his pace, I was soon safe on the opposite bank. 
 
 " Well, coz, you just escaped a ducking," 
 
 said Mr. H , drawing a long breath ; " very 
 
 neaf where you were when I beckoned, is a 
 deep hole, beyond your horse's depth, and a 
 martingaled horse cannot swim ; so I expected 
 every moment to see you go down." 
 
 " Yet I am safe, you see." 
 
 " Yes, but no thanks to your own care or 
 wisdom," he replied, with a smile. 
 
 Merrily, cheerily, we rode homeward, except 
 when, for a moment, a breeze of disgust rippled 
 the sweet stream of happiness, as we passed 
 Saratoga plain. 
 
 The weary clouds, one after another, sank 
 away in the east ; the sun shone out in softened 
 beauty, and when we galloped triumphantly 
 
 through the village of D , a splendid sunset 
 
 lit up all the face of the heavens with celestial 
 smiles. 
 
298 THE SOUL-S UNREST. 
 
 BY WM. OLAND BOURNE. 
 
 I HAVE an Atheist in my breast 
 Who lurks within its inmost cell, 
 
 Who smiles amid the soul's unrest, 
 And roimd me weaves Abaddon's spell. 
 
 Whene'er I turn my eyes within. 
 To know the inmates dwelling there, 
 
 I see them all enslaved by Sin, 
 Who softly spreads his glittering snare. 
 
 I learned the truth in years gone by. 
 When first awoke my inner sight, 
 
 And day-dawn met my shade-filmed eye. 
 That now has scarce escaped the night. 
 
 He lingers round his secret place. 
 
 No power has yet compelled him thence, 
 
 Where, half-subdued, he hides his face, 
 But makes a bold and long defence. 
 
 An Egypt was my heart at first. 
 
 And plagues were there — how long they reign ! 
 
 Its streams and sands and stores accurst 
 Made outer day a galling chain. 
 
 Bright things of hope soon died away, 
 And left pale ashes in their shrine, 
 
 Where, at the altar, stood Decay, 
 The oracle of dreams like mine. 
 
 And through the labyrinth of doubt, 
 Deep underground, like that of old, 
 
 I strive to find my pathway out, 
 
 Where Faith's bright sun I might behold. 
 
 The first-bom of my heart was slain. 
 
 Strong Love that knew not death till then. 
 
 While holy sisters joined the train 
 That hastened to their tomb again. 
 
 Oh, that some full, o'erflowing Nile 
 Might irrigate the barren sands ; 
 
 Then should the verdure spring a-while 
 Heaven's guardian angel near me stands. 
 
 Then, in the Goshen of my soul, 
 
 Bright beams of joy their bliss shall pour, 
 
 And lead mo where the Jordans roll 
 On holy Faith's untroubled stioro. 
 
OCOMO. 
 
 299 
 
 ©©(DM® J 
 
 A TALE OF MISSIONARY LIFE 
 
 BY KATE CLEVELAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was a sun-set scene on the banks of the 
 beautiful Mississippi : the majestic river was 
 rolling calmly on, while the ripples on its 
 bosom caught the golden rays of sunlight, and 
 danced and sparkled in their beams. As far as 
 the eye could reach was one unbroken sheet 
 of water, bordered with spots well worthy a 
 painter's pencil ; but art could never equal the 
 bright vivid green of the velvet turf, or the 
 thousand varied hues of the blossoms that 
 gemmed the vales. Art could not portray the 
 giant forms of the grand old trees, whose 
 gnarled and twisted roots were twined together 
 at their base, with a strength that defied human 
 power to separate them. The very sky seemed 
 of a deeper blue than where it canopies our 
 colder clime ; and the music of birds was 
 heard in the forest. Upon the grass, their 
 broad forms resting against the trunks of the 
 forest trees, sat a group of Indian warriors. 
 Their rifles were lying idly before them, and 
 the deadly tomahawk gleamed in their belts. 
 Old men and young were there ; and the dusky 
 but gentle faces of the Indian women were 
 fixed in earnest attention, as they listened to 
 the tones of the missionary, whose voice broke 
 gently on the stillness that reigned around. 
 He was apparently a middle-aged man, and his 
 pale, meek countenance had a look of suffer- 
 ing and resignation, while the dark hair that 
 swept his brow was thickly threaded with silver. 
 His words were in the Indian language, to the 
 study of which he had long applied himself, in 
 order to instruct the poor ignorant red men ; and 
 he spoke it with a fluency which showed that 
 his labor had not been in vain. He had left a 
 pleasant home in the East to take up his abode 
 with the rude, untutored savage ; shut out from 
 his own species, with no companion but the 
 Indian — by whom his life was often threat- 
 
 ened — ^the devoted man steadily persevered in 
 his task, in spite of the obstacles that sur- 
 rounded it. 
 
 He spoke to them of Jesus — of His death on 
 the cross — and tears stood in the eyes of his 
 hearers; while the faces of the old chiefs were 
 bent forward with an expression of wonder, 
 curiosity, and surprise, to hear " the strange 
 pale face," as he was called. That he talked 
 in the Indian language as quickly and correctly 
 as themselves, while he spoke of another 
 " Great Spirit," puzzled the red men. Some 
 lent a willing ear to his affecting truths, and 
 wished to hear more from the great book; 
 while others observed the white man's influ- 
 ence with jealousy, and regarded their more 
 believing companions with contempt. The 
 missionary's heart often failed him ; but he 
 was not one to be easily discouraged from the 
 path of duty, and, seeking strength from the 
 throne of grace, he proceeded with renewed 
 vigor. 
 
 The missionary had often noticed, among 
 his hearers, an Indian youth of strange appear- 
 ance. His eyes were always earnestly fixed 
 upon the speaker, and nothing could divert his 
 attention. His brow was often wreathed with 
 wild blossoms, and his large dark eyes had an 
 unsettled expression ; while his finely-cut fea- 
 tures always wore a look of the deepest mel- 
 ancholy. His manners were quiet and sub- 
 dued — so different from the other Indians, that 
 the missionary felt interested in the youth ; and 
 turn where he would, those sad dark eyes were 
 continually before him, with a fixed, though 
 gentle gaze. In answer to his inquiries, he 
 learned that the boy's name was Ocomo, the 
 son of Undega, a powerful chief, and one of 
 those most strongly opposed to him. 
 
 From his earliest childhood the young Ocomo 
 had found himself an object of contempt to his 
 tribe. His mind was unsettled : at times he 
 
300 
 
 OCOMO. 
 
 would have all the simplicity of a child, and 
 laugh and gambol in his vacant glee ; and then 
 again his insanity assumed a higher order, and 
 he would fancy himselfconversing with spirits; 
 while the words that fell from his lips, at such 
 times, were strangely wild and irregular. His 
 love for flowers amounted to a passion ; and he 
 would express the wildest joy at the sight of a 
 rare blossom, or a cluster of early violets. The 
 Bonl of Ocomo was deeply imbued with the 
 spirit of poetry : in summer he sought the most 
 retired parts of the forest, and, seated by some 
 limpid stream, gazed with silent pleasure on 
 the sunlight that streamed through the open- 
 ing glades ; while a hushed and joyous feeling 
 stole over him, and ho would see bright forms 
 flit by him, and hear the gushing melody of 
 unseen songsters. Poor boy ! he was happy 
 in his insanity. As the rich and gorgeous 
 sunset burst upon his view, he gazed upon the 
 rosy-tinted clouds with awe, and longed to see 
 that spirit-land whence all things beautiful 
 seem to emanate. As the evening wore on he 
 would steal from the wigwam to gaze upon the 
 star-gemmed heavens ; and solitude had a pe- 
 culiar charm for him, for he could people it 
 with beings of his fancy. The warriors re- 
 garded him with contempt ; he could not join 
 the hunt ; could not fix the deadly arrow, and 
 display the scalp of a slaughtered enemy, or 
 bring home a supply of venison. They nick- 
 named him the woman-boy, and sneers, taunts, 
 and revilings followed his footsteps ; for the 
 rude savages despised a mind that found plea- 
 sure in flowers — trifles which the heavy foot of 
 the Indian would crush in his path, rather than 
 stoop to pluck the bright-hued blossoms ; for 
 his eye is never arrested by their modest beauty : 
 it is generally fixed on the crouching form of 
 some hidden foe, or panting deer, gasping its 
 Ust breath in its eflbrta to elude the pursuers. 
 
 It galled the proud spirit of the old chief to 
 see his only son an object of contempt ; and 
 smotheringall feelings of tenderness towards the 
 UDoflTending boy, he spoke sternly and harshly 
 to him, and never could endure his presence. 
 
 But his mother loved him ; she was not 
 ashamed of her unfortunate son ; and the ten- 
 der heart of Ocomo clung to her as the only 
 being that cared for him. He would load his 
 mother with affectionate caresses, delighted at 
 having something to love ; and the rarest flow- 
 ers and brightcst-hued berries were always for 
 her. Sometimes her warm tears fell upon his 
 (kce ; and Ocomo would exclaim, in surprise — 
 
 '• Why do you cry, mother ? Ocomo is happy." 
 But she only answered with her tears ; and the 
 affectionate boy would lay his cheek to hers 
 and kiss away the drops that trembled on the 
 fringed lids. 
 
 When the missionary first appeared among 
 his people, Ocomo listened to his words with 
 surprise and pleasure, and a new light stole 
 into his mind. He went home and told his 
 mother ; and she too came, and listened eagerly. 
 But the wrath of Undega burned fiercely 
 against the intruder ; and only in secret could 
 they talk of the promises and invitations which 
 the good man read from the Bible. At length 
 Ocomo noticed, with alarm, his mother's sunken 
 cheeks and feeble steps, and he saw that she 
 was failing daily. Throwing himself on her 
 bosom, he besought her not to leave him, and 
 murmured, " I have no one but you !" But the 
 arrow of the destroyer had sunk into her 
 heart, and she smiled sadly, as she replied : 
 
 " I am going, Ocomo, to the spirit-land of the 
 pale face. When I am cold and stiff, tell him 
 that I died in faith." 
 
 When her breath had indeed ceased forever, 
 the poor boy threw himself on the body, and his 
 cries and sobs were heart-rending. He refused 
 to believe that his mother was dead. " She 
 would not leave me alone !" he cried ; " I know 
 she will come back I" 
 
 But they tore him from her, and Ocomo saw 
 them bury his mother in the cold ground. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning in the early fall. 
 The forest-trees had a slight golden tinge, and 
 the breeze blew clear and refreshing; while 
 not a single cloud dimmed the blue sky. The 
 birds were filling the air with their melody ; 
 and here and there a cluster of dark-red berries 
 rested against the rich leaves, with the dew- 
 drops glistening in the sunshine. In the midst 
 of the forest there was a small space of cleared 
 land, which surrounded the missionar}''8 cabin. 
 The hand of improvement was visible in the 
 little spot; and the tangled underwood had 
 given place to the bright green turf. The 
 cabin was small, and divided into two apart- 
 ments, embowered in climbing vines, which 
 gave it a pretty and picturesque appearance. 
 The little plat of ground had been cultivated 
 with care, and vegetables, in abundance, re- 
 
OCOMO. 
 
 301 
 
 warded the laborer's toil. Plants and flow- 
 ers, of New England origin, mingled their 
 blossoms with the brighter ones of western 
 birth ; and over all was thrown an air of refine- 
 ment. To a mind fond of solitude, a more per- 
 fect little paradise could hardly be imagined ; 
 but the eye grows weary of the loveliest scenes 
 when the heart longs for sympathy — for com- 
 panion>!hip. The interior was neat, and well 
 arranged : a small piece of carpet covered the 
 floor, and a clean white curtain hung at the 
 window. A hanging book-case rested against 
 the side of the apartment, and the shelves 
 were filled with well-used volumes. A few 
 wooden chairs, a table, and large chest, with 
 one or two cooking utensils, composed the fur- 
 niture ; and the sunlight, which streamed in, 
 and danced upon the wall, imparted an air of 
 cheerfulness to the small room. The cabin 
 door was open, and the missionary sat there 
 reading ; while every now and then he raised 
 his head, and listened to the music of the birds, 
 or the stealthy steps of some wild animal. 
 The least rustling of the bushes attracted his 
 attention ; for, in a lonely forest, with no com- 
 panion but your own thoughts, the slightest 
 sound is magnified into something of impor- 
 tance. The missionary was not a fearful man ; 
 he daily received strength from the book upon 
 his knee ; his lamp was trimmed and burning, 
 and he felt ready to depart : but his work was 
 not yet done, and from frequent surprises he 
 had learnt to defend himself. He was aware 
 of the dislike entertained towards him by some 
 of the Indian chiefs, and it warned him to be 
 upon his guard. The bushes crackled around 
 him ; the birds flew frightened from tree to 
 tree, and there was a noise as • of advancing 
 footsteps. An Indian youth, with pale, haggard 
 countenance, restless eyes, and head fantasti- 
 cally wreathed with flowers, bounded forward, 
 and stood before the missionary. It was Oco- 
 mo. In surprise the good man gazed upon the 
 strange form before him ; and from his altered 
 appearance, he had some difficulty in recogniz- 
 ing him. Grief for his mother's death had preyed 
 upon the mind of Ocomo, and reduced him 
 almost to a skeleton ; he had abandoned his 
 father's wigwam, and sought the forest, where 
 he had, for several days, tasted nothing but the 
 wild berries and nuts that grew there in abun- 
 dance. The missionary was moved by his 
 forlorn appearance, and in a kind tone inquired 
 the reason. 
 
 Ocomo gazed fearfully around as if dreading 
 
 the approach of some one, and then bending 
 closer to the missionary, whispered in his ear: 
 
 " They have taken her from me — laid her 
 in the damp ground, and Ocomo has now no 
 friend — no one to love him. She would lav my 
 head upon her bosom and speak kindly to me. 
 Ocomo loved her, and now she is gone !" 
 
 The boy's grief broke forth in sobs, and 
 throwing himself upon the grass, he wept 
 aloud. His kind friend was silent, though his 
 countenance expressed pity and interest for the 
 poor youth. But the tears were an evidence 
 of his returning reason ; the wild restless look 
 had depart? J from his eyes, and, as though 
 awaking f.om a long dream, Ocomo wept bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " Tell me, tell me where she is !" he ex- 
 claimed : " I have sought her many days — and 
 see," he continued, pointing to the flowers, " I 
 gathered them for her. She loved their bright 
 colors ; but did they not take her away ?" and 
 he put his hand to his brow, as though trying 
 to recollect some long-forgotten tale. " I know 
 you will tell me where she is," said the boy, "for 
 the voice of the pale-face fell on Ocomo's ear 
 like the sound of sweet music. Ocomo loves 
 the white man." 
 
 The missionary gently raised the youth, and 
 bore him into the cabin. Here he strove by 
 soothing words to gain the boy's confidence ; 
 and like a dimly-remembered dream the events 
 rushed upon Ocomo's mind. He told the kind- 
 hearted man of his mother's last words, and 
 the jnissionary breathed an inward prayer, as 
 he heard the words, " I die in faith." There 
 was at least one soul redeemed from the dark- 
 ness that surrounded it ; and in glowing colors 
 he represented to the bereaved youth his moth- 
 er's happiness above. Tears streamed down 
 his pale cheeks, as he listened ; but when the 
 missionary told him that his mother was now 
 happier than she had ever been on earth, his 
 grief became less violent. " She happy — Oco- 
 mo happy," he murmured ; and when the good 
 man said that he would see her again if he 
 obeyed the great book, Ocomo fell at his feet 
 and embraced his knees in the fullness of his 
 joy. The poor boy needed rest, and the mis- 
 sionary laid him tenderly on his own bed, and 
 bade him try to sleep. The grateful Ocomo 
 closed his weary lids, and worn out with his 
 exposure and fatigue, soon fell into a refreshing 
 slumber. The missionary watched by the side 
 of the sleeper to cool his fevered brow, and 
 heard him murmur several times, while a smile 
 
302 
 
 oc6mo. 
 
 of pleasure beamed on his face, " I shall see 
 her again !" 
 
 " Poor boy," said his kind nurse, " we know 
 not how soon." 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 When Ocomo awoke, the last rays of the sun 
 were gilding the tops of the tall trees, and 
 shone in on his narrow bed. The missionary 
 was spreading his frugal repast ; but on meet- 
 ing the wandering eyes of the Indian boy, he 
 sat down by his bedside, and gently taking his 
 hand, asked him how he had slept. Ocomo 
 gazed wonderingly on the speaker, and then, as 
 if comprehending his situation, burst into tears. 
 His benefactor quietly withdrew to let him in- 
 dulge his grief without restraint, and kneeling 
 in the silent grove, he offered up a prayer for 
 the Indian boy. On his return, Ocomo knelt 
 at his feet, and begged him not to send him 
 him away ! 
 
 " Ocomo will be your slave — anything !" said 
 he; "only do not send him away! Ocomo 
 knows where the maple yields its richest juice 
 — where the wild roots grow the thickest — and 
 he will bring the brightest flowers to adorn the 
 white man's dwelling. Ocomo loves to hear 
 from the great book of that bright land where 
 his mother has gone : do not send him away !" 
 
 The missionary was moved to tears by this 
 appeal, and promised that he should remain. 
 The poor boy flew to perform a thousand little 
 offices for his benefactor, and it was with diffi- 
 culty that he could be I'estrained. 
 
 After this, his grief subsided into melancholy, 
 and his mind seemed clear and settled. The 
 missionary strove to make him understand the 
 glorious truths of the Bible, and was encour- 
 aged by his pupil's mildness and diligence. No 
 one could be more devoted than the grateful 
 Ocomo ; he was never so happy as when he 
 could anticipate his benefactor's wishes ; and 
 he watched each movement and expression of 
 his countenance, so that he knew almost by 
 instinct what he wanted. The lonely man be- 
 gan to love the Indian youth ; and there was 
 a band between them, that knit tli-ur hearts 
 strongly together. Both were desolate — away 
 from all but each other; though with poor 
 Ocomo, Uicre was no one else he had ever 
 lovod, except his mother, and she was now 
 gone. No two beings could be more strongly 
 
 attached : the knowledge of conferring happi- 
 ness on one side, and a sense of the deepest 
 gratitude on the other, kept this feeling con- 
 stantly alive. 
 
 The missionary amused Ocomo with stories 
 of his early home, and answered all his numer- 
 ous inquiries about the customs of the whites. 
 The boy listened eagerly, and never interrupt- 
 ed the speaker till he had ceased ; then, in a 
 tone of disappointment, he would ask if that 
 were the .end. The missionary wondered at 
 the interest he manifested in the manners of 
 the East, but attributed it to gratitude. One 
 night, after they had retired to rest, Ocomo 
 cautiously rose, and proceeded to dress himself. 
 Ilis companion, surprised at his cautiousness, 
 and apparent wish not to be perceived, lay 
 quietly noticing him, till he observed the boy 
 open the door and leave the cabin ; when he 
 rose, and throwing on his clothes, hastened 
 after him, for he feared that Ocomo had been 
 seized with one of his insane fits, and might 
 meditate putting an end to his life. From long 
 association with the Indians, the missionary 
 had learned to imitate their cautious habits, 
 and his tread was as light as that of any wily 
 savage, as he followed the footsteps of Ocomo. 
 The boy walked on for some time, through the 
 mazes of the forest, but at length he paused by 
 a small cleared space, and kneeling on the 
 ground beside it, he hung a wreath of wild 
 flowers at its head. It was his mother's grave. 
 The missionary was touched by this token of 
 respect to the dead from a poor Indian boy — 
 it reminded him of a grave in his New England 
 home — of his mother's grave, which he had 
 strewn with flowers, the night before his depart- 
 ure. This, then, was why Ocomo had ques- 
 tioned him so closely respecting the New 
 England customs for the dead — he wished to 
 pay a tribute to his mother's memory ! Ocomo 
 then prayed aloud in his simple but expressive 
 language ; he prayed that blessings might 
 descend on the head of his benefactor; and 
 hastily retracing his steps, the missionary was 
 apparently buried in slumber on the boy's 
 return. 
 
 The father of Ocomo said nothing at his 
 son's departure, and apparently cared not that 
 he took up his residence with the missionary. 
 But while all was calm without, within the 
 evil passions of his Indian nature were raging. 
 Though his son had ever been to him an object 
 of shame, yet he was his son, and Undcga re- 
 ga'dcd with hatred the white man, who (ho 
 
OCOMO. 
 
 303 
 
 supposed) had lured Ocomo from his wigwam. 
 lie was jealous of the influence which the 
 mild conduct and obliging disposition of the 
 missionary had gained over the Indians, and he 
 vowed his destruction. 
 
 An assemblage of the chiefs was called, and 
 when the calumet had passed around, Undega 
 rose and said : " Brethren, shall this white man 
 twine himself like a serpent round tlie hearts 
 of our people, that in their unsuspecting blind- 
 ness he may sting them the more easily ? Is 
 his look to be more regarded than the words of 
 our Great Spirit ? Is it not enough that he has 
 made squaws of our warriors — that they no 
 longer excel in the chase — no longer wear tlie 
 scalps of their enemies, but gather round the 
 pale face, to hear his words, and carry them in 
 their hearts ? Rouse, warriors ! Shake off 
 these binding fetters, and drive the pale face 
 back to his own people !" 
 
 There was a long silence after Undega !;ad 
 thus boldly spoken. Most of the Indians liked 
 the unoffending wliite man, and some of them 
 were hopeful converts to the Christian faith. 
 But Undega was a powerful chief, and they 
 feared to displease him ; for they could read the 
 threatening spirit that gleamed in his fieiy eye, 
 and curled the distended nostril : it was ever 
 thus when an enemy crossed his path, and they 
 knew not what to reply. At length, the oldest 
 chief arose with the following words : " My- 
 brother has spoken well. Let the words of 
 Undega sink into the hearts of the peo- 
 ple, and not be as though breathed upon the 
 air. Let the white man return to his peo- 
 ple, as my brother has said." The counte- 
 nance of Undega gleamed with triumph ; for 
 h.2 thought not of his own harshness to Ocomo ; 
 he remembered not how he had repulsed his 
 son's affection, and often driven him to seek 
 shelter in his mother's bosom ; he regarded the 
 missionary as the cause of his son's estrange- 
 ment, and resolved to gratify his revenge. The 
 group continued silent, and soon the missionary 
 approached. Undega's countenance assumed 
 an expression of hatred, and the good man, 
 astonished at the silence that reigned among 
 them, sought to discover the cause. He was 
 not long ignorant ; his quick perception enabled 
 him to read the countenances before him, but 
 his calm self-possession never deserted him. 
 He spoke to them of the trials he had endured 
 for their sakes— of the interest he felt for their 
 souls — and of his total unconsciousness of the 
 cause that moved Undeca to this injustice. 
 
 "Give me back my son !" exclaimed the chief. 
 " Did you not lure him from me, and now in- 
 quire the cause of my hatred ?" said he, as his 
 lip curled with scorn. 
 
 " Oh, do not send me from you !" whispered 
 Ocomo. 
 
 "I used no arts to lure him," replied the 
 missionary ; " he came of his own free will ; 
 and should he himself wish it, I am ready to 
 restore him to his father." 
 
 " Oh, do not give me up to him !" said poor 
 Ocomo. " See how his eyes glare ! He will 
 kill me !" 
 
 Ocomo clung close to the missionary, and 
 with a bitter smile of malice, Undega departed. 
 
 CHAPTER rv. 
 
 It was a few days after the above scene, that 
 the missionary noticed a change in Ocomo ; he 
 spoke not unless addressed, and his looks were 
 melancholy. Now and then a smile flitted 
 across his face, but it quickly faded away. He 
 would sit abstractedly, and seem to be talking 
 to himself. The missionary observed him with 
 concern, for he knew how deep would be his 
 loss should anything befall Ocomo. The boy 
 had wound himself so closely round his heart, 
 that he felt as though he could not part with 
 him. 
 
 " Let us walk out into the forest, Ocomo," 
 said he tenderly; " the air will do you good, for 
 I think you are not well." 
 
 " We will go," replied the boy; " 'tis the last 
 time," 
 
 " The last time ! What mean you, Oco- 
 mo ? What strange fancy has entered your 
 mind ?" 
 
 The boy smiled sadly, and placed his hand 
 on his heart : " Ocomo dreamed last night of 
 the spirit-land. His mother beckoned him to 
 her, and he must go. When another moon has 
 waned, Ocomo will sleep beside her." 
 
 "Ocomo," replied the missionary sternly, 
 " have I not often told you how wicked it is to 
 gaze forward into the future, and try to deci- 
 pher that which is hid from our view ? Shake 
 off this feeling ; 'tis but the consequence of an 
 idle dream." 
 
 Ocomo shook his head mournfully as he said, 
 " I feel it here." The missionary was sad : in 
 spite of hi.s contempt for all superstition, it 
 made him melancholy to hear Ocomo talk so 
 
304 
 
 OCOMO. 
 
 calmly of his fate. The two walked on for 
 some time in deep thought ; not a sound was 
 heard in the forest, save the twittering of the 
 birds, or the rustling of a leaf— when suddenly 
 a slight, whirring sound fel. on the ear of the 
 missionary. At the same instant, Ocomo 
 threw himself forward and received an arrow 
 in his heart .' A piercing scream rose on the 
 air, but it came not from the wounded boy — it 
 was Undega, who had slain his son ! The de- 
 voted boy lieard the fatal sound of the arrow, 
 ere it flew from the bow, and shielding his 
 benefactor, proved his gratitude with his life. 
 The missionary stood transfixed with horror, 
 and the unhappy father knelt beside the boy, 
 from whose breast the warm life-blood was 
 slowly welling. Undega had watched this op- 
 portunity to revenge himself on the missionary, 
 and had not Ocomo sprung forward, too surely 
 had the arrow reached its mark. A faint pur- 
 ple tinge was eettUng round the eyes of the 
 
 dying youth, and his breath came slower and 
 fainter. With his head pillowed on the mis- 
 sionary's bosom, he breathed his last, murmur- 
 ing, " I go to her — farewell." The missionary 
 thought not of the wrongs he had received 
 from Undega ; he saw not a malicious enemy 
 before him ; he saw only an unhappy father — 
 a miserable man ; and, subduing his own grief, 
 he tried to offer consolation. 
 
 The missionary was hereafter accompanied 
 by an Indian of aged appearance ; his hair 
 was white, and his brow furrowed ; but they 
 whispered that grief and remorse had bleached 
 his hair, and marked his brow. It was Undega. 
 His strong heart was touched by the mild and 
 forgiving spirit of the missionary, and over the 
 grave of the murdered boy, a compact was 
 made between them, which lasted till death re- 
 lieved Undega of his weight of crime. The 
 missionary soothed his last moments, and enter- 
 tained hopes of his sincere penitence. 
 

lU UoUVO 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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