Chapter 6

Several months have passed away, and Mrs. Euston and her daughter have returned to their native land. A single room in an obscure boarding-house in the heart of a southern city was occupied by both. The expenses of their voyage to New Orleans, and a few months sojourn in their present abode, humble as it was, had nearly exhausted their slender resources. Edith had made many efforts to procure a few scholars to instruct in music and drawing, but the departure of the greater portion of the wealthy, during the unhealthy season, had deprived her of those she had been able to obtain. She thought of going out as a daily governess, but the feeble health and deep dejection of her mother, offered an insuperable objection to such an arrangement. When she left her alone even for an hour, she usually found her in such a state of nervous excitement on her return, as was painful to behold.

Edith is seated near the only window of their sordid apartment in the afternoon of a sultry summer day; the sun is shining without with overpowering splendor; a heated vapor rises from the paved streets and seems to shimmer in the breathless atmosphere. Edith had lost all the freshness and roundness of youth; her cheek was deadly white, and her emaciated form seemed to indicate the approach of the terrible disease of which her brother had died. She was sewing industriously, and her air of weariness and lassitude betrayed the strong mastery of the spirit over the body, in the continuance of her employment.

Mrs. Euston was lying on the bed; and twenty years seemed to have passed over her since the night of her son's death. The oppressive heat had induced her to remove her cap, and her long hair, white as the snows of winter, lay around her wasted and furrowed features. From infancy the respect and observance due to one of high station had been bestowed upon her, and the reverse in their fortunes was more than she could bear. At first, her high-toned feelings had shrunk from obligations to the new heir, and she approved of Edith's rejection; but as time passed, amid privations to which she had never been accustomed, her very soul revolted against their miserable mode of living.

To a woman of refined feelings and vivid imagination, the coarse and sordid realities around her were sufficiently heart-sickening, without having the terrible fear forced upon her that her only child was hurrying to the grave through her exertions to keep them literally from starvation. Her daughter now thought she slept, but her mind was far too busily occupied to permit the sweet influences of slumber to soothe her into a momentary forgetfulness of her bitter grief. Suddenly she unclosed her eyes, and spoke.

"Edith, my child, lay aside that work--such constant employment is destroying you. Is it not time that we heard from Robert Barclay? Surely he will not be relentless, when he hears that your health is failing. After all, Edith, you need not be so averse to receiving assistance from him; the property he holds is rightfully ours."

"Mother," replied Edith, a faint flush mounting to her cheek, "for your sake I have submitted to humiliate myself before our ruthless kinsman, but I fear it will be in vain. Only as his wife will my claims on his humanity and justice be acknowledged. Would you not shrink, dearest mother, from condemning your child to such a doom? Could you not better bear to stand above my grave, and know me at peace within it, than to behold me wedded to this unprincipled man, to whose pernicious example my brother owed his early doom?"

"Speak not of dying, my daughter," said the poor mother, hysterically, "I cannot bear it; I am haunted by the fear that I shall at last be left on earth alone. I daily behold you fading before my eyes without the power to avert the fate I see written upon your pale cheek and wasted form. As Robert's wife you would have a luxurious home, the means of gratifying refined tastes, and of contributing to the happiness of others. He may atone to me, by the preservation of one child, for the destruction of the other."

"Mother, your fears for me blind you to the truth. Are not mental griefs far more difficult to bear than the privations of poverty, galling as they are? As Mr. Barclay's wife, I should loathe myself for the hypocrisy I should be compelled to practice toward him; and the wealth for which I had sold myself, would allow me leisure to brood over my own unworthiness, until madness might be the result. No, no, mother--come what may, I never can be so untrue to myself as to become the wife of Robert Barclay."

"God help us, then!" said Mrs. Euston, despondingly.

A carriage drove to the door, and a gentleman alighted from it. Edith heard the bustle, but she did not look out to see what occasioned it, and she was startled from her painful reverie by a knock on the door. She opened it, and started back with a faint cry as she recognized Barclay.

"The landlady told me to come up," he said, as he glanced around the wretched apartment, and a slight twinge of remorse touched his heart as he remarked the changed appearance of Edith. She motioned him to enter, while Mrs. Euston arose from the bed, and offered him a seat.

"I concluded it would be best to reply to your communication in person," said he to Mrs. Euston, as he took the offered chair. "I come with the most liberal intentions, provided Miss Euston will listen to reason. I am grieved to see you in a place so unsuited to your former station as this wretched apartment."

"And yet," said Edith, "I have passed some pleasant hours in this room, comfortless as it looks. So long as I had the hope of being able to provide for our wants by my own exertions, I found contentment in its humble shelter."

"Your happiness must then be truly independent of outward circumstances," replied Barclay, with a touch of his old sarcasm. "I supposed, from the tenor of your mother's petition, that you had begun to repent of your high-toned language to me in our last interview, and would now accede to terms you once spurned, as the price of my assistance to you and yours."

Edith curbed her high spirit, and calmly replied, "You misunderstood my mother's words. As the mother of the late heir, she justly considers herself entitled to a pittance from your estate, and she claimed from your humanity, what she was hopeless of obtaining from your sense of justice. For myself, I hoped for nothing from either, but I acquiesced in her application. I am sorry that you have founded on it expectations which must prove fallacious."

"Then, madam, I need remain no longer," said Barclay, addressing Mrs. Euston. "Your daughter remembers our interview previous to, and after, the death of her brother; the only terms on which I would assist you were then explicitly expressed."

Mrs. Euston caught his hand, and bowed her venerable head upon it.

"Have mercy, Robert, upon my gray hairs--my daughter; look at her--she is dying by inches--she is stifling in this wretched spot. The money that was my son's should surely buy a shelter for us. Leave us not helpless, hopeless. My God! my God! give me eloquence to plead for my child!" and she threw herself upon the floor, and raised her clasped hands to heaven.

"Madam," said Barclay, "it only rests with your daughter to have mercy upon you and herself. Where, I ask you, is her filial piety, when she beholds you suffer thus, and relents not toward one who offers her a love that has survived coldness, contempt, contumely."

Edith approached her mother, and assisted her to rise.

"My dearest mother, calm yourself. Humble not yourself thus before our oppressor. God is just--is merciful. He will not forget the widow and the orphan in their extremity. Leave us, Mr. Barclay; had my wishes alone been consulted, you never would have been called on thus to witness our misfortunes."

Barclay bowed, and haughtily strode from the room.

"Another month of privation," he muttered, "and she will surely be mine or Death's. It does not much matter to which she belongs. Ah, if she only knew all!" and he sprung into his cabriolet, and dashed off toward the more aristocratic portion of the city.

In the hope that Edith would be forced to relent, Barclay had remained in New Orleans thus late in the season, and he resolved to linger yet a little longer, until want and suffering should leave her no choice. His passion for her was one of those insanities to which men of his violent character are often liable. He desired her as the one great gift, which was to purify, to exalt him in the scale of humanity. The delicate beauty of her person, the sensibility of her soul, the grace of her manner, rendered her irresistibly attractive to him; but so selfish was his love, that he would sooner have seen her perish at his feet, than have rendered her assistance, except at the price proposed.

Another month passed by, and still there was no news of Edith or her mother. He grasped the daily paper, almost with a sensation of fear, and glanced at the column of deaths, which at that season usually contains a goodly array. Their names were not yet among them, or perchance in their poverty and obscurity they would not find admittance even among the daily list of mortality.

The yellow fever had commenced its annual ravages, and Barclay retreated to a country-house in the vicinity, owned by a friend, and dispatched a confidential servant to inquire concerning Mrs. Euston and her daughter. They were still in the same place, but the mother had been ill, and was still confined to her bed.

One morning, about two weeks afterward, Barclay was seated in a delightful little saloon, over a late breakfast. The room was furnished with every appliance of modern luxury, and the morning air stirred the branches of noble trees without, whose verdant shade completely shut out the glare of the sun. A servant entered, and presented to him a letter which had just been left. The irregular hand with which it was directed, prevented him from recognizing the writing of Edith, and when he opened the missive, which had evidently been blotted with her bitter tears, a flush of triumph mounted to his cheek, and he exclaimed with an oath,

"Mine at last!--I knew it must end thus!"

The letter contained the following words:

"After a night of such suffering as casts all I have previously endured into the shade, I address you. My mother now lies before me in that heavy and death-like sleep which follows utter exhaustion. Her state of health for the last month has demanded my constant care, and the precarious remuneration I have been able to obtain for sewing, I have thus been compelled to give up. We have parted with every souvenir of our better days--even our clothing has been sacrificed, until we have but a change of garments left; and now our landlady insists on being paid the small sum we owe her, or we must leave her house to-day. She came into our room last evening, and the scene which ensued threw my mother into such a state of nervous excitement, that she has not yet recovered from it.

"I cannot disguise from myself that she is very ill. If she awakes to a renewal of the same anguish, I dare not contemplate the consequences. You know that I do not love you, Mr. Barclay. I make no pretension to a change in my feelings; repugnant as it must be to a heart of sensibility, I must view this transaction as a matter of bargain and sale. I will accept your late offer, to save my mother from further suffering, and to gain a home for her declining years.

"For myself, I will endeavor to be to you--but why should I promise any thing for myself. God alone can give me strength to live after the sacrifice is completed.

"EDITH."

There was much in this letter that was wounding to his vanity, and bitter to his feelings; but he had triumphed! The stately pride of this girl was humbled before him--her spirit bowed in the dust before the gaunt spectre she had thought herself capable of braving. She would be his--the fair, the pure in heart, would link herself to vice, infamy and crime, for money. Money! the world's god! See the countless millions groveling upon the earth before the great idol--the golden calf, which so often brings with it as bitter a curse as was denounced against the people of old, when they forsook the living and true God for its worship.

Can it not buy every thing--even woman's love, or the semblance of it, which would serve him just as well? He, the murderer of the brother, would purchase the compliance of the sister with this magical agent; but--and his heart quailed at the thought--could it buy self-respect? Could it enable him to look into the clear eye of that woman he would call his wife, and say, "My soul is worthy to be linked with thine in the realms of eternity."

No--he felt that the sacrilegious union must be unblessed on earth, and severed in heaven, yet he shrunk not from his purpose.

He lost no time in seeking Edith; Mrs. Euston was yet buried in the leaden slumber produced by a powerful narcotic. The unhappy girl received him alone, and he remarked that his words of impassioned love brought no color to her marble cheek--no emotion to her soul; she seemed to have steeled herself for the interview, and it was not until he pressed the kiss of betrothal upon her pallid lips, that she betrayed any sensibility--then a thrill, a shudder pervaded her whole frame, and he supported her nearly insensible form several moments before she regained power to sustain herself. Could he have looked into that breaking heart, and have read there all the bitter loathing, the agonized struggles for self-control, would he have persisted in his suit? Yes--for this was a part of his vengeance for the slights she had put upon him; and in the future, if she did not play the part he thus forced upon her, with all the devotion he should exact, had he not bitter words at his command to taunt her with the scene of that morning?

A physician was called in, who advised the removal of Mrs. Euston while she slept; and arrangements were soon made to accomplish it. The family to whom Barclay's present retreat belonged, were spending the summer at the north, and their house had been left at his disposal. He determined to remove Mrs. Euston and her daughter thither, while he took up his own abode, until the day of his marriage, with a bachelor friend in the neighborhood.

Edith demanded an interval of a week before their union took place, which he reluctantly granted. Naturally prodigal, he employed the time in ordering the most elegant _trousseau_ for his bride. She who so lately was struggling with bitter want, was now surrounded by servants eager to anticipate every wish, while Barclay played the devoted lover. Edith prayed earnestly for power to regard him with such feelings as alone could hallow the union they were about to form. Vain were her lonely struggles--her tearful supplications; a spectral form seemed to rise ever between them, and reproach her that she had been so untrue to herself, even for the preservation of a mother.

The only thing that consoled her for her great sacrifice, was that her beloved mother seemed to revive to some sense of enjoyment, when she again found herself surrounded by that comfort to which she had been accustomed. Weakened in mind as in body, Mrs. Euston fondly flattered herself that her daughter might yet be happy amid the splendors of wealth; and the poor mother welcomed the arbiter of their future fate with smiles and courteous words, to which he listened with politeness, and scorned as the hollow offspring of necessity.

The dreaded day at length arrived, and with the calmness of exhausted emotion, Edith prepared herself for the ceremony which was to consign her to the protection of Barclay. She believed her earthly fate sealed, and resignation was all she could command.

Amid all her suffering, there was one thought which arose perpetually before her; there was one human being on earth who would have risked his life to serve or save her, and she knew that a heart worthy of her love would hear the history of her enforced marriage with bitter disappointment and anguish.

Near the home of her infancy dwelt a family of sons and daughters with whom she had been reared in habits of intimacy. Between herself and the eldest son a strong attachment had grown up; it had never been expressed in words, yet each felt as well assured of the affection of the other, as if a thousand protestations had been uttered. About the time that Mrs. Euston and her daughter left their own home to travel with their beloved invalid, Walter Atwood bade adieu to his paternal home, on a tour to Europe, where he was to complete his professional education as a medical man.

Mrs. Euston's place passed into the hands of strangers, and after a few months all intercourse by letter ceased between their former friends and themselves. After the death of her son, the bereaved mother would not consent to return to their former neighborhood, and thus all trace of them was lost to the Atwoods; but Edith knew in her deep heart that Walter would return--would seek her; and it was this conviction which gave her firmness to resist so long the overtures of Barclay.

Now all was at an end; another hour and the right even to think of him would no longer be hers. Her mother entered her room, folded her to her breast, and whispered,

"The hour has arrived, my child. Robert is here with the clergyman. Do not keep them waiting."

"I am quite ready, mother," said Edith, calmly, and she advanced without hesitation toward the door, for she heard an impatient step without, which she well knew. Barclay awaited her in the hall--he impetuously seized her hand and drew it beneath his arm.

At that moment the door-bell was violently pulled, and both turned impulsively to see who made so imperious a demand for admittance.

At the open door stood two figures, one of a young man, who appeared deeply agitated, for his features, beneath the light of the lamps, seemed white and rigid, as if cut from marble. Over his shoulder appeared a swarthy face, with a pair of bright, keen eyes, gleaming from beneath overhanging brows.

Edith and Barclay both uttered an exclamation--but they were very different in their character. In the impulse of the moment, the former drew her hand forcibly from him who sought to retain it, and with one bound, was in the arms of the foremost stranger, as she exclaimed,

"Walter--my saviour--my preserver! you have come at last!"

The face of Atwood lost its unnatural rigidity as he pressed her to his heart, and said,

"Thank Heaven! I am not then too late!"

Barclay advanced threateningly,

"What does this mean, sir? Are you aware that such conduct in my house is not to be tolerated--that you shall answer for it to me with your life?"

"It means, Mr. Barclay, that I come with authority to prevent the unholy alliance you were about to force upon this helpless and unprotected girl, to place the seal upon your crimes, by clasping in wedlock the hand of the sister with that which is red with the brother's blood."

"'T is false--the boy killed himself, as Edith herself knows full well. Am I to be held accountable for the dissipation of a young fool, who, when once the curb was removed, went headlong to destruction without the necessity of any prompting from me."

"We will waive that part of the question, if you please, Mr. Barclay. I have brought with me one who can prove much more than that. Come forward, Antoine."

The Frenchman advanced, and Barclay grew pale as he recognized him.

"Let us retire to a private room," continued Atwood, in a lower tone--"I would not have Mrs. Euston and her daughter hear too suddenly the developments I am prepared to make."

Then turning to Edith he said--

"You are saved, my dear Edith. Retire with your mother, while I settle with Mr. Barclay."

Mechanically Barclay led the way into an adjoining room. When there, he turned haughtily and said--

"Now, sir, explain yourself--tell me why my privacy is thus invaded, and--"

Atwood interrupted him.

"It is useless to attempt bravado with me, sir. Your whole career is too intimately known to me to render it of any avail. You know that from my boyhood I have loved Miss Euston, for you may remember a conversation which took place between us several years since, when you were received as a visiter at her mother's house. Jealousy enabled you to penetrate what had been carefully veiled from others, and you taxed me with what I would not deny. Do you remember the words you used to the boy you then spoke to? That you would move heaven and earth to win Edith Euston."

"To what does all this tend?" asked Barclay, in an irritated tone.

"Patience, and you will see. I returned from Europe and found that Mrs. Euston's family had left for Havanna. Her lawsuit had gone against her, and she had lost her home. Nothing more was known of her. I lost no time in following her. I reached Cuba, and after many inquiries, traced her to the house of the family which had received her beneath their roof. There I heard the history of her son's unhappy death, at the moment he was about to confer independence upon his mother and sister. _You_ were mentioned as a visiter after his death; your _generous_ offer to share with Miss Euston as your wife the wealth which should have been hers was dwelt on. All this aroused a vague suspicion in my mind. I made minute inquiries, and traced you through all the orgies of your dissipation. One night I was following up the inquiry, and I entered a tavern much frequented by foreigners. A man sat apart in gloomy silence. One of his comrades said--

"'Antoine grieves over the loss of his bird. All the money the American paid him does not make him forget that he sold his best friend!'

"By an electric chain of thought, the incident which attended poor Euston's last moments, occurred to me. I approached the man, and addressed him in French, for I saw that he was a native of that country. I spoke of his bird. He shook his head and said--

"'It is not the loss of the bird, monsieur, but the use that was made of him, that troubles my conscience.'

"In short, to condense a long story, I learned from Antoine, that he remained in your lodgings several days, until the mackaw he sold to you became sufficiently accustomed to you to be caressed without biting. During that time you had a room darkened, and required him to train the bird to fly at a light and overturn it. When he was dismissed, his curiosity was excited, and he watched your movements. He nightly dogged your steps, and traced you to the garden of the villa. He stood within a few feet of you on the night of Euston's death, and beheld the use to which you put his bird. His eyes, accustomed to the gloom without, beheld your dark form glide to the side of your victim. He saw your murderous hand pressed upon the breast of the dying youth."

"'T is false--false. I defy him to prove it."

"It is true, sir--the evidence is such as would condemn you in any court; and now listen to me. I offer you lenient terms, in consideration of the ties of relationship which bind you to those you have so cruelly oppressed. One third of the fortune for which you have paid so fearful a price shall be yours, if you will sign a paper I have with me, which will restore the remainder to Mrs. Euston. If you refuse, I have in my pocket a writ of arrest, and the officers are in the shrubbery awaiting my orders to execute it. Comply with my terms and I suffer you to escape."

Thus confronted by imminent danger, Barclay seemed to lose his courage and presence of mind. He measured the floor with rapid steps a few moments, and then turning to Atwood motioned for the paper, to which he affixed his signature without uttering a word.

"There is yet another condition," said Atwood.

"Leave this country within forty-eight hours. If, after that time, I am made aware of your presence within the jurisdiction of the United States, I will have you arrested as a murderer. The peace of mind of those I have rescued from your power shall not be periled by your presence within the same land they inhabit." Barclay ground his teeth with rage.

"I _shall_ leave it, be assured, but not to escape from this absurd charge."

"Go then. I care not from what motive."

Another instant, and Barclay had passed from the room. Edith and her mother traveled to their former home in the beautiful land of Florida, under the protection of Atwood, and there, amid rejoicing friends, surrounded by all the happy associations of her bright youth, she gave her hand to her faithful lover.

Barclay perished in a street brawl, in a foreign land, and the whole of her brother's estate finally devolved upon her.

A VOICE FOR POLAND.

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.

Up, for encounter stern While unsheathed weapons gleam; The beacon-fires of Freedom burn, Her banners wildly stream; Awake! and drink at purple springs-- Lo! the "White Eagle" flaps his wings With a rejoicing scream, That sends an old, heroic thrill Through hearts that are unconquered still.

Leap to your saddles, leap! Tried wielders of the lance, And charge as when ye broke the sleep Of Europe, at the call of France: The knightly deeds of other years Eclipse, ye matchless cavaliers! While plume and penon dance-- That prince, upon his phantom steed, In Ellster lost your ranks shall lead.

Flock round the altar, flock! And swear ye will be free; Then rush to brave the battle shock Like surges of a maddened sea; Death, with a red and shattered brand Yet clinging to the rigid hand, A blissful fate would be, Contrasted with that darker doom A branded brow--a living tomb.

Speed to the combat, speed! And beat oppression down, Or win, by martrydom, the meed Of high and shadowless renown; Ye weary exiles, from afar Came back! and make the savage Czar In terror clutch his crown; While wronged and vengeful millions pour Defiance at his palace-door.

Throng forth with souls to dare, From huts and ruined halls! On the deep midnight of despair A beam of ancient glory falls: The knout, the chain and dungeon cave To frenzy have aroused the brave; Dismembered Poland calls, And through a land opprest, betrayed, Stalks Kosciusko's frowning shade.

TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND IT.

BY MAYNE REID.

They tell me, lady, that thy heart is changed-- That on thy lip there is another name; I'll not believe it--though for life estranged-- I know thy love's lone worship is the same. The bee that wanders on the summer breath, May wanton safely among leaves and flowers, But by the honied jar it clings till death-- There is no change for hearts that loved like ours.

You may not mock me--'tis an idle game-- The lip may lie, the eye with bright beguiling May, from the world, conceal a suffering flame, But 'tis the eye and not the heart is smiling; And I, too, have that power of deceiving, By the strong pride of an unfeeling will, The cold and cunning world in its believing-- What boots it all? The heart will suffer still.

Comes there not o'er thy spirit, when 'tis dreaming In the lone hours of the voiceless night, When the sweet past like a new present seeming, Brings back those rosy hours of love and light? Comes there not o'er thy dreaming spirit then Delicious joy--although 'tis but a vision-- That we have met, caressed and kissed again, And revel still among those sweets Elysian?

Comes there not o'er thy spirit when it wakes, And finds, with sleep, the vision too hath parted A lone depression, till thy proud heart aches, And from thy burning orb the tear hath started? And with sad memories through thy bosom thronging, Within thy heart's most secret deep recesses Feel'st thou not then an agony of longing To dream again of those divine caresses?

To dream them o'er and o'er, or deem them real, While penitence is speaking in thy sighs-- For this, unlike thy dream, is not ideal-- It brings the pallid cheek, the moistened eyes: Then, lady, mock not love so deeply hearted, With that light seeming which deceit can give-- The love I promised thee, when last we parted, Shall never be another's while _you_ live.

A PIC-NIC IN OLDEN TIME.

BY QUEVEDO.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Joy is as old as the universe, yet as young as a June rose: and a pic-nic has of all places been its delight, since the little quiet family _fêtes champêtres_ of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. So it is of no especial consequence in what reign of what kingdom our clever artist has laid his scene--and sooth to say, from the diversified and pleasantly incongruous costume and accessories of the picture, it might puzzle an uninitiated to tell. But we, who are in the secrets of Maga, and to whom the very brain-workings of her poets and painters are as palpable as the crystal curdling of the lake beneath the filmy breath of the Frost King, of course know all about it, and will whisper in your ear the key to the pretty harmonies of wood and sky and happy faces which he has spread out in a sort of visible cavatina, or dear little love-song, beneath your eye.

It was a gay time at Sweetbriar Lodge--for the fair Alice Hawthorn had just been married to the Squire of Deerdale, and the happy pair (new-married people were even in those times happy, although they were not so set down in the newspapers,) had determined to spend the honeymoon quietly at home, like sensible people, instead of posting off to Bath or Brighton; or mewing themselves up in some outlandish corner of the country, where they could see and hear nothing but themselves, until they were ready to commence the married life by being cloyed with each other's society. The season was mid-summer, and the weather so balmy and beautiful that after wandering about in the woods and fields all day, and watching the moon creep stealthily up the sky to view herself in the fountain, one felt a longing to make his bed on the fresh turf under the katydid's bower, and sleep there. Of course I don't mean the young and happy bridegroom. He never dreamed of being absent from his Alice; and he even felt quite jealous of her little sister Emma, who used sometimes to come and put her laughing, roguish face and curly head between the lovers, as they were sitting on the sofa or reclining on the green turf by the little fountain.

But Alice had another sister, older than herself, and who had already refused several excellent offers of marriage--declaring that she intended to live and die single, unless she should fall in love with some wandering minstrel or prince in disguise, like Lalla Rookh. Her name was Hortensia; but on account of her proud indifference to the attentions and compliments which were every where offered to her wonderful beauty, she was usually called Haughty Hawthorn--a name which seemed to please her better than all the flatteries of which she was the object. She was already twenty-two, and ripening into the full magnificence of glorious womanhood--her heart yet untouched by the electric dart of love, and her fancy free as the birds of air.

Now it was quite natural that the gentle Alice, whom love had made so happy, should willingly enter into a conspiracy with her husband and a parcel of the young people of the neighborhood against the peace and comfort of her haughty sister--deeming of course--as I myself am also of opinion--that a young lady out of love ought to be supremely miserable, whatever she herself may think about it.

Keeping in view the peculiar requisites required by Haughty in a lover, the plan was to get up an old-fashioned pic-nic, at which a young friend of Squire Deerdale, who was studying for an artist, and had just returned from Italy, where he had picked up a little music as well as painting, should be introduced after a mysterious fashion, which would be sure to inflame the imagination of the loveless lady. The artist, according to the squire, was handsome as a prince and eloquent as a minstrel, and his extensive practice in Rome had made him perfect master of the fine arts, the art of making love included. So the pic-nic was proposed that very evening, to take place the next day. Hortensia, who was fond of frolick and fun as the best of them, albeit not yet in love, fell at once into the snare; and the squire carelessly led the conversation to turn upon the sudden and unexpected arrival of the young Duke of St. James upon his magnificent estate adjoining Sweetbriar Lodge, which he said had taken place that very day.

"The duke," said the squire, "is, as you all have heard, one of the most romantic and sentimental youths in the world, and quite out of the way of our ordinary extravagant, matter-of-fact young nobility. I had the pleasure of meeting him when I was in Rome, and could not help being charmed with him. He read and wrote poetry divinely, played the mandolin like St. Cecilia, and sung like an improvisatore. I met him to-day, as he was approaching home in his carriage, and found him, as well as I could judge from a five minutes' conversation, the same as ever. I say nothing--but should a fresh-looking, golden-haired, dreamy-eyed youth be seen at our pic-nic to-morrow, I hope he will be greeted with the courtesy and welcome due not only to a neighbor but a man of genius."

This adroitly concocted speech was drank in like wine by the unsuspicious Hortensia. A duke! a poet! a romantic man of genius! What was it made her heart beat so rapidly?--_her_ heart, that had never beat out of time save over the page of the poet or the novelist--or may be in the trance of some beautiful midnight dream, such as love to hover around the pillows of fair maidens, and who can blame them?

The next morning, as Willis says of one of his fine days, was astray from Paradise; and bright and early our pic-nickers, comprising a goodly company of young people, married and single, with several beautiful children, including of course the roguish Emma, were on the field selected for the day's campaign. It was a lovely spot. Under a noble oak whose limbs, rounded into a leafy dome, shed a palpitating shadow around a sweet little fountain, guarded by a marble naiad, gathered the merry company upon the green velvet ottoman, daisy-spangled, that ran around this splendid natural saloon, bower and drawing-room combined. The day had fulfilled the golden promise of the early morning; the air, impregnated with a sparkling, effervescing sunshine, was as bewitching as the breath of champagne foam, and our adventurers were in the liveliest and gayest spirits.

Noon was culminating, and the less excitable and more worldly portion of the company began to be thinking seriously of the bountiful refection which had been provided for the grand occasion. Hortensia, it was observed by Squire Deerdale and his wife, and the others who were in the secret, had seemed absent and thoughtful, all the morning, and little Emma had teased her sufficiently for not playing with her as usual. At this moment a young man was seen coming down the broad sloping glade at the foot of which the party were seated. The squire immediately rose and welcomed the stranger, introducing him to his bride and sister-in-law, and expressing his pleasure that he had come. "We almost began to fear," he added, "that you had forgotten our humble festival."

"A _fête_ thus embellished," replied the stranger, bowing with peculiar grace to the ladies, and glancing admiringly at Hortensia, "is not an affair to be so easily forgotten by a wanderer who comes, after years of exile, to revive beneath the blue skies and bluer eyes of his native land."

"But your mandolin, Signor Foreigner; I hope you have not forgotten that?"

"Oh no indeed," returned the stranger with a musical laugh, "I never forget my little friend, whose harmonies have often been my only company. Here it comes," pointing to a lad who just then came up, bearing a handsome though outlandish-looking guitar gingerly across his arm.

Another of the party had also brought his guitar, and the two were soon tinkling away at different parts of the grounds--the latter surrounded by half a dozen young men and women, and several beautiful children; while the stranger, throwing himself on the grass at the feet of Hortensia, upon whose lap nestled the little Emma, began a simple ballad of the olden time--while the squire and his bride stood against the old oak behind Hortensia. At length the strain of the young musician changed, subsiding into low and plaintive undulations.

"It is time for us to go," whispered Alice to her husband; "we are evidently _de trop_ here"--and the wedded pair glided noiselessly off, casting mischievous glances at the haughty Hortensia, who sat absorbed in the music, and tears of sympathy and rapture ready to fall from her eyes. It was a clear case of love at first sight.

From this pleasant reverie both musician and listener were suddenly roused by little Emma, who, raising her head and shaking back the long ringlets from her face, exclaimed,

"Oh, sister, hear that! There goes the champagne, and I am so hungry. Come, let us go to dinner."

"Excuse me, madam," exclaimed the stranger, ceasing to play and springing to his feet, "your beautiful little monitor is right. I was already forgetting myself and venturing to dream as of old;" and he offered his arm to Hortensia, with that polite freedom not only permitted, but enjoined, by the etiquette of the pic-nic.

"And do you call it forgetfulness to dream?" inquired Hortensia.

"With so fair a reality before me, yes; but at other times to dream is to live."

"Oh, yes, it _is_ nice to dream!" broke in the little Emma. "Almost as nice as a wedding. Now last night I dreamt that you were married, Haughty, like sister Alice."

A lambent rosy flame seemed to envelop for an instant the beautiful Hortensia, disappearing instantly, yet leaving its scarlet traces on cheek and brow.

"What say you, my pretty one," said the stranger, patting the lovely child upon the head, "what say you to a sandwich and a glass of wine with me, here on the greensward? (They had now approached the _table_--if a snow-white damask spread upon the velvet grass, and loaded with tempting viands could be called so.) Is not that better than dreams?"

"I love wine, sir, but mamma and sister say I shouldn't drink it, because it makes my eyes red. Now _your_ eyes are as bright as stars. Do you drink wine?"

It was the stranger's turn to blush. And this little childish prattle seemed to have removed the barrier of strangership from between the two young people, who exchanged glances of a sort of merry vexation, and seemed to understand each other as if they were old friends.

That was a merry meal, "all under the greenwood tree," and on the margin of that sweet little fountain, whose waters came up to the very lip of the turf, which it refreshed with a sparkling coolness that ever renewed the brightness of the flowers upon its bosom. After the dinner was over, a dance was proposed, and the services of the handsome stranger, as musician, were cheerfully offered and promptly accepted. It was observed, however, that Hortensia, usually crazy for dancing, strolled pensively about with little Emma at her side, and at length seated herself on a little grassy bank, remote from the dancers, yet where she could overlook the scene.

There was a little pause in the dance, and Squire Deerdale approached the stranger and whispered,

"Do you like her?"

"She's as beautiful as Juno, but I dare not hope that she would ever love a poor vagabond like me. She deserves a prince of the blood, at the very least."

"Never mind!--_Vedremo_, as we say in Italy;" and with a laugh the young man bounded again into the dance, while the stranger redoubled his attention to his guitar.

The day began to wane, and the shadows of a neighboring mountain to creep slowly across the lea; and yet, so absorbed was that gay company in the merry pleasures of the day, that hours glided by unnoticed; and it was not until the round, yellow moon rose over the eastern hills, as if peeping out to see the sun set, that they thought of breaking up a scene of little less than enchantment.

The stranger scarcely left the side of Hortensia, who seemed completely subdued and fascinated by the serious eloquence, the inexhaustible brilliancy of his conversation, as well as enthralled by the classic beauty of his face, and the respectful yet tender glances which he from time to time cast upon her face. It may also be supposed that the hints casually dropped by the squire the night before, respecting his distinguished acquaintance, the young Duke of St. James, had not been without their effect. Sooth to say, however, that the hitherto cold and impassive Hortensia was really in love, and that she had too much self-respect to make any conditions in the bestowal of her admiration. She was haughty, proud and ambitious--yet at the same time high-minded and generous where her feelings were really interested.

Much may be accomplished in an afternoon between two congenial hearts that meet for the first time; and it is not at all surprising that on their way home the stranger and Hortensia should have lingered a little behind the rest of the party, engaged in deep and earnest talk.

"Beautiful being," whispered the stranger, "I have at length found my heart's idol, whom in dreams I have ever worshiped. What need of long acquaintanceship between hearts made for each other? Lady, I love you!"

"Sir, sir, I beg you to pause. You know not what you are saying--you cannot mean that--"

"But I tell you he does mean it, though," exclaimed a merry voice close at the lady's elbow; and turning round, she saw her mischievous brother-in-law, who had been demurely following their tardy footsteps.

"Brother! you here! I--really--am quite astonished!"

"And," interrupted the stranger, while a dark flush came over his face, "allow me to say, Squire Deerdale, that I also am astonished at this violation of the rights of a friendship even so old and sincere as ours."

"Well, well, I beg your pardon, fair lady; and as for you, sir, after you have heard my explanation, I shall be prepared to give you any satisfaction you may require. You must know, then, my dear old friend, that from a few careless words I dropped last evening, by way of joke, this young lady has imbibed the idea that you are the young Duke of St. James in disguise; and for the purpose of preventing any misunderstandings for the future, it is requisite that my sister and my friend Walter Willie, the artist, should comprehend one another's position fully."

"Good heavens! madam, you cannot believe that I was accessory to this mad prank of your brother's? Do not believe it for the world."

"No, no, I acquit you and every body but myself. I am sure I intended no harm by my thoughtless joke. Come, come, make up the matter at once, so that I may hasten back to Alice, who will begin to grow jealous, directly."

"Madam, dear madam, (Hortensia turned away her head with an imperious gesture,) I have only to beg your pardon for having too long intruded upon your attention, and to take my leave. The poor artist must still worship his ideal at a distance. For him there is but the world of imagination. No such bright reality as being beloved rests in his gloomy future. Farewell!" and the young man, bowing for a moment over the hand of Hortensia, withdrew.

"Brother, brother, what have you done!" passionately exclaimed the beauty, in a voice choked by sobs. "For a foolish joke you have driven away the only being who has ever interested my lonely heart. And now I can never, never be happy again."

"But, dear Hortensia, would you stoop to love a mere artist?"

"Stoop, sir,--stoop! I know not what you mean. Think you so meanly of me as to believe I would sell myself for wealth and a title? Proud I may be--but not, I thank God, mercenary nor mean. And what a lofty, noble spirit is that of your friend! What lord or duke could match the height of his intellect or the gorgeousness of his imagination. Oh, too soon my beautiful dream is broken!" and the young lady, all power of her usual self-restraint being lost, wept like a child upon the shoulder of her brother.

"Nay, nay, sister dear, weep not," at length said the squire, tenderly raising her head and leading her homeward. "All is not lost that is in danger. And so that you really _have_ lost your hard little heart to my noble, glorious friend, I'll take care that it is soon recovered--or at any rate another one quite as good. Come, come, cheer up! All will go well."

The squire, although not usually rated as a prophet, predicted rightly for once; for the very next day saw young Walter Willie at Sweetbriar Lodge, with a face as handsome and happy as the morning. Hortensia was ill, and must not be disturbed; and at this information his features suddenly became overcast, as you may have seen a spring sky by a thick cloud, springing up from nobody knows where. However, the squire entered directly after, and whispered a few words to his guest, which seemed to restore in a measure the brightness of his look.

"And you really think, then, that I may hope?"

"Nay, my friend, you may do as you like about that. All men may hope, you know Shakspeare says. But I tell you that Hortensia has fallen in love with your foolish face--it's just like her!--and that's all about it. Come in and take some breakfast. Oh, I forgot--you've no appetite. Of course not. Well, you'll find some nice fresh dew in those morning-glories yonder, and I will rejoin you in a minute. We 'll make a day of it."

That evening the moon shone a million times brighter, the sky was a million times bluer, and the nightingale sung a million times sweeter than ever before. At least so thought the beautiful Hortensia and her artist-lover, as they strolled, arm-in-arm, through the woody lawn that skirted the garden of Sweetbriar Lodge, and held sweet converse of immortal things by gazing into each other's eyes. And so ends our veracious history of the Pic-Nic in Olden Time.

TO THE VIOLET.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

Sweet trophy of life's morning, fresh and calm, Dropped from the gleanings of relentless time, How from thy dainty chalice steals the balm That hung like incense o'er its dewy prime!

The lily's stateliness thou dost not own, Nor glow voluptuous of the damask rose, Thou canst not emulate the laurel's crown, Nor, like the Cereus, watch while all repose.

And these gay rivals of parterre and field May freely drink the sunshine and the dew, But only unto thee does heaven yield The pure reflection of her cloudless blue.

Thy tint will sometimes darken till it wear A purple such as decked the eastern kings, And yet, like innocence, all unaware Its tribute to the wind thy blossom flings.

Symbol of what is cherished and untold, Thy fragrance oft reveals thee to the sight, Peering in beauty from the common mould, As casual blessings the forlorn requite.

Thy image upon Laura's robe was wrought, O'er which her poet with devotion mused, And gentle souls, I ween, have ever caught From thee a solace that the world refused.

The Tuscan flower-girls delight to cheer Each pensive exile with thy scented leaves, Fit largess of a clime to fancy dear, Which a new blandishment from thee receives.

Grief's frenzy, when it melts, of thee will rave, As of a thing too winsome to decay, And thus Laertes at his sister's grave Bids violets spring from her unsullied clay.

Lowly incentive to celestial thought! We ne'er with listless step can pass thee by, For thou with tender embassies art fraught, Like the fond beaming of a northern eye.

Hence thou art sacred to our human needs; Laid on the maiden's white and throbbing breast Thy delicate odor for the absent pleads, And mourners strew thee where their idols rest.

In those wild hours when feeling chafed its bound, And deepened more that utterance was denied, In thee persuasive messengers I found That reached the haven of love's wayward tide.

And I have borne thee to the couch of death When naught remained to do but wait and pray, And marked the sudden flush and quickened breath That proved thee dear though all had passed away!

THEY MAY TELL OF A CLIME.

TO ---- ----.

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.

They may tell of a clime more delightful than this, The land of the orange, the myrtle and vine; Where the roses blush red beneath Zephyr's warm kiss, And the bright beams of summer unceasingly shine. But I know a sweet valley, a beautiful spot, Where the turf is so green, and the breezes are bland; And methinks, if you'll share there my ivy-crowned cot, There'll be no place on earth like my own native land.

A palace 'neath Italy's star-covered sky, Unblest by thy presence would desolate be; But cheered by the light of thy soft beaming eye, Ah! sweet were a tent in the desert with thee. For 'tis love--O! 'tis love which thus hallows the ground, And brightens the gloom of the anchorite's cell; And the Eden of earth--wheresoe'er it be found-- Is the spot where the heart's cherished idol doth dwell.

Then come to my cottage--though cool be the shade, And verdant the sod 'neath the wide-spreading bough-- Where the wood-dove its nest 'mid the foliage hath made, Yet lone is that cottage, and desolate now. For as the green forest, bereft of the dove, No more with sweet echoes would musical be-- Even so is the rose-mantled bower of love, Unblest and uncheered, if not gladdened by thee.

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

BY C. A. WASHBURN.

I dreamed that for a long time I courted Charlotte--what need of dreaming? It was true. Nevertheless I dreamed that for a long time I courted Charlotte, and at last, which was not true, married her. And I thought that Charlotte and I lived very happily together.

She loved me better than she ever thought she could before we were married, for I loved her exceedingly, and was very kind to her.

I remember how long it was that I wooed her. Always hoping, though sometimes fearing that she would never love me so as to marry me; how, when at last we were married, and I carried her home to my pretty cottage, I could hardly contain myself for joy; and when I saw her seated in our own parlor on the wedding eve, I could not keep a tear from trickling down my cheek; and how she kissed away the tear, and when she knew the cause, how she burst into a flood of tears, and said she would love me the better for my having loved her so; and how that we were from that time wholly united in heart and sympathy.

Then, in the course of time, we had two darling children, which we both loved--and I thought my cup of happiness completed. I had been an ambitious man in my youth, and had experienced much of the disappointment incident to a life for fame. But when God had given us two such lovely children, I thought it was abusing his mercy to neglect them for the applause of the world--and so devoted myself entirely to their welfare. If I worked hard and was inclined to feel peevish and cross, I thought how that I was laboring to make happy, and good, and great, the dear boys, and I forgot every thing else. If I became tired of the turmoil of life, I was the more happy when I got home, for the children were always waiting and glad to see me, and their presence immediately banished all anxiety and care. They seemed so happy when I came--for Charlotte used to teach them to prize my presence by dating their pleasures by my arrival; that I thought it joy enough for one mortal to have looked upon the impersonation of innocence and joy in his own children.

Then, when the boys were asleep, how we used to talk about them; how anxious we were when either of them was restless or unquiet! How we used to reckon on the joy they would give us in age, and how in the happiness of our lot we shed tears of happines and joy! With what fervor did we unite in prayer for their health and preservation, and wish all the world as happy as we were. We became selfish in our joy, and felt to care little for any thing but home, and in our enjoyment of the gift we had like to have forgotten the Giver.

But at length Charlie, the younger boy, was sick, and we feared he would die. We then remembered in whose hands his life was, and, I believe, ever after regarded our treasures as trusts committed to our keeping. Charlie suffered great pain, but he complained not. His very submission smote our hearts, and though we could not think he was to die, yet we thought he was too good to live. Benny could no longer smile upon us, but watched by his brother's bed without speaking or moving, unless to do him some service. We felt anxious about Charles, yet forbore to speak of our anxiety, though when he was asleep we could no longer conceal our sorrow and fears. And when one day the physician imprudently said in his hearing that he feared Charles would die, he looked at him in surprise, as if he had not thought of that; and kissing the fevered brow of his sick brother, he came and stood by his mother's side, and looking in her face as much as to say you wont let brother die, he saw a tear in the clear blue eye of his mother, and he sobbed aloud; and Charlotte could contain herself no longer, but dropped hot tears on his face faster than she could kiss them away. Then I feared if Charlie should die lest Benny should die too; and then I knew that Charlotte could not bear all this, and I prayed in my heart to God for Charles. And the next day, when the good physician said the danger was past, we felt to thank God that he had so chastened our affections, and ever loved him the more.

So we lived in love and happiness for many years, and all that time not a shade of discord passed between us; and I often thought what a dreary world this had been to me if Charlotte had never been mine. I used to pity my bachelor neighbor, and, as I thought, I could see the tear of disappointment in his eye when he witnessed my happy lot. I saw it was a vision, and only the figure of Margaret, my once loved and pretty sister, who existed then but in the land of spirits, was before me.

And I told Margaret of the vision, and could not repress a sigh that it was not reality; and musing long on what I was, and what I might have been had nature dealt with me more kindly, until the vision returned. Again I lived the life of youth's fancy.

But the boys now began to mingle a little with the world, and we feared we were not equal to the task of educating them. We trembled when we thought of the dangers before them, though we could not believe it possible that they should ever do wrong. Alas! what trouble was before us!

I had carried home a box of strawberries, and set them in the pantry, and setting myself down in the library, waited for Charlotte to come home from shopping. I saw Charlie come from the pantry, but thought nothing at the time, and when Benny came in, bade him bring them to me that I might divide them between them--they were gone; Charles must have taken them, for no one else had been in the pantry. I called him to me, and asked if he had taken them. I asked without concern, for I knew if he had, he did it supposing it to be right. He said, "No, sir." "Ah," said I, "you did." He then inquired what ones I meant, and I told him, and told him he must confess it, or I must punish him. But when I talked so seriously of punishment, he seemed confounded. He turned pale, and only said, "I did not do it." That was a trying moment; and when Charlotte came in, we considered long and anxiously what we ought to do. Should we let the theft go unpunished, and the falsehood to be repeated. Again we urged him to confess. The answer was still the same. There was no alternative but a resort to what I had prayed Heaven might spare me. I punished him severely, but he confessed not. I wished I had not begun, but now I must go on. I still increased the castigation, and it was only when I told him that I would stop when he owned the theft, and not before, that he confessed he had taken the berries.

After this cruel punishment he went out and found Benny, who had been crying piteously all the time, and then my two boys went and hid themselves. I would have suffered the rack to have recalled that hour. It was too late. On going into the kitchen shortly after, I found a poor woman of the neighborhood with the box, which she said her thievish son had confessed he stole from the pantry. Perhaps some parents imagine the feelings of Charlotte and myself when we made this discovery. But they are few. The boys both shunned us, and we dreaded to see them. But at last we sent for them to come in, and they dared not refuse to obey. I took Charles in my arms. I asked him to forgive me; I told him who took the berries; I shed tears without measure; I begged him to forgive me--to kiss me as he was wont. He could not do it. It was cold and mechanical. His little heart seemed broke. Had he died I thought I could have borne it, but I could not endure this. When he slept he was fitful and troubled; ah! his troubles could not be greater than mine. I slept not that night; no, nor for many nights after that; but I watched him in his sleep, and many a hot tear did I drop on his cheek, which he wiped off as poison; and for many weeks I would rise several times every night, and go and gaze on his yet pretty face, on which was stamped the curse for my own cruel haste.

In the midst of these sore trials, the lovely face of Margaret again appeared before me, and again the vision vanished into nothing. And I told her this part of the dream, and even then could not suppress a tear that it was a dream, and that the children of W---- could never have an existence or a name.

Then the kind Margaret spoke words of comfort to me, and made me repress the half-formed feeling of discontent.

"Have you not," said she, "said you would be satisfied for only one hour of the love of Charlotte?"

"True," I replied, "and that dream was worth more than all my life before."

"Have you not known in that the joys of a parent, and have you not seen what sorrows and trials might have been yours, from which you have now escaped? And do you now complain of your lot, W----? You know not the designs of Providence. Will not Charlotte be yours in the world to come?"

"God grant it!" said I; "but where will be Benny and Charles? They can never be, and I shall die, and the flame of parental love will burn in me, and never can it have an object."

"Hush you!" said Margaret, "cannot God give you in the other world those spirits of fancy? Did you not enjoy them in the dream, and cannot the same power make you enjoy them in Elysium? Is it nothing that God has done for you in showing you what might have been, and what can be _there_? Are you still ungrateful, and do you still distrust his goodness? Is it nothing that he has kept you from temptation, and that you have so clear a conscience? Will you not be worthy of Charlotte in heaven; and have you no gratitude for all this? Have you not dear friends still; and will not Margaret be a guardian-angel to you so long as you sojourn in this valley of tears?"

"Ah!" said I, "I am blest beyond my deserts, and I will no more complain, but thank my heavenly Father for the dream-children he hath given me."

I felt reproved by the words of Margaret, for I felt I had often indulged in useless repinings; and I determined I would do so no more, but patiently await my time to enjoy the loved ones, both real and ideal, in heaven. I again turned to speak to Margaret--but Margaret had vanished to the land of spirits, and I was alone, the solitary man I had long been. It was but a dream within a dream.

PASSED AWAY.

BY W. WALLACE SHAW.

With wearied step, and heavy heart, O'erburdened with life's woes-- My soul bowed down with grief and care The orphan only knows-- I strayed along old ocean's shore, Where I had wandered oft before, My grief to hide from men;

I listened--something seemed to say-- The joys that once did fill thy breast Where, oh! where are they? A voice that mingled with the roar Of dashing waves against the shore, In hollow tone, replied-- "They _bloomed_; and _died_!"

AN EVENING SONG,

BY PROFESSOR WM. CAMPBELL.

[AN EXTRACT.]

Lyre of my soul, awake--thy chords are few, Feeble their tones and low, Wet with the morning and the evening dew Of ceaseless wo. The time hath been to me and thee, my lyre, When soul of fire Was ours, and notes and aspirations bold Of higher hopes and prouder promise told-- Those days have flown-- Now we are old, Old and alone!

Old in our youth--for sorrow maketh old, And disappointment withereth the frame, And harsh neglect will smother up the flame, That else had proudly burned--and the cold Offcasting of affection will repel The warm life-current back upon the heart, And choke it nigh to bursting--yet 't is well, And wise-intended, that the venomed dart Shall bear its sure and speedy remedy. Why should the wretched wish to live? to be One in this cold wide world--ever to feel That others feel not--wounds that will not heal-- A bruised, though yet unbroken spirit's strife-- A waning and a wasting out of life-- A longing after loving--and the curse To know One's self unknown-- In secrecy a hopeless hope to nurse-- Down to the grave to go Unloved--alone!

Yet not alone! Pardon, thou gentle breeze, That comest o'er the waters with the tread Of beauty stealing to the sufferer's bed, To cool the burning brow, and whisper peace. Pardon, ye sweet wild flow'rets, that each morn Woo us to brush the dew-drop from the lid Of tearful innocence, and meekly warn Of worth in garb of lowliest texture hid. Beings of gentlest life, ye murmuring streams, Lull of our waking, music of our dreams, Ye things of artless merriment, that throw Around you gladness, wheresoe'er ye flow-- And ye dark mountains, down whose changeful sides The mystic guardian, giant shadow strides, Whose kindly frown, howe'er the storms prevail, Peace and repose ensureth to the vale-- Ye tall proud forests, that forever sway In kingly fury, or in graceful play-- Ye bright blue waters whose untiring drip Against this island shore doth lightly break, Gentle and noiseless as the parting lip Of dreaming infant on its mother's cheek, Pardon my rash averment--pardon, ye Flow'rets and streamlets, mountains, woods and waves, That pour into the soul a melody, Like to the far down music of the caves Of ocean, heard not, felt not, save within, Seeking to joy the darker depths to win-- Oh! while your sweet and sacred voices steal Into my spirit, as the joyous fall Of the warm sunbeam on the frozen rill, To wake the voice that slumbereth, and call To bear you company In your glad hymnings, let the wretched own He cannot be Alone!

Never alone!--awake, my soul--on high The glorious sun his thousand rays has flung Athwart the vaulted sky-- Lo! there the heavens their mighty harp have strung, The gold, the silver and the crimson chord, To hymn their evening hymn unto the Lord. Hark! heard ye not that glorious burst of song, Which, touched by hands unseen, those chords sent forth, Bidding the attuned spheres the notes prolong Deeper and louder, till the trembling earth Catcheth the thrilling strain-- Echoeth back again-- From the bosom of ocean a voice Pealeth forth, and the mountains rejoice And the plains and the woods and the valleys rebound, And the Universe all is a creature of sound, That runneth his race Through the infinite regions of infinite space, Till arrived at the throne Of HIM who alone Is worthy of honor and glory and praise.

And it is ever thus--morn, noon and eve, And in the still midnight, undying Choirs of creation's minstrels weave Sweet symphony of incense, vying In wrapt intricacy of endless songs. Ever, oh ever thus they sing, But to our soul's dull ear belongs Seldom the trancing sense To list the universal worshiping, Thrill with the glorious theme, and drink its eloquence.

Mocking all our soul's desiring, Distant now the notes are stealing, And the minstrels high reining, Drapery blue their forms concealing.

THE OCEAN-BURIED.

COMPOSED, AND DEDICATED TO MISSES HARRIET AND MARY HALSEY,

Of Blooming Grove, O. C., N. Y.,

BY MISS AGNES H. JONES.

=Andantino Soave=.

"Bury me not in the deep, deep sea." The words came faint and mournfully, From the pallid lips of a youth who lay On the cabin couch where,

day by day, He had wasted and pined, till o'er his brow The death shade had slowly pass'd, and now, When the land and his fond loved home were nigh, They had gath'rd around to see him die.

Let my death-slumber be where a mother's prayer And sister's tears can be blended there. Oh, it will be sweet ere the heart's throb is o'er, To know, when its fountain shall gush no more, That those it so fondly has yearn'd for will come, To plant the first wild-flower of spring on my tomb. Let me lie where lov'd ones can weep over me-- Bury me not in the deep, deep sea!

And there is another, her tears would be shed For him who lays far in an ocean bed; In hours that it pains me to think of now, She has twin'd these locks and kiss'd this brow-- In this hair she has wreathed shall the sea-snake hiss? The brow she has press'd shall the cold wave kiss? For the sake of that bright one that wails for me, Bury me not in the deep, deep sea!

"She hath been in my dreams"--his voice failed short, They gave no heed to his dying prayer.-- They have lowered him o'er the vessel's side-- Above him hath closed the solemn tide. Where to dip her wing the wild fowl rests-- Where the blue waves dance with their foamy crests-- Where the billows bound and the winds sport free, They have buried him there, in the deep, deep sea.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Calaynos: A Tragedy. By George H. Boker, E. H. Butler & Co. Philadelphia, pp. 218._

The spirit of English poetry has been for years eminently lyric; the few attempts at the epic or dramatic having been laid aside, if not permanently, at least for a time. The age has been too busy in working out, with machinery and steam, its own great epic thought, to find leisure to listen to any thing longer than a single bugle-blast encouraging its advancement. We cannot but believe, however, if we may be allowed an analogical inference, that the age is fast approaching the climax of its utilitarian inventions, and that man, instead of chasing through unknown regions every will-o-wisp of his brain, in the hope of bringing it a captive to the Patent-office, will sit modestly down to apply to their various uses the discoveries already made. Then will the healthy feast of literature once more begin, and the public cease to be surfeited by the watery hash which has been daily set steaming before them. In the volume under consideration we think we can discern the promise of the return of the good old spirit of English poetry--of solid honest thought expressed in straight forward Saxon. The story, which is one of the chivalrous days of Spain, while it is devoid of trick is full of thrilling interest, and its style, while it is eminently poetical, neither swells into bombast nor descends to the foppery so common among the verse-makers of our day. There is a stately, old-fashioned tread in the diction, as of a man in armor, who, should he attempt to gather flowers of mere prettiness, would crush them at the first touch of his iron gauntlet, and who, if he seems to move ungracefully at times, owes his motion to his weight of mail. Calaynos, the hero, is in every respect a nobleman, not only in blood, but what is better, in mind. He is a scholar, one who, in the words of Dona Alda his wife,

--uses time as usurers do their gold, Making each moment pay him double interest.

He is a philosopher--

Things nigh impossible are plain to him; His trenchant will, like a fine-tempered blade, With unturned edge, cleaves through the baser iron.

He is generous and has

--a predetermined trust in man;

and holds that

He who hates man must scorn the Source of man, And challenge as unwise his awful Maker.

The character of Dona Alda is noble and womanly--her chief trait being her great pride and jealous care of her honor. She conceives that no one will brave the

--peril, such as he must brook, Who dares to love the wife of great Calaynos.

Her maid, Martina, tells her that

--Queens of Spain Have had their paramours--

and she replies,

--So might it be, _Yet never hap to bride of a Calaynos_!

Don Luis, the villain of the plot, thus paints his own picture:

--I was not formed for good: To what Fate orders I must needs submit: The sin not mine, but His who made me thus-- Not in my will but in my nature lodged.

* * * * *

I will grasp the stable goods of life, Nor care how foul the hand that does the deed.

Martina is admirably drawn; her wit is excellent, and as exhaustless as it is keen. She says of Calaynos--

He looks on pleasure as a kind of sin, Calls pastime waste-time----

* * * * *

I heard a man, who spent a mortal life In hoarding up all kinds of stones and ores, Call one, who spitted flies upon a pin, A fool to pass his precious lifetime thus.

She says of Oliver, Calayno's secretary,

Yes, there he goes-- Backward and forward, like a weaver's shuttle, Spinning some web of wisdom most divine.

She addresses him thus--

Our clay, the preachers say, was warmed to life; But yours, your dull, cold mud, was froze to being. _I would not be the oyster that you are For all the pearls of wisdom in your shell!_

All the persons of the play are vivid and life-like. With the beginning of the third act the interest becomes intense, and nothing could be more vigorous and touching than the action and depth of pathos toward the close of the piece. Every page teems with fine thoughts and images, which lead us to believe that the mine from which this book is a specimen, contains a golden vein of poetry which will go far to enrich our native literature.

_Literary Sketches and Letters: Being the Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, Never before Published. By Thomas Noon Talfourd. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The present work is important in more respects than one. It was needed to clear up the obscurity which rested on several points of Lamb's life, and it was needed to account for some of the peculiarities of his character. The volume proves that this most genial and kindly of humorists was tried by as severe a calamity as ever broke down the energies of a great spirit, and the frailties commonly associated with his name seem almost as nothing compared with the stern duties he performed from his early manhood to his death. The present volume is calculated to increase that personal sympathy and love for him, which has ever distinguished the readers of Lamb from the readers of other authors, and also to add a sentiment of profound respect for his virtues and his fortitude. The truth is that Lamb's intellect was one of the largest and strongest, as well as one of the finest, among the great contemporary authors of his time, and it was altogether owing to circumstances, and those of a peculiarly calamitous character, that this ample mind left but inadequate testimonials of its power and fertility. He is, and probably will be, chiefly known as an original and somewhat whimsical essayist, but his essays, inimitable of their kind, were but the playthings of his intellect.

Talfourd has performed his editorial duties with his usual taste and judgment, and with all that sweetness and grace of expression which ever distinguishes the author of Ion. His sketches of Lamb's companions are additions to the literary history of the present century. Lamb's own letters, which constitute the peculiar charm of the book, are admirable--the serious ones being vivid transcripts of his moods of mind, and some of them almost painful in their direct expression of agony, and the semi-serious rioting in mirth, mischief and whim, full of wit and meaning, and full also of character and kindliness. One of his early letters he closes, as being from his correspondent's "afflicted, headachey, sore-throatey, humble servant." In another he calls Hoole's translation of Tasso "more vapid than smallest small beer, 'sun-vinegared.'" In speaking of Hazlitt's intention to print a political pamphlet at his own expense, he comes out with a general maxim, which has found many disciples: "The first duty of an author, I take it, is never to pay any thing." When Hannah More's Coelebs in Search of a Wife appeared, it was lent to him by a precise lady to read. He thought it among the poorest of common novels, and returned it with this stanza written in the beginning:

If ever I marry a wife I'd marry a landlord's daughter, For then I may sit in the bar, And drink cold brandy-and-water.

In speaking of his troubles toward the close of his life, he has a strange, humorous imagination, in every way worthy of his peculiar genius: "My bedfellows are cough and cramp; _we sleep three in a bed_."

The present volume is elegantly printed, and will doubtless have a run. It is full of matter, and that of the most interesting kind. No reader of Lamb, especially, will be without it.

_Modern French Literature. By L. Raymond de Vericour. Edited by W. S. Chase, A. M. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work is the English production of a native Frenchman, and was written for one of Chambers's series of books for the people. It is edited, with notes alluding particularly to writers prominent in the late French Revolution, by a young American scholar, who has recently resided in France. The book, though deficient and sometimes incorrect in details, deserves much praise for its general correctness and accuracy. The author, though by no means a critic of the first class, is altogether above the herd of Grub street hacks who commonly undertake the popularizing of literary history. He is no Winstansley and no Cibber. The range of his reading appears to be extensive. His judgments are somewhat those of a school-master, but one of the highest grade. There are several amusing errors relating to the position of English authors, to some of which we cannot help alluding, as they seem to have escaped the vigilant eye of the editor. Speaking of Guizot and Sismondi as the leaders of the school of French philosophical historians, he remarks that "the English language possesses some good specimens of this class of history; the most remarkable are Gibbon's Decline and Fall and the works of Mr. Millar." This is as if the author had said that England possessed some good specimens of the Romantic Drama, the most remarkable being Shakspeare's Macbeth and the works of Mr. Colman.

Again, in speaking of the novels of Paul de Kock, and protesting against those English critics who call him the first writer of his time and country, he says that it is as ridiculous as it would be in Frenchmen to exalt the novels of Charles Dickens above Ivanhoe, _Philip Augustus_ and Eugene Aram, The idea of a Frenchman thinking it a paradox to rank Dickens above James, or even Bulwer, shows how difficult it is for a foreigner, especially a Frenchman, to pass beyond the external form of English literature.

The author deserves the praise of being a sensible man, in the English meaning of the phrase. There is one sentence in his introductory which proves that his mind has escaped one besetting sin of the French intellect, which has prevented its successful cultivation of politics as a practical science. In speaking of the histories of Thiers and Mignet, he says that they "have hatched a swarm of _Jeunes Prances_, vociferating in their wild aberrations, emphatic eulogies on Marat, Coulhon and Robespierre, and breathing a love of blood and destruction, which they call the progressive march of events."

_Rise and Fall of Louis Philippe, Ex-King of the French, Giving a History of the French Revolution from, its Commencement in 1789. By Benj. Perley Poore, Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

Of all the publications we have seen relating to Louis Philippe this is the most complete and the most agreeable. The author, from his long residence in Paris, and from his position as Historical Agent of the State of Massachusetts, was enabled to collect a large mass of matter relating to French history, and also to learn a great deal respecting the Orleans dynasty, which would not naturally find its way into print. The present volume, though it has little in relation to the first French Revolution not generally known by students, embodies a large number of important facts respecting Louis Philippe, which we believe are now published for the first time. The biography itself has the interest of a romance, for few heroes of novels ever were, in imagination, subjected to the changes of fortune which Louis encountered in reality. Mr. Poore's view of his character is not more flattering than that which commonly obtains--on both sides of the Atlantic. To sustain this disparaging opinion of his subject, however, he is compelled to suppose policy and hypocrisy as the springs of many actions which a reasonable charity would pronounce virtuous and humane. It must be conceded that the conduct of the king during the last few days of his reign was feeble, if not cowardly, but his uniform character in other periods of his life was that of a man possessing singular readiness and coolness in times of peril, and encountering obstacles with a courage as serene as it was adventurous.

_The Tenant of Wildfield Hall. By Acton Bell, Author of Wurthuring Heights.. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The appearance of this novel, so soon after the publication of Wurthuring Heights, is an indication of Mr. Bell's intention to be a frequent visiter, or visitation, of the public. We are afraid that the personages he introduces to his readers will consist chiefly of one class of mankind, and this class not the most pleasing. He is a monomaniac on the subject of man's rascality and brutality, and crowds his page with forcible delineations of offensive characters and disgusting events. The power he displays is of a high but limited order, and is exercised chiefly to make his readers uncomfortable. To be sure the present novel is not so bad as Wurthuring Heights in the matter of animal ferocity and impish diabolism; but still most of the characters, to use a quaint illustration of an eccentric divine, "are engaged in laying up for themselves considerable grants of land in the bottomless pit," and brutality, blasphemy and cruelty constitute their stock in trade. The author is not so much a delineator of human life as of inhuman life. There are doubtless many scenes in The Tenant of Wildfield Hall drawn with great force and pictorial truth, and which freeze the blood and "shiver along the arteries;" but we think that the author's process in conceiving character is rather logical than imaginative, and consequently that he deals too much in unmixed malignity and selfishness. The present novel, with all its peculiar merits, lacks all those elements of interest which come from the generous and gentle affections. His champagne enlivens, but there is arsenic in it.

_Brothers and Sisters. By Frederika Bremer. Translated by Mary Howitt. New York: Harper & Brothers._

This is by no means one of Miss Bremer's best productions, but it is not on that account a commonplace production. The pathos, the cheerfulness, the elevation, the sweet humane home-feeling of the Swedish novelist, are here in much of their old power, with the addition of universal philanthropy and the rights of labor. But we fear that the original vein of our authoress is exhausted, and that she is now repealing herself. It is a great mistake to suppose that a new story, new names of characters, additional sentiments nicely packed in new sentences, make a new novel, when the whole tone and spirit of the production continually reminds the reader of the authors previous efforts. It is no depreciation of Miss Bremer's really fine powers to assert, that she lacks the creative energy of Scott, or the ever active fancy and various observation of Dickens.

_Grantley Manor. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is altogether one of the finest novels which have appeared for many years. It is written with much beauty of style; evinces a creative as well as cultivated mind, and contains a variety of characters which are not only interesting in themselves, but have a necessary connection with the plot and purpose. The mind of the author has that combination of shrewdness and romantic fervor, of sense and passion, so necessary to every novelist who desires to idealize without contradicting the experience of common life.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

To the readers of "Graham."--A series of misfortunes having bereft me of any proprietory interest in this Magazine, the present publishers have made a liberal arrangement with me, and for the future, the editorial and pictorial departments of Graham's Magazine will be under the charge of Joseph R. Chandler, Esq., J. Bayard Taylor, Esq., and myself.

It is due to the subscribers to "Graham" from me, to state, that from the first hour I took charge of it, the warmest support and encouragement were given me, and from two not very profitable magazines "Graham" sprung at once into boundless popularity and circulation. Money, as every subscriber knows, was freely expended upon it, and an energy untiring and sleepless was devoted to its business management, and had I not, in an evil hour, forgotten my own true interests, and devoted that capital and industry to another business which should have been confined exclusively to the magazine, I should to-day have been under no necessity--not even of writing this notice.

I come back to my first love with an ardor undiminished, and an energy not enervated, with high hopes and very bold purposes. What can be done in the next three years, time, that great solver of doubts, must tell. What a daring enterprize in business can do, I have already shown in Graham's Magazine and the North American--and, alas! I have also shown what folly can do, when business is forgotten--but I can yet show the world that he who started life a poor boy, with but eight dollars in his pocket, and has run such a career as mine, is hard to be put down by the calumnies or ingratitude of any. Feeling, therefore, that having lost one battle, "there is time enough to win another," I enter upon the work of the "redemption of Graham," with the very confident purposes of a man who never doubted his ability to succeed, and who asks no odds in a fair encounter.

GEO. R. GRAHAM.

An Acquisition.--Our readers will share in the pleasure with which it is announced, that JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, Esq., the accomplished writer, and former editor of "_The United States Gazette_," will hereafter be "_one of us_" in the editorial management of Graham's Magazine. There are few writers in the language who equal, and none excel Mr. Chandler in graceful and pathetic composition. His sketches live in the hearts of readers, while they are heart-histories recognized by thousands in every part of the laud. An article from Mr. Chandler's pen may be looked for in every number, and this will cause each number to be looked for anxiously.

Editors Looking Up.--It is expected that an early number of "Graham" will be graced with a portrait of our distinguished rival of the "Lady's Book," that gentleman having "in the handsomest manner," as they say in theatricals, sat for a picture of his goodly countenance and proportions. At our command this has been transferred to steel, to be handed over to the readers of "Graham," by Armstrong, an artist whose ability is a fair warrant for a fine picture. Now if any of our fair readers fall in love with Godey, we shall take it as a formal slight, and shall insist upon having our face _run_ through an edition of a magazine, to be gazed at and loved by thousands of as fine looking people as can be crowded upon a subscription book.

W. E. TUCKER, ESQ.--We are very much gratified to be able to state, that an arrangement has been made by the proprietors of "Graham" with Mr. W. E. Tucker, whose exquisite title-pages and other gems in the way of engraving are familiar to our readers, and that _for the year 1849, he engraves exclusively for Graham's Magazine_.

This is but the beginning of arrangements proposed to revive the original splendor of the pictorial department of this magazine, while the literary arrangements are in the same style of liberality which has ever distinguished "Graham." "There is a good time a-coming boys" in 1849.

Sketches From Europe.--In the present absorbing state of affairs abroad, it will please our readers to know, that we have engaged an accomplished writer to furnish sketches of European manners, events and society, such as escape the daily journals, for the pages of the magazine. These sketches will occasionally be illustrated with engravings of scenery and persons taken on the spot, and cannot fail to add to the value of "Graham."

Gems From Late Readings.--We shall introduce into the next number of Graham a department which we think cannot fail to be of interest, by selections from authors which it is not possible for all the readers of Graham to have seen. Culling such passages as may strike us in our reading as worthy of wide circulation and preservation.