GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XX. May, 1842 No. 5.

Contents

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

Drawn by John Hayter Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: MAY, 1842. No. 5.

THE BRIDE.

Ros. Ah, sir, a body would think she was well counterfeited.

“The earl is out, sir—and so is Lord William;” said the obsequious lacquey, as I was ushered into Fairlie Hall, “will you amuse yourself in the library until dinner, or take a stroll in the park? You will probably meet with some of the family about the grounds.”

Such was the salutation that greeted me on alighting at the princely mansion of the earl of Fairlie, whither I had come at the invitation of his only son—one of my inseparable friends at Oxford. The visit had been promised for more than two years; and I was actuated to it, not only by the desire of spending the vacation with my friend, but by a lurking wish to behold the Lady Katharine, his only sister, whose beauty I had heard extolled by a hundred lips. So I had given up a contemplated run to the continent and come down to Fairlie Hall.

After changing my dress and gazing from the windows of my chamber, I began to feel ennuied and descending the ample staircase I determined on a stroll into the magnificent park, which surrounded the hall for some miles on every hand. My walk led me by a wild woodland path into one of the most romantic recesses of the forest. Naturally of a dreamy cast of mind, I walked on in a sort of reverie, until I was suddenly recalled to my more sober senses by coming in front of a little summer house, perched airily on a rock, and overlooking a mimic waterfall. Feeling somewhat fatigued with my day’s travel, I walked in and sat down. There was little furniture in the room, but on a table in the centre, lay a copy of Spencer, as if some one had lately been there. Picking up my favorite poet I began reading, but whether the interminable allegory exercised a drowsy influence over me, or whether it was the sharp morning air in which I had been riding that affected me, I cannot say, but in a few minutes I fell into a light doze, such a one as while it gives a dreamy character to our thoughts, or lulls them altogether into repose, never assumes wholly the character of sleep, and is dissipated by the slightest noise. Mine was soon broken, by a quick light step on the greensward without, and a musical female voice singing a gay ditty. Starting up I beheld an apparition standing in the door of the summer house, whose exceeding loveliness I was doubtful, for a moment, whether to refer to earth or heaven.

This apparition bore the form of a young lady apparently about eighteen, of a tall shapely figure, attired in a light summer dress—the sleeves of which, being looped up at the shoulders, revealed a pair of exquisitely rounded arms which might have vied with those of the fabled Euphrosyne. Her dress came low down towards the bust, displaying the full charms of her unrivalled shoulders and all the graceful swelling of her snowy and swan-like neck. Her face was of the true oval shape, and on either side of it flowed down her luxuriant auburn ringlets. The features, without being regular, formed a combination of surpassing beauty. The delicately arched eye-brows; the finely chiselled nose; the small round chin; the rich lips whose luxuriance rivalled that of the full blown rose; and the smooth pearly cheek, through which the vermeil blood might be seen wandering in ten thousand tiny veins—so transparent was the hue of the skin—united to form a countenance which would have been beautiful, even without the constantly changing expression which gave animation to each feature. The appearance of this wondrously lovely being, just as I awoke from the half dreamy sleep I have described, in which the visions of the poet and the sound of the waterfall had contributed to fill my mind with fantastic images, made me doubt, for a moment, whether the heavenly Una herself or one of her attendant nymphs had not emerged on my dreaming vision. But the changing expressing of her features soon convinced me that she was no airy visitant. At first a look of surprise darted over her fine countenance, and she retreated a step backwards, while the blood mantled her cheek, brow, and bosom, and even tinged the ends of her delicate fingers. In an instant, however, she regained her composure. No so myself. I had been equally startled, but was longer in recovering my ease. A silence of a minute thus occurred, during which we stood awkwardly regarding each other, but at length the ludicrousness of the scene striking the fancy of the fair apparition, she burst into a merry laugh, in which, despite my wounded vanity, I was forced to follow her. She had now fully recovered from her momentary embarrassment and advancing said,

“Mr. Stanhope I presume, for we have been expecting you for some days.” I bowed. “I see I must introduce myself. The Lady Katharine, daughter of the Earl of Fairlie.”

This then was the Lady Katharine of whom I had heard so much! There was something in the gaiety and originality of the address that pleased me, while at the same time it increased my embarrassment. I bowed again and was about to reply, but in bowing I inadvertently made a step backwards, and trod on a pet greyhound, which accompanied this wilful creature. The animal with a cry sought shelter by its mistress’ side, who, by this time, had sunk into one of the seats.

“Poor Lama,” she said petting him, “you must be careful how you get in the way of a bashful gallant again,” and then, turning to me, she said in a tone of gay raillery. “Ah, Mr. Stanhope, you Oxford gentlemen, knowing as you are in history, Greek, and Latin, are all alike awkward at a bow—at least William is so, and his particular friend of whom I have heard so much, and of whom I really hoped otherwise, is no better.”

There was much in this galling to my vanity, but it carried with it some alleviation. I had then been the subject of conversation with this fair being, and she had thought favorably of me. This idea did much to restore me to the use of my tongue, which otherwise would have been gone forever, under the merciless raillery of the Lady Katharine. Besides I saw that I was losing ground with my fair companion, and that it was necessary to call some assurance to my aid. I rallied therefore and replied:

“Let me not be condemned without trial. Lady Katharine may yet soften her sentence—or at least in the court of fashion over which she is queen, I may have a chance of improvement.”

There was a tone of easy badinage in this, so different from what she had been led to expect from my former embarrassment, that the lady looked up in unaffected surprise.

“Very well, I declare—you improve on acquaintance. Why you have almost earned for yourself the favor of being my knight homewards—quite indeed, only that you have lamed my poor Lama. So I must even leave you to Spencer, which I see you have been reading, and depart. We will meet at dinner and I will see by that time if you have improved in your bows.”

“Not so, fair lady,” said I, “Spencer would never forgive me, and I would indeed be unworthy to be called true knight, if I permitted damsel to brave the perils of this enchanted forest alone.” And I started forward to accompany her.

She looked at me a minute dubiously, as if puzzled what to make of my character, as she said:

“I pardon you, for this once, and allow you to accompany me. We shall,” she continued, looking at her watch, “have scarcely time to reach the hall before the dinner bell will sound.” And with the words, off she tripped, with a bound as free as that of her agile greyhound. I followed, determined not to be outdone, but to maintain the gay rattling tone I had assumed, as the only one fitted to cope with this wilful creature. I had so far succeeded that when we parted at the hall to dress for dinner, I really believe she would have been puzzled to say what part of my conversation had been serious or what not. She must have been completely in the dark as to my real sentiments on any one of the many subjects we had discussed. Indeed she admitted as much to me at dinner, where I managed to secure a place beside her.

“You are a perfect puzzle—do you know it, Mr. Stanhope? At least I have not yet decided what to think of you. At first I set you down for the most bashful young man I had ever seen, and now you seem as if nothing could intimidate you. Why, when pa was introduced to you, you talked politics with him as if you had known him for years, and three minutes after you were discussing the fashions with little Miss Mowbray, as if you had been a man-milliner all your life. I scarcely know whether to think you a cameleon, or attribute your wit to the champaigne.”

“Neither, Lady Katharine, while a better reason may be found nearer home.”

“Ah! that wasn’t so badly said, although a little too plain. We ladies like flattery well enough, but then it must be disguised.”

“And it would be almost impossible to flatter you!—is that it?”

“You puzzle me to tell, I declare, whether that is a compliment or otherwise—but see, pa is waiting to drink champaigne with you.”

In such gay conversation passed the dinner and evening; and when I retired for the night it was with the consciousness that I was in a fair way to fall in love with the Lady Katharine. I lay awake for some two hours, thinking of all I had said and of her replies; and I came to the conclusion that she was, beyond measure not only the loveliest but the most fascinating of her sex.

I had been among the first of the numerous guests to arrive; but the remainder followed so close after me that in a few days the whole company had assembled. It was an unusually gay party. The morning was generally spent by the gentlemen in shooting among the preserves, leaving the ladies to their indoor recreations or a ride around the park. On these rides the gentlemen sometimes accompanied them. Lady Katharine was always the star of the party; it was around her our sex gathered. But, fascinating as I felt her to be I was, of all the beaux, the most seldom found at her bridle-rein; and perhaps this comparatively distant air was the most effectual means I could have taken to forward my suit. At least I fancied more than once that I piqued the Lady Katharine.

We still kept up the tone of badinage with which our acquaintance had commenced. There was a playful wit about the Lady Katharine which was irresistible; and I flattered myself that she was pleased with my conversation, perhaps because it was different from that of her suitors in general. But whether her liking for me extended further than to my qualities as a drawing-room companion I was unable to tell. If I strove to hide my love from her, she was equally successful in concealing her feelings whatever they might be. Yet she gave me the credit of being a keen observer.

“You take more notice of little things than any one of your sex I ever saw,” she said to me one evening. “The ladies have a way of reading one’s sentiments by trifles, which your sex generally deem beneath its notice. But you! one would almost fear your finding out all one thinks.”

“Oh! not at all,” said I. “At any rate, if your sex are such keen observers they are also apt at concealment. What lady that has not striven to hide from her lover that she returned his passion, at least until he has proposed, and that even though aware how wholly he adores her? We all alike play a part.”

“Shame, shame, Mr. Stanhope! Would you have us surrender our only protection, by betraying our sentiments too soon? And then to say that we all play a part, as if hypocrisy—in little things, it is true, but still hypocrisy—was an every-day affair. You make me ashamed of human nature. You really cannot believe what you say!”

This was spoken with a warmth that convinced me the words were from the heart. I felt that however flippant the Lady Katharine might be to the vain and empty suitors that usually thronged around her, she had a heart—a warm, true, woman’s heart—a heart that beat with noble emotions and was susceptible to all the finer feelings of love. I would have replied, but at this instant the Duke of Chovers approached and requested the honor of waltzing with her.

The Duke of Chovers was a young man of about five and twenty. The calibre of his mind was that of fashionable men in general; but then he enjoyed a splendid fortune and wore the ducal coronet. He was confessedly the best match of the season. The charms of the Lady Katharine had been the first to divert his mind from his dress and horses. It was whispered that a union was already arranged betwixt him and my fair companion. As if to confirm this rumor, he always took his place by her bridle-rein. The worldly advantages of such a connexion were unanswerable; and I had been tortured by uneasy fears ever since I heard the rumor. Now was a fair opportunity to learn the truth. I had heard the Lady Katharine jestingly say a few days before, in describing a late ball, that she refused to waltz with Lord —— because she thought him unmarried, and that when she discovered her mistake she was piqued at herself for losing the handsomest partner in the room. The remark was made jestingly and casually, and was by this time forgotten by her. But I still remembered it. Yet I know that if she was betrothed to him she would accept his offer. How my heart thrilled, therefore, when I heard her decline it! His grace walked away unable to conceal his mortification.

“You should not be so hard-hearted,” said I, “although the duke ought have known that you waltz with none of the proscribed race of bachelors.”

She looked at me in unaffected surprise.

“How did you discover that?” she said. “We have had no waltzing since you came,” and then, reflecting that these hasty words had confirmed my bold assertion, she blushed to the very brow and looked for a moment confused.

Our conversation was interrupted by her brother and one or two new acquaintances who had driven home with him. I soon sauntered away. My deductions respecting her and the duke were shaken, I confess, before the evening was over, by seeing them sitting tête-à-tête, by one of the casements, while the guests avoided them, as if by that tacit agreement under which lovers are left to themselves.

The attentions of his grace became daily more marked, and there was an evident embarrassment of manner in the Lady Katharine under them. A month slipped away meanwhile, and the time when the company was to break up drew near.

We were out on a ride one morning, and the duke, as usual, had established himself at her bridle-rein, when, in cantering along the brow of a somewhat precipitous hill, overlooking the country for miles around, the horse of the Lady Katharine took fright, from some cause, and dashed towards the edge of a precipice that sank sheer down for nearly a hundred feet. The precipice was several hundred yards to the right, but the pace at which the frighted steed went, threatened soon to bring him up with it, while the efforts of the rider to alter his course appeared to be unavailing. Our party was paralyzed, and his grace particularly so. I alone retained my presence of mind. Driving my spurs deep into the flanks of my steed, I plunged forward at full gallop, amid the shrieks of the females and the warnings of the gentlemen of the party. But I knew I could trust my gallant hunter. The Lady Katharine heard my horse’s hoofs, and turned around. Never shall I forget her pleading look. I dashed my rowels again into Arab, for only a few paces yet remained betwixt the Lady Katharine’s frightened animal and the edge of the precipice. One more leap and all would have been over; but luckily at that instant I came head and head with her furious steed, and catching him by the bridle, I swung him around with a superhuman strength. But I was only partially successful. The animal plunged and snorted, and nearly jerked me from the saddle.

“For God’s sake dismount, my dear Lady Katharine, as well as you can, or all is over.”

The daring girl hesitated no more, but seizing a favorable instant when the animal, though trembling all over, stood nearly still, she leaped to the earth. The next instant her steed plunged more wildly than ever, and seeing that she was safe I let go the bridle. He snorted, dashed forward and went headlong over the precipice. In an instant I had dismounted and was by the Lady Katharine’s side. I was just in time to catch her in my arms as she fainted away. Before she recovered, the landau, with the rest of the party, came up. I saw her in the hands of her mother, and then giving reins to Arab, under pretence of sending medical aid, but in reality to escape the gratulations of the company, I dashed off.

When I entered the drawing-room before dinner, there was no one in the apartment but the Lady Katharine. She looked pale, but on recognizing me, a deep blush suffused her cheek and brow, while her eye lit up for the instant, with an expression of dewy tenderness that made every vein in my body thrill. But these traces of emotion passed as rapidly as they came, leaving her manner as it usually was, only that there was an unnatural restraint about it, as if her feelings of gratitude were struggling with others of a different character. She rose, however, and extended her hand. There was nothing of its usual light tone in her voice, but an expression of deep seriousness, perhaps emotion, as she said,

“How shall I ever thank you sufficiently, Mr. Stanhope, for saving my life?” and that same dewy tenderness again shone from her eyes.

“By never alluding, my dear Lady Katharine, to this day’s occurrence. I have only done what every other gentleman would have done.”

She sighed. Was she thinking of the tardiness of the duke? I thought so, and sighed too. She looked up suddenly, with her large full eyes fixed on me, as if she would read my very soul; while a deep roseate blush suffused her face and crimsoned even her shoulders and bosom. There was something in that look that changed the whole current of my convictions, and bid me hope. In the impulse of the moment, I took her hand. Again that conscious blush rushed over her cheek and bosom; but this time her eyes sought the ground. My brain reeled. At length I found words, and, in burning language poured forth my hopes and fears, and told the tale of my love. I ceased; her bosom heaved wildly, but she did not answer. I still knelt at her feet. At length she said,

“Rise.”

There was something in the tone, rather than in the word, which assured me I was beloved. If I needed further confirmation of this it was given in the look of confiding tenderness with which she gazed an instant on me, and then averted her eyes tremblingly. I stole my arm around her, and drew her gently toward me. In a moment she looked up again half reproachfully, and gently disengaged herself from my embrace.

“We have been playing a part, dear Lady Katharine!” said I, still retaining her hand.

A gay smile, for the instant, shot over her face, but was lost as quickly in the tenderness which was now its prevailing expression, as she said,

“I’m afraid we have! But now, Henry, dear Henry, let me steal away, for one moment, before they descend to dinner.”

I restrained her only to press my first kiss on her odorous lips, and then she darted from the room, leaving me in a tumult of feelings I cannot attempt to describe.

The duke had never been the Lady Katharine’s choice, and she had only waited for him to propose in form to herself personally, to give him a decided refusal. Although I was but the heir of a commoner—of a wealthy and ancient family it is true; and he was the possessor of a dukedom, she had loved me, as I had loved her, from the first moment we had met. The duke had been backed by her parents, but when we both waited on them, and told them that our happiness depended on their consent, they sacrificed rank to the peace of their daughter, and gave it without reluctance. Before winter came the Lady Katharine was my Bride.

J. H. D.

W. H. Bartlett. A. J. Dick.

(Lake Winnipisseogee)

CENTRE HARBOR, N. H.

This town is situated on one of the three bays jutting out at the north-western extremity of Lake Winnipiseogee—a sheet of water situated near the centre of New Hampshire, and celebrated for its picturesque beauty. The lake is diversified with innumerable islands and promontories. It is seen, perhaps, to the best advantage from Red Hill, whence a magic landscape of hill, island and water stretches far away beneath the beholder’s feet. The name of Winnipiseogee signifies in the Indian language “the beautiful lake.”

The view from Centre Harbor has always won the admiration of tourists, there being a quiet beauty about it which few can resist. The best view is from the highlands back of the town. The place itself is small, and lies immediately beneath the gazer’s feet; but the lake, diversified with its green islands, and shut in by its rolling hills, instantly arrests the eye. In the quiet of a summer noon, or under a clear moonlit sky, there is a depth of repose brooding over the scene which seems akin to magic.

The lake is, in some places, unfathomable, but abounds with fish. At present it boasts little navigation, for the comparatively thinly scattered population on its borders has not yet ruffled its quiet waters with the keels of commerce. It is yet protected from the ravages of utilitarianism; and the lover of the picturesque will pray that it may long continue so.

THE MASK OF THE RED DEATH.

A FANTASY.

———

BY EDGAR A. POE.

———

The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had been ever so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avator and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleedings at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest-ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease were the incidents of half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless, and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair from without or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballêt-dancers, there were musicians, there were cards, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”

It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence. It was a voluptuous scene that masquerade.

But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and litten with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But, in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brasier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when its minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came forth from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians in the orchestra were constrained to pause, momently, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and that the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then there were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.

He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fête, and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the costumes of the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much of what has been since seen in “Hernani.” There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these, the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, momently, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length was sounded the twelfth hour upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, again, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive at first of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be properly made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of the Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its rôle, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment, with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.

“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the group that stood around him, “who dares thus to make mockery of our woes? Uncase the varlet that we may know whom we have to hang to-morrow at sunrise from the battlements. Will no one stir at my bidding?—stop him and strip him, I say, of those reddened vestures of sacrilege!”

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly—for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the purple to the green—through the green to the orange,—through this again to the white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers—while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly round and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

SPRING’S ADVENT.

———

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

———

From Winter into Spring the Year has passed

As calm and noiseless as the snow and dew⁠—

The pearls and diamonds which adorn his robes⁠—

Melt in the morning, when the solar beam

Touches the foliage like a glittering wand.

Blue is the sky above, the wave below;

Slow through the ether glide transparent clouds

Just wafted by the breeze, as on the sea

White sails are borne in graceful ease along.

Lifting its green spears through the hardened ground

The grass is seen; though yet no verdant shields,

United over head in one bright roof,⁠—

Like that which rose above the serried ranks

Of Roman legions in the battle plain⁠—

Defend it from assailing sun and shower.

In guarded spots alone young buds expand,

Nor yet on slopes along the Southward sides

Of gentle mountains have the flowers unveiled

Their maiden blushes to the eyes of Day.

It is the season when Fruition fails

To smile on Hope, who, lover-like, attends

Long-promised joys and distant, dear delights.

It is the season when the heart awakes

As from deep slumber, and, alive to all

The soft, sweet feelings that from lovely forms

Like odors float, receives them to itself

And fondly garners with a miser’s care,

Lest in the busy intercourse of life,

They, like untended roses, should retain

No fragrant freshness and no dewy bloom.

To me the coming of the Spring is dear

As to the sailor the first wind from land

When, after some long voyage, he descries

The far, faint outline of his native coast.

Rocked by the wave, when grandly rose the gale,

He thought how peaceful was the calm on shore.

Rocked by the wave, when died the gale away,

He dreamed of quiet he should find at home.

So, when I heard the Wintry storm abroad,

So, when upon my window beat the rain,

Or when I felt the piercing, arrowy frost,

Or, looking forth, beheld the frequent snow,

Falling as mutely as the steps of Time,

I longed for thy glad advent, and resigned

My spirit to the gloom that Nature wore,

In contemplation of the laughing hours

That follow in thy train, delicious Spring!

PROCRASTINATION.

———

BY MRS. M. H. PARSONS.

———

“To-morrow, I will do it to-morrow,” was the curse of Lucy Clifton’s life. When a child, she always had it in view to make such charming little dresses—to-morrow. When girlhood came her lessons were never perfect,—“only excuse me this once mamma, and I will never put off my lessons again!” The pleader was lovely, and engaging, mamma was weakly indulgent; Lucy was forgiven and the fault grew apace, until she rarely did any thing to-day, that could be put off till to-morrow. She was a wife, and the mother of two children, at the period our story commences.

With a cultivated mind, most engaging manners, and great beauty of form, and features, Lucy had already lost all influence over the mind of her husband, and was fast losing her hold on his affections. She had been married when quite young, as so many American girls unfortunately are, and with a character scarcely formed, had been thrown into situations of emergency and trial she was very unprepared to encounter. Her husband was a physician, had been but a year or two in practice, at the time of their marriage. William Clifton was a young man of fine abilities, and most excellent character; of quick temper, and impatient, he was ever generous, and ready to acknowledge his fault. When he married Lucy, he thought her as near perfection as it was possible for a woman to be; proportionate was his disappointment, at finding the evil habit of procrastination, almost inherent in her nature from long indulgence, threatening to overturn the whole fabric of domestic happiness his fancy had delighted to rear. There was no order in his household, no comfort by his fireside; and oftimes when irritated to bitter anger, words escaped the husband, that fell crushingly on the warm, affectionate heart of the wife. The evil habit of procrastination had “grown with her growth” no parental hand, kind in its severity, had lopped off the excrescence, that now threatened to destroy her peace, that shadowed by its evil consequences her otherwise fair and beautiful character. In Lucy’s sphere of life there was necessity for much self-exertion, and active superintendance over the affairs of her household. They lived retired; economy and good management were essential to render the limited income Doctor Clifton derived from his practice fully adequate to their support—that income was steadily on the increase, and his friends deemed the day not far distant, when he would rise to eminence in his profession. Lucy’s father, a man of considerable wealth, but large family, had purchased a house, furnished it, and presented it to Lucy; she was quite willing to limit her visiting circle to a few friends, as best suited with their present means. Surely William Clifton was not unreasonable, when he looked forward to a life of domestic happiness, with his young and tenderly nurtured bride. He could not know that her many bright excelling virtues of character would be dimmed, by the growth of the one fault, until a shadow lay on the pathway of his daily life. If mothers could lift the dim curtain of the future, and read the destiny of their children, they would see neglected faults, piercing like sharp adders the bosoms that bore them, and reproach mingling with the agony, that she, who had moulded their young minds, had not done her work aright!

It was four years after their marriage, Doctor Clifton entered the nursery hurriedly.

“Lucy my dear, will you have my things in order by twelve o’clock? I must leave home for two days, perhaps longer, if I find the patient I am called to see very ill.”

“Yes, yes! I will see to them. What shall I do with the child, William, he is so very fretful? How I wish I had given him the medicine yesterday; he is very troublesome!”

“If you think he needs it, give it to him at once;” said her husband abruptly, “and don’t I beg Lucy forget my clothes.” He left the room, and Lucy tried to hush baby to sleep, but baby would not go, then the nurse girl who assisted her could not keep him quiet, and the mother, as she had often been before, became bewildered, and at a loss what to do first.

“If you please ma’am what am I to get for dinner?” said the cook, the only servant they kept in the kitchen, putting her head in at the door, and looking round with a half smile, on the littered room, and squalling baby.

“Directly, I shall be down directly Betty, I must first get baby to sleep.”

“Very well ma’am,” was the reply, and going down an hour afterwards, Mrs. Clifton found Betty with her feet stretched out and her arms folded one over the other, comfortably seated before an open window, intent in watching, and enjoying the movements of every passer-by.

“Betty, Betty!” said her mistress angrily, “have you nothing to do, that you sit so idly here?”

“I waited for orders, ma’am.” Dinner was an hour back, Lucy assisted for a short time herself, and then went up stairs to arrange Clifton’s clothes. Baby was screaming terribly, and Lucy half terrified did yesterday’s work, by giving him a dose of medicine. So the morning sped on. Clifton came in at the appointed time.

“Are my clothes in readiness, Lucy?”

She colored with vexation, and shame. “The baby has been very cross; I have not indeed had time. But I will go now.” Clifton went down to his solitary dinner, and when he returned found Lucy busy with her needle; it was evident even to his unskilled eye there was much to be done.

“It is impossible to wait. Give me the things as they are; I am so accustomed to wearing my shirts without buttons, and my stockings with holes in, that I shall find it nothing new—nor more annoying than I daily endure.” He threw the things carelessly into his carpet-bag, and left the room, nor did he say one kindly word in farewell, or affection. It was this giving away to violent anger, and using harsh language to his wife that had broken her spirit, almost her heart. She never even thought of reforming herself; she grieved bitterly, but hopelessly. Surely it is better when man and wife are joined together by the tie that “no man may put asunder,” to strive seriously, and in affection to correct one another’s faults? There is scarcely any defect of character, that a husband, by taking the right method may not cure; always providing his wife is not unprincipled. But he must be very patient; bear for a season; add to judicious counsel much tenderness and affection; making it clear to her mind that love for herself and solicitude for their mutual happiness are the objects in view. Hard in heart, and with little of woman’s devotion unto him to whom her faith is plighted, must the wife be who could long resist. Not such an one was Lucy Clifton; but her husband in the stormy revulsion of feeling that had attended the first breaking up of his domestic happiness, had done injustice to her mind, to the sweetness of disposition that had borne all his anger without retorting in like manner. If Clifton was conscious of his own quickness of temper, approaching to violence, he did not for one moment suppose, that he was the cause of any portion of the misery brooding over his daily path. He attributed it all to the procrastinating spirit of Lucy, and upon her head he laid the blame with no unsparing hand. He forgot that she had numbered twenty years, and was the mother of two children; that her situation was one of exertion, and toil under the most favorable circumstances; that he was much her senior, had promised to cherish her tenderly. Yet the first harsh word that dwelt on Lucy’s heart was from the lips of her husband! How tenderly in years long gone had she been nurtured! The kind arm of a father had guided and guarded her; the tender voice of a mother had lighted on her path like sunshine—and now? Oh ye, who would crush the spirit of the young and gentle, instead of leading it tenderly by a straight path in the way of wisdom—go down into the breaking heart and learn its agony; its desolation, when the fine feelings of a wasted nature go in upon the brain and consume it!

One morning Clifton entered the nursery, “Lucy,” he said; “my old classmate, and very dear friend Walter Eustace is in town. He came unexpectedly; his stay is short; I should like to ask him to spend the day with me. Could you manage, love, to have the time pass comfortably to my friend?” Lucy felt all the meaning conveyed in the emphasis on a word that from his lips sounded almost formidable in her ears.

“I will do what I can,” she answered sadly.

“Do not scruple Lucy to get assistance. Have every thing ready in time, and do not fail in having order, and good arrangement. There was a time Lucy, when Eustace heard much of you; I should be gratified to think he found the wife worthy of the praise the lover lavished so freely upon her. Sing for us to-night—it is long since the piano was opened!—and look, and smile as you once did, in the days that are gone, but not forgotten Lucy.” His voice softened unconsciously, he had gone back to that early time, when love of Lucy absorbed every feeling of his heart. He sighed; the stern, and bitter realities of his life came with their heavy weight upon him, and there was no balm in the future, for the endurance of present evils.

He turned and left the room; Lucy’s eye followed him, and as the door closed she murmured—“not forgotten! Oh, Clifton how little reason I have to believe you!” Lucy was absorbed in her own thoughts so long as to be unconscious of the flight of time. When she roused, she thought she would go down stairs and see what was to be done, but her little boy asked her some question, which she stopped to answer; half an hour more elapsed before she got to the kitchen. She told Betty she meant to hire a cook for the morrow—thought she had better go at once and engage one—yet, no, on second thoughts, she might come with her to the parlors and assist in arranging them; it would be quite time enough to engage the cook when they were completed. To the parlors they went, and Lucy was well satisfied with the result of their labor—but mark her comment: “What a great while we have been detained here; well, I am sure I have meant this three weeks to clean the parlors, but never could find time. If I could but manage to attend them every day, they would never get so out of order.”

The next morning came, the cook not engaged yet. Betty was despatched in haste, but was unsuccessful—all engaged for the day. So Betty must be trusted, who sometimes did well, and at others signally failed. Lucy spent the morning in the kitchen assisting Betty and arranging every thing she could do, but matters above were in the mean time sadly neglected, her children dirty, and ill dressed, the nursery in confusion, and Lucy almost bewildered in deciding what had better be done, and what left undone. She concluded to keep the children in the nursery without changing their dress, and then hastened to arrange her own, and go down stairs, as her husband and his friend had by this time arrived. Her face was flushed, and her countenance anxious; she was conscious that Mr. Eustace noticed it, and her uncomfortable feelings increased. The dinner, the dinner—if it were only over! she thought a hundred times. It came at last, and all other mortifications were as nothing in comparison. There was not a dish really well cooked, and every thing was served up in a slovenly manner. Lucy’s cheeks tingled with shame. Oh, if she had only sent in time for a cook. It was her bitterest thought even then. When the dinner was over Mr. Eustace asked for the children, expressing a strong desire to see them. Lucy colored, and in evident confusion, evaded the request. Her husband was silent, having a suspicion how matters stood.

Just then a great roar came from the hall, and the oldest boy burst into the room. “Mother! mother! Hannah shut me up she did!” A word from his father silenced him, and Lucy took her dirty, ill dressed boy by the hand and left the room. She could not restrain her tears, but her keen sense of right prevented her punishing the child, as she was fully aware, had he been properly dressed, she would not have objected to his presence, and that he was only claiming an accorded privilege. Mr. Eustace very soon left, and as soon as the door closed on him Clifton thought: “I never can hope to see a friend in comfort until I can afford to keep a house-keeper. Was there ever such a curse in a man’s house as a procrastinating spirit?” With such feelings it may be supposed he could not meet his wife with any degree of cordiality. Lucy said, “There was no help for it, she had done her very best.” Clifton answered her contemptuously; wearied and exhausted with the fatigues of the day, she made no reply, but rose up and retired to rest, glad to seek in sleep forgetfulness of the weary life she led. Clifton had been unusually irritated; when the morrow came, it still manifested itself in many ways that bore hard on Lucy; she did not reply to an angry word that fell from his lips, but she felt none the less deeply. Some misconduct in the child induced him to reflect with bitterness on her maternal management. She drew her hand over her eyes to keep back the tears, her lip quivered, and her voice trembled as she uttered:

“Do not speak so harshly Clifton, if the fault is all mine, most certainly the misery is also!”

“Of what avail is it to speak otherwise?” he said sternly, “you deserve wretchedness, and it is only the sure result of your precious system.”

“Did you ever encourage me to reform, or point out the way?” urged Lucy, gently.

“I married a woman for a companion, not a child to instruct her,” he answered bitterly.

“Ay—but I was a child! happy—so happy in that olden time, with all to love, and none to chide me. A child, even in years, when you took me for a wife—too soon a mother, shrinking from my responsibilities, and without courage to meet my trials. I found no sympathy to encourage me—no forbearance that my years were few—no advice when most I needed it—no tenderness when my heart was nearly breaking. It is the first time, Clifton, I have reproached you; but the worm will turn if it is trodden upon,” and Lucy left the room. It was strange, even to herself, that she had spoken so freely, yet it seemed a sort of relief to the anguish of her heart. That he had allowed her to depart without reply did not surprise her; it may be doubted, although her heart pined for it, if ever she expected tenderness from Clifton more. It was perhaps an hour after her conversation with Clifton, Lucy sat alone in the nursery; her baby was asleep in the cradle beside her; they were alone together, and as she gazed on its happy face, she hoped with an humble hope, to rear it up, that it might be enabled to give and receive happiness. There was a slight rap at the door; she opened it, and a glad cry escaped her,—“Uncle Joshua!” she exclaimed. He took her in his arms for a moment,—that kindly and excellent old man, while a tear dimmed his eye as he witnessed her joy at seeing him. She drew a stool towards him, and sat down at his feet as she had often done before in her happy, girlish days; she was glad when his hand rested on her head, even as it had done in another time; she felt a friend had come back to her, who had her interest nearly at heart, who had loved her long and most tenderly. Mr. Tremaine was the brother of Lucy’s mother—he had arrived in town unexpectedly; indeed had come chiefly with a view of discovering the cause of Lucy’s low-spirited letters—he feared all was not right, and as she was the object of almost his sole earthly attachment, he could not rest in peace while he believed her unhappy. He was fast approaching three score years and ten; never was there a warmer heart, a more incorruptible, or sterling nature. Eccentric in many things, possessing some prejudices, which inclined to ridicule in himself, no man had sounder common sense, or a more careful judgment. His hair was white, and fell in long smooth locks over his shoulders; his eye-brows were heavy, and shaded an eye as keen and penetrating as though years had no power to dim its light. The high, open brow, and the quiet tenderness that dwelt in his smile, were the crowning charms of a countenance on which nature had stamped her seal as her “noblest work.” He spoke to Lucy of other days, of the happy home from whence he came, till her tears came down like “summer rain,” with the mingling of sweet and bitter recollections. Of her children next, and her eye lighted, and her color came bright and joyous—the warm feelings of a mother’s heart responded to every word of praise he uttered. Of her husband—and sadly “Uncle Joshua” noticed the change;—her voice was low and desponding, and a look of sorrow and care came back to the youthful face: “Clifton was succeeding in business; she was gratified and proud of his success,” and that was all she said.

“Uncle Joshua’s” visit was of some duration. He saw things as they really were, and the truth pained him deeply. “Lucy,” he said quietly, as one day they were alone together—“I have much to say, and you to hear. Can you bear the truth, my dear girl?” She was by his side in a moment.

“Anything from you, uncle. Tell me freely all you think, and if it is censure of poor Lucy, little doubt but that she will profit by it.”

“You are a good girl!” said “Uncle Joshua,” resting his hand on her head, “and you will be rewarded yet.” He paused for a moment ere he said—“Lucy, you are not a happy wife. You married with bright prospects—who is to blame?”

“I am—but not alone,” said Lucy, in a choking voice, “not alone, there are some faults on both sides.”

“Let us first consider yours; Clifton’s faults will not exonerate you from the performance of your duty. For the love I bear you, Lucy, I will speak the truth: all the misery of your wedded life proceeds from the fatal indulgence of a procrastinating spirit. One uncorrected fault has been the means of alienating your husband’s affections, and bringing discord and misrule into the very heart of your domestic Eden. This must not be. You have strong sense and feeling, and must conquer the defect of character that weighs so heavily on your peace.”

Lucy burst into tears—“I fear I never can—and if I do, Clifton will not thank me, or care.”

“Try, Lucy. You can have little knowledge of the happiness it would bring or you would make the effort. And Clifton will care. Bring order into his household and comfort to his fireside, and he will take you to his heart with a tenderer love than he ever gave to the bride of his youth.”

Lucy drew her breath gaspingly, and for a moment gazed into her uncle’s face with something of his own enthusiasm; but it passed and despondency came with its withering train of tortures to frighten her from exertion.

“You cannot think, dear uncle, how much I have to do; and my children are so troublesome, that I can never systematize time.”

“Let us see first what you can do. What is your first duty in the morning after you have dressed yourself?”

“To wash and dress my children.”

“Do you always do it? Because if you rise early you have time before breakfast. Your children are happy and comfortable, only in your regular management of every thing connected with them.”

“I cannot always do it,” said Lucy, blushing—“sometimes I get up as low-spirited and weary as after the fatigues of the day. I have no heart to go to work; Clifton is cold, and hurries off to business. After breakfast I go through the house and to the kitchen, so that it is often noon before I can manage to dress them.”

“Now instead of all this, if you were to rise early, dress your little ones before breakfast, arrange your work, and go regularly from one work to the other; never putting off one to finish another, you would get through everything, and have time to walk—that each day may have its necessary portion of exercise in the open air. That would dissipate weariness, raise your spirits, and invigorate your frame. Lucy, will you not make the trial for Clifton’s sake? Make his home a well-ordered one, and he will be glad to come into it.”

And Lucy promised to think of it. But her uncle was surprised at her apparent apathy, and not long in divining the true reason. Her heart is not in it, he thought, and if her husband don’t rouse it, never will be. Lucy felt she was an object of indifference, if not dislike to Clifton; there was no end to be accomplished by self-exertion; and as there was nothing to repay her for the wasted love of many years, she would encourage no new hopes to find them as false as the past.

“Uncle Joshua” sat together with Dr. Clifton, in the office of the latter.

“Has it ever struck you, Doctor, how much Lucy is altered of late?”

“I cannot say that I see any particular alteration. It is some time since you saw her;—matrimony is not very favorable to good looks, and may have diminished her beauty.”

“It is not of her beauty I speak. Her character is wholly changed; her spirits depressed, and her energies gone,” and “Uncle Joshua” spoke warmly.

“I never thought her particularly energetic,” said the Doctor, dryly.

“No one would suppose, my good sir, you had ever thought, or cared much about her.” “Uncle Joshua” was angry; but the red spot left his cheek as soon as it came there as he went on:—“Let us speak in kindness of this sad business. I see Lucy was in the right in thinking you had lost all affection for her.”

“Did Lucy say that? I should be sorry she thought so.”

“A man has cause for sorrow, when a wife fully believes his love for her is gone. Nothing can be more disheartening—nothing hardens the heart more fearfully, and sad indeed is the lot of that woman who bears the evils of matrimony without the happiness that often counterbalances them. We, who are of harder natures, have too little sympathy, perhaps too little thought for her peculiar trials.” Gently then, as a father to an only son, the old man related to Clifton all that had passed between Lucy and himself. More than once he saw his eyes moisten and strong emotion manifest itself in his manly countenance. A something of remorseful sorrow filled his heart, and its shadow lay on his face. “Uncle Joshua” read aright the expression, and his honest heart beat with joy at the prospects he thought it opened before them. Always wise-judging he said nothing further, but left him to his own reflections. And Clifton did indeed reflect long and anxiously: he saw indeed how much his own conduct had discouraged his wife, while it had been a source of positive unhappiness to her. He went at length to seek her;—she was alone in the parlor reading, or rather a book was before her, from which her eyes often wandered, until her head sank on the arm of the sofa, and a heavy sigh came sadly on the ear of Clifton. “Lucy, dear Lucy, grieve no more! We have both been wrong, but I have erred the most—having years on my side and experience. Shall we not forgive each other, my sweet wife?” and he lifted her tenderly in his arms, and kissed the tears as they fell on her cheek.

“I have caused you much suffering, Lucy, I greatly fear;—your faults occasioned me only inconvenience. Dry up your tears, and let me hear that you forgive me, Lucy.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” exclaimed Lucy. “Oh, I have been wrong, very wrong!—but if you had only encouraged me to reform, and sustained and aided me in my efforts to do so by your affection, so many of our married days would not have passed in sorrow and suffering.”

“I feel they would not,” said Clifton, moved almost to tears. “Now, Lucy, the self-exertion shall be mutual. I will never rest until I correct the violence of temper, that has caused you so much pain. You have but one fault, procrastination—will you strive also to overcome it?”

“I will,” said Lucy; “but you must be very patient with me, and rather encourage me to new exertions. I have depended too long on your looks not to be influenced by them still—my love, Clifton, stronger than your own, fed on the memory of our early happiness, until my heart grew sick that it would never return. Oh! if you could love me as you did then, could respect me as once you did, I feel I could make any exertion to deserve it.”

“And will you not be more worthy of esteem and love than ever you were, dear Lucy, if you succeed in reforming yourself! I believe you capable of the effort; and if success attends it, the blessing will fall on us both, Lucy, and on our own dear children. Of one thing be assured, that my love will know no further change or diminution. You shall not have cause to complain of me again, Lucy. Now smile on me, dearest, as you once did in a time we will never forget—and tell me you will be happy for my sake.”

Lucy smiled, and gave the assurance—her heart beat lightly in her bosom—the color spread over her face—her eyes sparkled with the new, glad feelings of hope and happiness, and as Clifton clasped her in his arms, he thought her more beautiful than in that early time when he had first won her love.

In that very hour Lucy began her work of reform; it seemed as though new life had been infused into her hitherto drooping frame. She warbled many a sweet note of her youth, long since forgotten, for her spirits seemed running over from very excess of happiness. “Uncle Joshua” was consulted in all her arrangements, and of great use he was:—he planned for her, encouraged her, made all easy by his method and management. She had gone to work with a strong wish to do her duty, and with a husband’s love shining steadily on her path, a husband’s affection for all success, and sympathy with every failure, there was little fear of her not succeeding. ’Tis true, the habit had been long in forming, but every link she broke in the chain that bound her, brought a new comfort to that happy household hearth. Clifton had insisted on hiring a woman to take charge of the children—this was a great relief. And somehow or other, “Uncle Joshua” looked up a good cook.

“Now,” said Lucy, “to fail would be a positive disgrace.”

“No danger of your failing, my sweet wife,” said Clifton, with a glance of affection that might have satisfied even her heart. “You are already beyond the fear of it.”

Lucy shook her head—“I must watch or my old enemy will be back again before I am fully rid of him.”

“It is right to watch ourselves, I know, Lucy; are you satisfied that I have done so, and have, in some measure, corrected myself?” said Clifton.

“I have never seen a frown on your face since you promised me to be patient. You have been, and will continue to be, I am sure,” said Lucy, fondly, as she raised his hand to her lips which had rested on her arm. They were happy both, and whatever trouble was in store for them in their future life, they had strong mutual affection to sustain them under it.

“God bless them both,” murmured “Uncle Joshua,” as he drew his hand hard across his eyes after witnessing this little scene. “I have done good here, but in many a case I might be termed a meddling old fool, and not without reason, perhaps. ’Tis a pity though, that folks, who will get their necks into this matrimonial yoke, would not try to make smooth the uneven places, instead of stumbling all the way, breaking their hearts by way of amusement, as they go.”

“What is that you say, ‘Uncle Joshua?’ ” said Lucy, turning quickly round, and walking towards him, accompanied by her husband.

“I have a bad habit of talking aloud,” said he, smiling.

“But I thought you were abusing matrimony, uncle—you surely were not?”

“Cannot say exactly what I was thinking aloud. I am an old bachelor, Lucy, and have few objects of affection in the world: you have been to me as a child, always a good child, Lucy, too—and now I think you will make a good wife, and find the happiness you so well deserve. Am I right, love?”

“I hope you are, uncle. If it had not been for your kindness though, I might never have been happy again,” and tears dimmed Lucy’s eyes at the recollection.

“We shall not forget your kindness,” said Clifton as he extended his hand, which “Uncle Joshua” grasped warmly. “I wish every married pair in trouble could find a good genius like yourself to interfere in their favor.”

“Ten to one he would be kicked out of doors!” said the old man, laughing. “This matrimony is a queer thing—those who have their necks in the noose had better make the most of it—and those out of the scrape keep so. Ah! you little reprobate!” he cried as he caught Lucy’s bright eye, and disbelieving shake of the head—“you don’t pretend to contradict me?”

“Yes I do, with my whole heart too. I would not give up my husband for the wide world, nor he his Lucy for the fairest girl in America!”

“Never!” exclaimed Clifton—“you are dearer to me than any other human being!”

“W-h-e-w!!” was “Uncle Joshua’s” reply, in a prolonged sort of whistle, while his eyes opened in the profoundest wonder, and his whole countenance was expressive of the most ludicrous astonishment—“w-h-e-w!!”

PERDITI.[^[1]]

———

BY WM. WALLACE, ESQ. AUTHOR OF “BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE,” “MARCHES FOR THE DEAD,” ETC., ETC.

———

The following poem is respectfully dedicated to the Hon. Elisha M. Huntington, as a tribute of respect to his head and heart, by the

Author.

PART FIRST—ITALY.

Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright!

Where the echoless feet of the Hours

Are gliding forever in soft, dreamy light

Through their mazes of sunshine and flow’rs;

Fair clime of the Laurel—the Sword and the Lyre!

There the souls are all genius—the hearts are all fire;

There the Rivers—the Mountains—the lowliest sods

Were hallowed, long since, by the bright feet of Gods;

There Beauty and Grandeur their wonders of old

Like a bridal of star-light and thunder unroll’d;

There the air seems to breathe of a music sent out

From the rose-muffled lips of invisible streams,

Oh! sweet as the harmony whispered about

The Night’s moon-beaming portal of exquisite Dreams.

’Though Beauty and Grandeur, magnificent clime!

Have walked o’er thy Vallies and Mountains sublime,

With a port as majestic—unfading as Time⁠—

A death-pall is on Thee! The funeral glare

Of a grave-torch, Oh! Italy, gleams on the air!

Lo! the crimes of whole ages roll down on thy breast!

Hark! Hark to the fierce thunder-troops of the Storm!

Ah! soon shall they stamp on thy beautiful crest,

And riot unchecked o’er thy loveliest form!

Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright!

’Though the day of thy glory is o’er,

And the time-hallowed mountains are mantled in night

Where thy Liberty flourished before;

’Though the black brow of Bigotry scowls on thy race

Which are kissing the chains of their brutal disgrace;

’Though the torches of Freedom so long hurled about

By thy heroes of old are forever gone out;

Yet! yet shall thy Beauty shine out from the gloom,

Oh! Land of the Harp and the Wreath and the Tomb!

The seal has been set! Immortality beams

Like a time-daring star o’er thy temples and streams;

And still as whole tribes from the weird future dart,

They shall kneel at thine altar, Oh! clime of the Heart!

More splendid art thou, with thy banners all furl’d

And thy brow in the dust, than the rest of the world,

For the MIGHTY—the Dead who have hallowed our earth,

In thee have their rest and from thee took their birth.

Oh! alas that we live—we the boastful who leap

Like mere rills where the sun-pillar’d Truth is enshrined

Where those broad-rolling rivers no longer may sweep

With their billows of light to the Ocean of Mind.

It was a clime where mortal form

Hath never pressed the blasted soil⁠—

Where tempest-fires and surging storm

Are struggling ever in their coil:

A sunless clime, whose dreary night

Gleams dimly with that doubtful light

Which men have seen—when Darkness threw

Around their homes its sombre hue⁠—

The fearful herald of the wrath

That blazes on the Whirlwind’s path

Ere he has tossed his banners out

Like sable draperies o’er the Dead,

And with a wild, delirious shout

Struck his deep thunder-drum of dread;

A clime where e’en the fountains fall

With tone and step funereal:

And ever through the dark, old trees

A melancholy music rolls

Along the faintly-chiming breeze⁠—

Sad as the wail of tortured souls.

There ghastly forms were hurrying past

Like weird clouds through the ether driven,

In fear, before the HUNTER-BLAST,

Whose vengeance purifies the heaven.

And some were pale, as if with woe,

And ever cast their eyes below;

And some were quivering with a fear

In this their dreary sepulchre;

And some, whose awful aspects wore

A look where sat the seal of age,

On their convulsèd foreheads bore

The phrenzied agony of rage;

On some a dreadful beauty shone

Like rays received from fallen stars⁠—

So dim, so mournful and so lone,

Yet brave, despite of all their scars.

Far from the throng two sat apart

Beneath a forest’s darkling plume⁠—

In that communion of the heart

Which but the wretched can assume.

They seemed in earnest converse there,

As if with words to quench despair;

And one, along whose features grew,

A withering, deathly, demon-hue,

Wore that high, dread, defying look

Which but the Lost can dare to brook;

The other milder seemed—but he

Was shrouded, too, in mystery,

And ever threw along the sky

A fearful spiritual eye

Which in its gloomy light sublime⁠—

Seemed half of virtue, half of crime,

Like lightning when you see its glow

Soft as a moonbeam flashed below⁠—

And then in blasting brightness sent

Wild-quivering through the firmament.

So sat they in that dreary light,

Upon the blasted darkling mould⁠—

Fit watchers of such awful night⁠—

As thus the last his story told.

LORRO.

The many only look to years;

The many think they only roll

The tides of happiness or tears

Around the human soul:

I know a single hour for me⁠—

A minute—was Eternity,

That seemed with its fierce, lidless eye

Fixed—fixed forever in the sky

Which, circling round the Italian shore,

Was only made for bliss before:

But now it darkled like a shroud

By demon-hands in warning shaken,

From their lone, scowling thunder-cloud

Ere yet its elements awaken.

Oh! was it Fancy? or a spell

Hurled o’er me by some dreadful power,⁠—

That I should carry thus a hell,

Within my bosom from that hour?

I know not—nor shall care to know;

For e’en Repentance will not dart

From her pure realm, a light below,

Upon my agony of heart;

Nor hath Remorse—that mad’ning fire⁠—

That final minister of pain

And deadliest offspring of deep ire⁠—

E’er flashed across my tortured brain:

Yet! yet there is a something here

Of hideous vacancy and fear,

(Not fear which cowards merely feel,

Who hear the damnèd’s thunder peal,)

A trembling—which the brave confess

In this their last and worst distress⁠—

Part of the soul it burns a spell,

And like her indestructible⁠—

Which only those who feel that woe,

Brought by an unrepented deed,

Can in its fiercest aching know⁠—

For only they are doomed to bleed.

Go thou, whose cunning spirit hears

The mystic music of the spheres⁠—

Who gazest with unquailing eye

Through this star-isled immensity⁠—

Whose soul would feed on brighter flowers

Than earth’s—and sit with pinion furl’d

Where in its lonely grandeur towers

The outside pillar of your world⁠—

Go! go with all thy boasted art⁠—

And read one mystery of the Heart.

What! think creation in a sphere!

The real universe is here⁠—

Here! here eternally enshrined

Within the secret caves of Mind.

Blood! blood is reddening on these hands!

The blood of more than one is here;

Unfaded too its crimson brands

Despite of many a weary year,

Whose tides of flame and darkness gloom

Amid the spirit’s stagnant air⁠—

More fearful than the damn’d one’s tomb

And withering as despair.

Oh! God why was I chos’n for such?

I who until that fearful hour⁠—

Ah! would not e’en too wildly touch

The summer’s very humblest flower.

The little bird whose rain-bow wing

I saw, in spring time’s roseate eves,

With its own beauty quivering

Amid the golden orange leaves,

I made a friend—as if for me

It held its sinless revelry:

And e’en I’ve watched within the hall

The deadly spider weave his pall,

And smiled in very joy to see

The cunning workman’s tracery.

The minstrel-breeze which struck by hours

Its tender instrument of flowers⁠—

The moon that held her march alone

At midnight ’round th’ Eternal Throne⁠—

The sullen thunder whose red eyes

Flashed angrily within our skies⁠—

All! all to me were but the chain

Along whose wond’rous links there came

Unceasingly to head and brain

Love’s own electric flame.

Yes! when the Harp of Nature roll’d

Its midnight hymn from chords of gold,

And awful silence seemed to own,

Throughout the world, its wizard tone,

I’ve stood and wildly wished to float

Into that music’s liquid strain⁠—

Oh! heavenly as its sweetest note⁠—

Nor ever walk the earth again.

What change is this? Hate, fiercest Hate,

Where once these angel-yearnings burned

Like torches set by Heaven’s bright gate,

Hath all to deadly poison turned.

The Best can only feel the fire,

But once, which flashes from the clime

Where love sits beaming o’er the lyre

That strikes the mystic march of Time.

The tree of most luxuriant stem

Whose every leaflet glows a gem

Beneath its oriental sky,

When once its emerald diadem

Hath felt the simoon sweeping by.

Can never more in southern bowers

Renew its fragrant idol-flowers.

So with the great in soul—whose bloom

Of Heart hath felt the thunder-doom

Which mankind, trusted, may bestow

On him who little dreamed the blow⁠—

Theirs be the joy!—But ours the woe!

I was my father’s only child⁠—

(The cherished scion of a race

Whose monuments of fame are piled

On glory’s mighty dwelling-place)

I need not tell how oft he smiled

When counting o’er to me each deed,

In gallant barque, on champing steed,

Of ancestors in battle wild;

Nor how he gazed upon my face

And there by hours would fondly trace

The lines which as they manlier grew,

He deemed the signs of Glory, too.

I saw at last the sable pall

Gloom in our lordly castle’s hall,

And heard the Friar’s burial rite

Keeping the watches of the night.

Another noble form was laid

Where Lorro’s dead together meet⁠—

And I, in ducal robes arrayed,

Took Lorro’s castled seat.

I need not tell how passed the days,

I need not tell of pleasure’s ways⁠—

Where bright-eyed mirth flung dewy flowers

Beneath the silver-feet of hours,

While Time himself o’er music’s strings

Lean’d panting on his weary wings.

At last there came unto our gate

One looking worn and desolate,

Who asked compassion for his fate.

He said he was an orphan lad;

In sooth my lonely heart was glad⁠—

For I was weary of my state

Where only courtiers crowded round;

I wished some fair and gentle mate,

And such I fondly hoped I found.

Months rolled away and still he grew,

Beneath my care a lovely boy

And day by day I found anew

In him a very father’s joy.⁠—

And eighteen summers now have died

Since thou cam’st here my own heart’s pride:

And still thy voice of silver seems

Sweet as sweet music heard in dreams;

And still thy softly radiant eye

Looks innocent as yonder sky,

And all as fair—when rainbows rest

Like angel-plumes upon its breast;

And still thy soul seems richly set

Within its form, like some bright gem

Which might by worshippers be met

In Purity’s own diadem.

In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutes

And harp is wafted through the air,

Such as the glad most fitly suits

When mirth and rosy wine are there.

In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in light

And flowers, I ween a holy rite,

Most cherished with the young and bright,

By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night.

And who art thou around whose brow

The bridal chaplet sparkled now?

That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it she

Thus standing there so radiantly?⁠—

With bright curls floating on the air

And glorious as the cherubs wear;

An eye where love and virtue beam

Like spirits of an Angel’s dream!

Away! away! thou maddening sight!

Away! what dost thou, Laura, here?

Thus standing by my side to-night,

And long since in thy sepulchre?

What! will the grave its events tell?

The iron tomb dissolve its spell?

It has! it has! And there she stands

Mocking me with her outstretched hands;

And oft her icy fingers press

My hot brow through the long, long night;

And voices as of deep distress,

Like prisoned wind, whose wailing sound

Seems madly struggling under ground,

Peal dirge-like on my ear: away!

Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for day

Such as these gloomy realms display⁠—

E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.⁠—

And we were wed! I need not say

How heavenly came and went each day,

Enough! our souls together beat

Like two sweet tunes that wandering meet,

Then so harmoniously they run

The hearer deems they are but one.

There are mailed forms in Lorro’s halls,

And rustling banners on its walls,

And nodding plumes o’er many a brow,

That moulders on the red field now.

The wave of battle swells around!

Shall Lorro’s chieftain thus be found

In revelry or idlesse bound,

When Glory hangs her blood-red sign

Above the castellated Rhine?

Away! away, I flew in pride

With those who mustered by my side:

But not, I ween, did Lorro miss

The ruler from its ducal throne,

’Till many a wild and burning kiss

Of woman’s sweet lips warmed his own.

And Julio, too, (for such the name

I gave the orphan boy,) with tears

And choking sob, and trembling came

To whisper me his rising fears.

That I his father—I whose love

Had sheltered long his feeble form

E’en as some stronger bird the dove

All mateless wandering in the storm,⁠—

That I borne down amid the stern

And bloody shapes of battle wild,

Would never from its wreck return

To sooth his lonely orphan child;

And then on bended knees he prayed⁠—

(God! why availed not his prayer?)

That I would give him steed and blade,

So he might in my dangers share.

I left him for I could not bare

That tender brow to war’s wild air.

Away! away on foaming steed,

For two long years my sword was out;

And I had learned (a soldier’s need,)

—Almost without a groan to bleed⁠—

Aye! gloried in the battle’s shout;

For it gave presage of a fame

Such as the brave alone may claim.

For two long years, as I have told,

The storm of war around me roll’d;

But never more, by day or night

In sunshine or in shower,

Did I forget my castle’s light⁠—

Love’s only idol-flower!

There is a deeper passion known

For those in love, when left alone;

Then busy fancy ponders o’er

Some kindness never prized before:

And we can almost turn with tears

And deep upbraiding (as distress

Comes with the holy light of years)

And kneeling ask forgiveness.

And so I felt—and Laura beamed

Still lovelier than she ever seemed,

E’en when the dew of childhood’s hours

Along her heart’s first blossoms clung,

And I amid my native bowers

In sinless worship o’er them hung.

Oh! are not feelings such as these

Like splendid rainbow-glories caught

(To cheer our voyage o’er life’s seas)

From Heaven’s own holy Land of Thought?

And yet, oh, God! how soon may they

Like those bright glories flee away,

And leave the heart an unlit sea,

Where piloted by dark despair

The spirit-wreck rolls fearfully

Within the night of sullen air?

At last the eye of battle closed⁠—

Its lurid fires no longer burned⁠—

The warrior on his wreath reposed,

And I unto my halls returned.

Oh! who can tell the joys that start

Like angel-wings within the heart,

When wearied with war’s toil, the chief

In home’s dear light would seek relief!

Not he who has no loved one there

Left in his absence lonely⁠—

Whose heart he fondly hopes shall beat

For him and for him only.

And such my Laura’s heart I deemed;

For me alone I thought she beamed

Like some pure lamp on hermit’s shrine,

Which only glows for him, divine

And beauteous as the spirit-eyes

That light the bow’rs of Paradise.

It was a lovely eve, but known

Unto the South’s voluptuous zone;

An eve whose shining vesture hung

Like Heaven’s own rosy flags unfurl’d,

And by some star-eyed cherub flung

In sport around our gloomy world;

An eve in which the coldest frame

And heart must feel a warming flame,

When light and soul no longer single,

But in a bridal glory mingle:

Then think how I whose spirit bowed

Whene’er the dimmest light was sent

From twinkling star or rosy cloud

In God’s blue, glorious firmament⁠—

How I in that ethereal time,

Standing beside my native rill

And shadowed by such hues sublime,

Felt unseen lightning through me thrill.

I stood within my own domain⁠—

Once more upon my birth-right soil,

Free’d from the gory battle-plain

And weary with its toil.

“Laura!” my step is in the hall!

My sword suspended on the wall!

My standard-sheet once more uprolled

Where it has lain for years untold!

“Laura!”—In vain I stood for her

To meet the long-lost worshipper.

“Ho, Julio!” What? No answer yet?

It rung from base to parapet!

I mounted up the marble stair!⁠—

I rushed into the olden room!

It shone beneath the evening’s glare

As silent as the tomb,⁠—

Save that a slave with wond’ring eye

Looked from the dreary vacancy.

“Your Lady, Serf?”

“She’s in the bower.”

“In sooth I should have sought her there!”

For oft we passed the twilight hour

In its delicious air.

I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God!

Why flashed not then thy blasting flame⁠—

That it might wither from the sod

The one who madly called Thy name?

My poniard grasped, left not its sheath⁠—

I had nor hope—nor life—nor breath;

I only felt the ice of death

Slowly congealing o’er my heart⁠—

And on my eye a dizzy cloud

Swam round and round, a sickening part

Of that which seemed a closing shroud

The one might feel whom burial gave

All prematurely to the grave.

But soon that deadly trance was o’er;

The foliage hid as yet; and I

Retraced the path I trod before

With such a heart-wild ecstasy.

For as I gazed upon their guilt,

A thought flashed out of demon-hue;

And I resigned my dagger’s hilt

As deadlier then my vengeance grew.

Small torture satisfies the weak⁠—

For they but slightly feel a wrong;

I would by hours my vengeance wreak!

The deep revenge is for the strong.

In Lorro’s castle is a cell

(Where Cruelty has sat in state,

I ween that some have known it well,)

Which is divided by a grate.

No sunbeam ever pierced its night;

Nor aught save lamp there shed its light;

No sound save sound of wild despair

Hath ever vexed its heavy air.

Upon its walls so grim and old

Have gathered centuries of mould.

It seems that with the birth of time

That cell was hollowed out by crime,

And there, her hateful labor o’er,

She took her first sweet draught of gore.

Ha! Ha! I see them! See them now⁠—

The cold damp dripping from each brow,

With hands oustretched they mercy sue⁠—

(Ye know not how my vengeance grew,)

While I stood by with sullen smile⁠—

The only answer to their grief⁠—

For wearied in that dungeon aisle,

In smiles I even found relief.

I watched them in that dreary gloom,

(To me a heaven—to them a tomb,)

For hours—for days—and joyed to hear

Their pleadings fill that sepulchre.

At first they tried to lull their state

By cheering each thro’ that dull grate,

(For this they lingered separate;

I could not bear e’en then to see

Them closer in their agony.)

And this they did for days! at last

A change upon them came⁠—

For each to each reproaches cast,

In which I heard my name.

I spake no word—their dread replies

Were only read within my eyes,

Which as they glared upon the pair,

Like scorpions writhing in their pain

When wounded in the loathsome lair,

Seemed burning to my very brain.

I shall not tell how hunger grew

In that dread time upon the two⁠—

When each would vainly try to break

The bars an earthquake scarce could shake.

Nor how they gnawed, in their great pain,

Their dungeon’s rusted iron chain;

Nor how their curses, deep and oft,

From parching lips were rung aloft;

Nor how like babbling fiends they would

Together vex the solitude;

Nor how the wasting crimson tide

Of withered life their wants supplied;

Nor how—enough! enough they died

Aye! and I saw the red worm creep

Upon their slumbers, dark and deep,

And felt with more of joy than dread

The grim eyes of the fleshless dead.

Long years have passed away, since then

And I have mixed with fellow men;

On land and wave my flag unfurl’d

Streamed like a storm above the world;

For Lorro was a soldier born;

His music was the battle-horn.

E’en when a boy—his playthings were

Such deadly toys as sword and spear.

I did not pant for fame or blood,

But thus in agony I sought

To strangle in their birth the brood

Of serpents cradled in my thought.

I’ve tried to pray: In vain! In vain!

The very words seem brands of fire

By demons hurled into my brain⁠—

The burning ministers of ire.

How Spirit, mid such fearful strife

I left the hated mortal life,

I need not say; it matters not

How we may break that earthly spell;

Enough! enough! I knew my lot

And feel its agony too well.

My frame beside its father rests⁠—

The same old banner o’er their breasts

Which they with all their serfs, of yore,

To battle and to triumph bore.

No chieftain sways the castle’s wall,

No chieftain revels in its hall.

And on each bastion’s leaning stone

Grim desolation sits alone,

While organ winds their masses roll

Around each lonely turret’s head,

And seem to chant, “Rest troubled soul!

Mercy! Oh! mercy for the dead!”

The spirit bent his brow—and tears

The first which he had shed for years,

Fell burning from his eyes, for THOUGHT

Had oped their overflowing cells,

Like wakened lightning which has sought

The cloud with all its liquid spells.

He wept—as he had wept of old⁠—

When sudden through the gloomy air

A glorious gush of music roll’d

Around those wretched spirits there;⁠—

They started up with frantic eyes

Wild-glancing to their sullen skies:

And still the angel-anthem went

Rejoicing ’round that firmament;

And shining harps were sparkling through

The cloud-rifts—held by seraph-forms

Oh! lovely as the loveliest hue

Of rainbows curled on buried storms.

Faint and more faint the music grows⁠—

Yet how entrancing in its close⁠—

Sweeter! oh sweeter than the hymn

Of an enthusiast who has given

His anthem forth, at twilight dim,

And hopes with it to float to heaven.

And see, where yonder tempests meet,

The rapid glance of silver feet⁠—

The last of that refulgent train

Who leave this desolated sphere;

Oh! not for them such realms of Pain

Where Crime stands tremblingly by Fear:⁠—

They’re gone, AND ALL IS DARK AGAIN.

[End of Part First.]

THE CHEVALIER GLUCK.

———

BY W. W. STORY.

———

During the latter part of the autumn in Berlin there are usually some fine days. The cloudless sun shines pleasantly out and evaporates the moisture from the warm air which blows through the streets. Mingling together in motley groups, you may see a long row of fashionables, citizens with their wives, little children in Sunday clothes, priests, Jewesses, young counsellors, professors, milliners, dancers, officers, &c. walking among the lindens in the Park. All the seats in Klaus & Weber’s coffee-house are soon occupied; the coffee throws off its steam. The fashionables light their cigars; everywhere persons are talking; here an argument is going on about war and peace, there about Madame Bethman’s shoes, whether the last ones she wore were green or gray, or about the state of the market and the bad money, &c., until all is hushed by an Aria from “Tanchon,” with which an untuned harp, a pair of ill-tuned violins, a wheezing flute, and a spasmodic bassoon torment themselves and their audience. Upon the balustrade which separates Weber’s place from the high-way, several little round tables and garden chairs are placed; here one can breathe in the free air and observe the comers and goers, at a distance from the monotonous noises of the accursed orchestra. There I sat down, and, abandoning myself to the light play of my fancy, conversed with the imaginary forms of friends who came around me, upon science and art, and all that is dearest to man. The mass of promenaders passing by me grows more and more motley, but nothing disturbs me, nothing can drive away my imaginary company. Now the execrable Trio of an intolerable waltz draws me out of my world of dreams. The high, squeaking tones of the violins and flutes, and the growling ground bass of the bassoon are all that I can hear; they follow each other up and down in octaves, which tear the ear, until, at last, like one who is seized with a burning pain, I cry out involuntarily,

“What mad music! Those detestable octaves!”—Near me some one mutters.

“Cursed Fate! Here is another octave-hunter!” I look up and perceive now for the first time that imperceptibly to me a man has taken a place at the same table, who is looking intently at me, and from whom I cannot take my eyes away again. Never did I see any head or figure which made so sudden and powerful an impression upon me. A slightly crooked nose was joined to a broad open brow, with remarkable prominences over the bushy, half-gray eyebrows, under which the eyes glanced forth with an almost wild, youthful fire, (the age of the man might be about fifty;) the white and well-formed chin presented a singular contrast to the compressed mouth, and a satirical smile breaking out in the curious play of muscles in the hollow cheeks, seemed to contradict the deep melancholy earnestness which rested upon the brow; a few gray locks of hair lay behind the ears, which were large and prominent; over the tall, slender figure was wrapped a large modern overcoat. As soon as I looked at the man he cast down his eyes and gave his whole attention to the occupation from which my outcry had probably aroused him. He was shaking, with apparent delight, some snuff from several little paper horns into a large box which stood before him, and moistening it with red wine from a quarter-flask. The music had ceased and I felt an irresistible desire to address him.

“I am glad that the music is over,” said I, “it was really intolerable.”

The old man threw a hasty glance at me and shook out the contents from the last paper horn.

“It would be better not to play at all,” I began again, “Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t think at all about it,” said he, “you are a musician and connoisseur by profession”⁠—

“You are wrong, I am neither. I once took lessons upon the harpsichord and in thorough-bass, because I considered it something which was necessary to a good education, and among other things I was told that nothing produced a more disagreeable effect than when the bass follows the upper notes in octaves. At first I took this upon authority, and have ever since found it to be a fact.”

“Really?” interrupted he, and stood up and strode thoughtfully towards the musicians, often casting his eyes upwards and striking upon his brow with the palm of his hand, as if he wished to awaken some particular remembrance. I saw him speak to the musicians whom he treated with a dignified air of command—He returned and scarcely had he regained his seat, before they began to play the overture to “Iphigenia in Aulis.”

With his eyes half-closed and his folded arms resting on the table he listened to the Andante; all the while slightly moving his foot to indicate the falling in of the different parts; now he reversed his head—threw a swift glance about him—the left hand, with fingers apart, resting upon the table, as though he were striking a chord upon the Piano Forte, and the right raised in the air; he was certainly the conductor who was indicating to the orchestra the entrance of the various Tempos—The right hand falls and the Allegro begins—a burning blush flew over his pale cheeks; his eyebrows were raised and drawn together; upon his wrinkled brow an inward rage flashed through his bold eyes, with a fire, which by degrees changed into a smile that gathered about his half-open mouth. Now he leaned back again, his eyebrows were drawn up, the play of muscles again swept over his face, his eyes glanced, the deep internal pain was dissolved in a delight which seized and vehemently agitated every fibre of his frame—he heaved a deep sigh, and drops stood upon his brow. He now indicated the entrance of the Tutti and the other principal parts; his right hand never ceased beating the time, and with his left he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his face—Thus he animated with flesh and color the skeleton of the Overture, formed by the two violins. I heard the soft plaintive lament breathed out by the flutes, after the storm of the violins and basses died away, and the thunder of the kettle drums had ceased; I heard the lightly touched tones of the violoncello and the bassoon, which fill the heart with irrepressible yearning—again the Tutti enters treading along the unison like a towering huge giant and the hollow lamenting expires beneath his crushing footsteps.

The overture was finished; the man suffered both his arms to drop, and sat with closed eyes, like one who was exhausted by excessive exertion. This bottle was empty; I filled his glass with the Burgundy, which in the meantime I had procured. He heaved a deep sigh, and seemed to awaken out of his dream. I motioned him to drink; he did so without hesitation, and swallowing the contents of the glass at one draught, exclaimed,

“I am well pleased with the performance! The orchestra did bravely!”

“And yet,” added I, “yet it was only a feeble outline of a master-piece finished in living colors.”

“Am I right? You are not a Berliner.”

“Perfectly right; I only reside here occasionally.”

“The Burgundy is good; but it is growing cold here.”

“Let us go into the house and finish the flask.”

“A good proposal—I do not know you; neither do you know me. We will not ask each other’s names. Names are sometimes in the way. Here am I drinking Burgundy without it costing me anything. Our companionship is agreeable to both, and so far so good.”

All this he said with good-humored frankness. We entered the house together. As soon as he sat down and threw open his overcoat, I perceived with astonishment, that under it he wore an embroidered vest with long lappels, black velvet breeches, and a very small silver-hilted dagger. He again buttoned up his coat carefully.

“Why did you ask me if I was a Berliner?” I resumed.

“Because in such a case it would be necessary for me to leave you.”

“That sounds like a riddle.”

“Not in the least, when I tell you that I—that I am a composer.”

“I have no idea of your meaning.”

“Well then excuse me for my exclamation just now. I see that you understand yourself thoroughly and nothing of Berlin and Berliners.”

He rose and walked once hastily up and down; then went to the window, and in a scarcely audible voice hummed the chorus of Priestesses from the Iphigenia in Tauris, while at intervals he struck upon the window at the entrance of the Tutti. To my great astonishment I observed that he made several modifications of the melody, which struck me with their power and originality. I let him go on without interruption. He finished and returned to his seat. Surprised by the extraordinary bearing of the man, and by this fantastic expression of his singular musical talent—I remained silent. After some time he began⁠—

“Have you never composed?”

“Yes, I have made some attempts in the art; only I found that all which seemed to me to have been written at inspired moments, became afterwards flat and tedious; so that I let it alone.”

“You have done wrong: for the mere fact of your having made the attempt is no small proof of your talent. We learn music when we are children, because papa and mamma will have it so; now you go to work jingling and fiddling, but imperceptibly the mind becomes susceptible to music. Perhaps the half-forgotten theme of the little song, which you formerly sang, was the first original thought, and from this embryo, nourished laboriously by foreign powers, grows a giant, who consumes all within his reach, and changes all into his own flesh and blood! Ah, how is it possible to point out the innumerable influences which lead a man to compose. There is a broad high-way, where all are hurrying round and shouting and screaming; we are the initiated! we are at the goal! Only through the ivory door is there entrance to the land of dreams; few ever see the door and still fewer pass through it. All seems strange here. Wild forms move hither and thither and each has a certain character—one more than the others. They are never seen in the high-way; they only can be found behind the ivory door. It is difficult to come out of this kingdom. Monsters besiege the way as before the Castle of Alsinens—they twirl—they twist. Many dream their dream in the Kingdom of Dreams,—they dissolve in dreams,—they cast no more shadows—otherwise by means of their shadows they would perceive the rays which pass through this realm; only a few awakened out of this dream, walk about and stride through the Kingdom of Dreams—they come to Truth. This is the highest moment;—the union with the eternal and unspeakable! It is the triple tone, from which the accords, like stars, shoot down and spin around you with threads of fire. You lie there like a chrysalis in the fire, until the Psyche soars up to the sun.”

As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and raised his eyes, and threw up his hand. Then he seated himself and quickly emptied the full glass. A silence ensued, which I would not break, through a fear of leading this extraordinary man out of his track. At last he continued in a calmer manner⁠—

“When I was in the kingdom of dreams a thousand pangs and sorrows tormented me. It was night, and the grinning forms of monsters rushed in upon me, now dragging me down into the abyss of the sea, and now lifting me high into the air. Rays of light streamed through the night, and these rays were tones which encircled me with delicious clearness. I awoke out of my pain and saw a large clear eye, gazing into an organ, and while it gazed, tones issued forth and sparkled and intervened in chords more glorious than I had ever imagined. Up and down streamed melodies, and as I swam in this stream, and was on the point of sinking, the eye looked down upon me and raised me out of the roaring waves. It was night again. Two colossi in glittering harnesses stepped up to me—Tonic and fifth! they lifted me up but the eye smiled; I know what fills thy breast with yearnings, the gentle tender third will step between the colossi; you will hear his sweet voice, will see me again, and my melodies shall become yours.”

He paused.

“And you saw the eye again?”

“Yes, I saw it again. Long years I sighed in the realms of dreams—there—yes, there!—I sat in a beautiful valley, and listened to the flowers as they sang together; only one sun-flower was silent and sadly bent its closed chalice towards the earth. Invisible bonds bound me to it—it raised its head. The chalice opened, and streaming out of it again the eye met mine—The tones, like rays of light, drew my head toward the flower which eagerly enclosed it. Larger and larger grew the leaves—flames streamed forth from it—they flowed around me—the eye had vanished and I was in the chalice.”

As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and rushed out of the room with rapid youthful strides. I awaited his return in vain; I concluded at last to go down into the city.

As I approached the Brandenburg gates, I saw in the gloaming a tall figure stride by me, which I immediately recognized as my strange companion—I said to him⁠—

“Why did you leave me so abruptly?”

“It was too late and the Euphon began to sound.”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“So much the better!”

“So much the worse: for I should like to understand you.”

“Do you hear nothing?”

“No.”

“It is past! Let us go—I do not generally like company; but—you are not a composer—you are not a Berliner?”

“I cannot conceive what so prejudices you against the Berliners. Here, where art is so highly esteemed and practised by the people in the highest degree—I should think that a man of your genius in art would like to be.”

“You are mistaken. I am condemned for my torment to wander about here in this deserted place like a departed spirit.”

“Here in Berlin—a deserted place?”

“Yes, it is deserted to me, for I can find no kindred spirit here. I am alone.”

“But the artists!—the composers!”

“Away with them. They criticise and criticise, refining away everything to find one poor little thought—but beyond their babble about art and artistical taste, and I know not what—they can shape out nothing, and as soon as they endeavor to bring out a few thoughts into daylight—their fearful coldness shows their extreme distance from the sun—it is Lapland work.”

“Your judgment seems to me too stern. At least you must allow that their theatrical representations are magnificent.”

“I once resolved to go to the theatre to hear the opera of one of my young friends—what is the name of it? The whole world is in this opera—through the confused bustle of dressed up men, wander the spirits of Orcus. All here has a voice and an almighty sound. The devil—I mean Don Juan. But I could not endure it beyond the overture, through which they blustered as fast as possible without perception or understanding. And I had prepared myself for that by a course of fasting and prayer, because I know that the Euphon is much too severely tried by this measure and gives an indistinct utterance.”

“Though I must admit that Mozart’s masterpieces are generally slighted here in a most inexplicable manner—yet Gluck’s works are very much better represented.”

“Do you think so? I once was desirous of hearing the Iphigenia in Tauris. As soon as I entered the theatre, I perceived they were playing the Iphigenia in Aulis. Then—thought I, this is a mistake. Do they call this Iphigenia? I was amazed—for now the Andante came in, with which the Iphigenia in Tauris opens, and the storm followed. There is an interval of twenty years. All the effect, all the admirably arranged exposition of the tragedy is lost. A still sea—a storm—the Greeks wrecked on the land—this is the opera. How?—has the composer written the overture at random, so that one may play it as he pleases and when he will, like a trumpet-piece?”

“I confess that is a mistake. Yet in the meantime, they are doing all they can to raise Gluck’s works in the general estimation.”

“Oh yes!” said he shortly—and then smiled more and more bitterly. Suddenly he walked off, and nothing could detain him. In a moment he disappeared, and for many successive days I sought him in vain in the park.

Several months had elapsed, when one cold, rainy evening, having been belated in a distant part of the city, I was going towards my house in Friedrich street. It was necessary to pass by the theatre. The noisy music of trumpets and kettle drums reminded me that Gluck’s Armida was to be now performed, and I was on the point of going in, when a curious soliloquy spoken from the window, where every note of the orchestra was distinctly audible, arrested my attention.

“Now comes the king—they play the march—beat, beat away on your kettle drums. That’s right, that’s lively. Yes, yes, you must do that eleven times now—or else the procession won’t be long enough. Ha, ha—Maestro—drag along, children. See there is a figurant with his shoe-string caught. That’s right for the twelfth time!—Keep beating on that dominant—Oh! ye eternal powers this will never cease. Now he presents his compliments—Armida returns thanks. Still once more? Yes, I see all’s right—there are two soldiers yet to come. What evil spirit has banished me here?”

“The ban is loosed,” cried I—“come!”

I seized my curious friend by the arm (for the soliloquist was no other than he,) and hurrying him out of the park, carried him away with me. He seemed surprised, and followed me in silence. We had already arrived in Friedrich street when he suddenly stopped.

“I know you,” said he.—“You were in the park. We talked together. I drank your wine—grew heated by it. The Euphon sounded two days afterwards—I suffered much—it is over.”

“I am rejoiced that accident has thrown you again in my way. Let us be better acquainted. I live not far from here—suppose you⁠—”

“I cannot, and dare not go with any one.”

“No, you shall not escape me thus—I will go with you.”

“Then you must go about two hundred steps. But you were just going into the theatre?”

“I was going to hear Armida, but now⁠—”

“You shall hear Armida now⁠—come!”

In silence we went down Friedrich street. He turned quickly down a cross street, running so fast that I could with difficulty follow him—until he stopped at last before a common-looking house. After knocking for some time the door was opened.—Groping in the dark, we ascended the steps and entered a chamber in the upper story, the door of which my guide carefully locked. I heard a door open; through this he led me with a light, and the appearance of the curiously decorated apartment surprised me not a little—old-fashioned, richly adorned chairs, a clock fixed against the wall with a gilt case, and a heavy broad mirror gave to the whole the gloomy appearance of antiquated splendor. In the middle stood a little Piano Forte, upon which was placed a large inkstand; and near it lay several sheets of music. A more attentive examination of these arrangements for composition made it evident to me that for some time nothing could have been written; for the paper was perfectly yellow, and thick spider webs were woven over the inkstand—the man stepped towards a press in the corner of a chamber which I had not perceived before, and as soon as he drew aside the curtain I saw a row of beautifully bound books with golden titles. Orfeo—Armida—Alcesti—Iphigenia—&c.—in short a collection of Gluck’s master pieces standing together.

“Do you own all Gluck’s works?” I cried.

He made no answer, but a spasmodic smile played across his mouth, and the play of muscles in the hollow cheeks distorted his countenance to the appearance of a hideous mask—He fixed his dark eyes sternly upon me, seized one of the books—it was Armida—and stepped solemnly towards the piano forte.—I opened it quickly and drew up the music rack; that appeared to give him pleasure—He opened the book—I beheld ruled leaves, but not a single note written upon them.

He began; “now I will play the overture—Do you turn over the leaves at the proper time”—I promised—and now grasping the full chords, gloriously and like a master, he played the majestic Tempo di Marcia with which the overture begins, without deviating from the original; but the Allegro was only interpenetrated by Gluck’s principal thought. He brought out so many rich changes that my astonishment increased—His modulations were particularly bold, without being startling, and so great was his facility of hanging upon the principal idea of a thousand melodious lyrics, that each one seemed a reproduction of it in a new and renovated form—His countenance glowed—now he contracted his eyebrows and a long suppressed wrath broke powerfully forth, and now his eyes swam in tears of deep yearning melancholy. Sometimes with a pleasant tenor voice he sang the Thema, while both hands were employed in artist-like lyrics, and sometimes he imitated with his voice in an entirely different manner the hollow tone of the beaten kettle drums. I industriously turned over the leaves, as I followed his look. The overture was finished and he fell back exhausted with closed eyes, upon the arm chair. But soon he raised himself again and turning hastily over a few blank leaves, said to me in a hollow tone⁠—

“All this, sir, have I written when I came out of the kingdom of dreams, but I betrayed the holy to unholy, and an ice-cold hand fastened upon this glowing heart. It broke not. Yet was I condemned to wander among the unholy like a departed spirit—formless, so that no one knew me until the sun-flower again lifted me up to the eternal—Ha, now let us sing Armida’s Scena.”

Then he sang the closing scene of the Armida with an expression which penetrated my inmost heart—Here also he deviated perceptibly from the original—but the substituted music was Gluck-like music in still higher potency.—All that Hate, Love, Despair, Madness, can express in its strongest traits—he united in his tones—His voice seemed that of a young man, for from its deep hollowness swelled forth an irrepressible strength—Every fibre trembled—I was beside myself—When he had finished I threw myself into his arms, and cried with suppressed voice—“What does this mean? Who are you?”

He stood up and gazed at me with earnest, penetrating look—but as I was about to speak again he vanished with the light through a door and left me in the darkness—He was absent a quarter of an hour—I despaired of seeing him again and ascertaining my position from the situation of the piano forte sought to open the door, when suddenly in an embroidered dress coat, rich vest and with a sword at his side and a light in his hand he entered⁠—

I started—he came solemnly up to me, took me softly by the hand, and said, softly smiling⁠—

“I am the Chevalier Gluck!”

VENUS AND THE MODERN BELLE.

———

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

———

Young Beauty looked over her gems one night,

And stole to her glass, with a petulant air:

She braided her hair, with their burning light,

Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there.

Then she folded, over her form of grace,

A costly robe from an Indian loom

But a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face,

And Love’s sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.

“It is useless!” she murmured,—“my jewels have lost

All their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”

And she snatched off the treasures, and haughtily tost,

Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies and pearls.

Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion;

“And what?” she exclaimed, “shall the star of the ball

Be seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion?”⁠—

Away went the robe,—ribbons, laces and all!

“Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sighed in despair,

“Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,

Which Juno of old condescended to wear,

And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”⁠—

She said and she started; for lo! in the glass,

Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!

She turned,—it was Venus herself! and the lass

Stood blushing before her, in silence and shame.

“Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek,

Is one you can summon at once, if you will;

It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,

And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes, fill.

“No gem in your casket such lustre can lend,

No silk wrought in silver, such beauty, bestow,

With that talisman heed not, tho’ simply, my friend,

Your robe and your ringlets unjewelled may flow!”

“Oh! tell it me! give it me!”—Beauty exclaimed,⁠—

As Hope’s happy smile, to her rosy mouth, stole,⁠—

“Nay! you wear it e’en now, since your temper is tamed,

’Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul.”

MY BARK IS OUT UPON THE SEA.

———

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

———

My bark is out upon the sea

The moon’s above;

Her light a presence seems to me

Like woman’s love.

My native land I’ve left behind;

Afar I roam;

In other climes no hearts I’ll find,

Like those at home.

Of all yon sisterhood of stars,

But one is true;

She paves my path with crystal spars,

And beams like you,

Whose purity the waves recall

In music’s flow,

As round my bark they rise and fall

In liquid snow.

The freshening breeze now swells the sails,

A storm is on;

The weary moon’s dim lustre fails,

The stars are gone.

Not so fades love’s eternal light

When storm-clouds weep;

I know one heart’s with me to-night

Upon the deep.

THE LATE SIR DAVID WILKIE.

———

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.

———

Under the head of Painting, England undoubtedly at present stands considerably above any of the continental nations; but they surpass her perhaps in an equal degree, in the sister Art of Sculpture, and in Music,—Italy in both of these, and Germany in the latter. France may perhaps be said to have reached the same general point that England has in all these Arts; but she cannot claim the same exceptions in favor of individual instances, in either of them. In musical composers, on the other hand, she surpasses England, and yet reaches to only a very moderate degree of excellence.

Sir David Wilkie was one of the most distinguished Artists, in his particular line, that England, or any other country ever possessed. He has, to be sure, produced, comparatively speaking, but few pictures; but in force and richness of expression, in truth and depth of character, in subtlety of thought, and felicity of invention, I have seen none in the same class that at all equal these few. In the above particulars, and in a marvellous truth and simplicity of pencil in delineating what he sees or remembers, Wilkie as far surpasses Teniers himself, as Teniers surpasses him in freedom and felicity of touch, and freshness, transparency, and beauty of coloring. And important as these latter qualities are in a picture, those which spring from, and appeal to, the intellect chiefly, must be allowed to be still more so.

The subject of Wilkie’s pictures are confined to what may be called the higher classes of low life, where the habits and institutions of modern society have hitherto, in a great measure, failed to diffuse that artificial and conventional form of character, which, if it does not altogether preclude the action of the feelings, at least forbids all outward manifestation of them. If Sir David had unfortunately devoted his peculiar and unrivalled power of depicting what is, to scenes in high, or even in middle life, he would have produced works altogether feeble and worthless; because he could only represent what actually did exist; and, in these classes of life, this, as far as regards its outward attributes, is smoothed and polished down to a plane and colorless surface, which will not admit the passage of any thing from within, and from which every thing without slides off like water-drops from the feathers of a bird.

Only think of making a picture of a party of ladies and gentlemen, assembled to hear a piece of political news read; or of the same persons listening to a solo on the violin by an eminent professor! And yet these are the subjects of Wilkie’s Village Politicians, and his Blind Fiddler; two of the most interesting and perfect works that ever proceeded from the pencil; and which at once evince in the artist, and excite in the spectator, more activity of thought, and play of sentiment, than are called forth at all the fashionable parties of London and Paris for a whole season.

Wilkie’s power was confined, as I have said, to the representation of what he saw; but he selected and combined this with such admirable judgment, and represented it with such unrivalled truth and precision, that his pictures impress themselves on the memory with all the force and reality of facts. We remember, and recur to, the scenes he places before us, just as we should to the real scenes if we had been present at them; and can hardly think of, and refer to them as any thing but real scenes. They seem to become part of our experience—to increase the stores of our actual knowledge of life and human nature; and the actors in them take their places among the persons we have seen and known in our intercourse with the living world.

Wilkie’s pictures are, in one sense of the term, the most national that were ever painted; and will carry down to posterity the face, character, habits, costume, etc. of the period and class which they represent, in a way that nothing else ever did or could; for they are literally the things themselves—the truth, and nothing but the truth. The painter allows himself no liberty or licence in the minutest particulars. He seems to have a superstitious reverence for the truth; and he would no more paint a lie than he would tell one. I suppose he has never introduced an article of dress or furniture into any one of his pictures, that he had not actually seen worn or used under the circumstances he was representing. If he had occasion to paint a peasant who had just entered a cottage on a rainy day, he would, as a matter of conscience, leave the marks of his dirty footsteps on the threshold of the door! This scrupulous minuteness of detail, which would be the bane of some class of art, is the beauty of his, coupled, and made subservient, as it was, to the most curious, natural, and interesting development of character, sentiment and thought.

But the most extraordinary examples of this artist’s professional skill, are those in which he has depicted some peculiar expression in the face and action of some one of his characters. The quantity and degree of expression that he has, in several of these instances, thrown into the compass of a face and figure of less than the common miniature size, is not to be conceived without being seen, and has certainly never before been equalled in the Art. His most extraordinary efforts of this kind are two, in which the expressions are not very agreeable, but which become highly interesting, on account of the extreme difficulty that is felt to have been overcome in the production of them. One of these is an old man, in the act of coughing violently; and the other is a child, who has cut his fingers.

But if this is the most extraordinary part of Wilkie’s pictures, and the part most likely to attract vulgar attention and curiosity, it is far from being the most valuable and characteristic. If it were, I should not regard him as the really great artist which I now do. The mere overcoming of difficulty, for the sake of overcoming it, and without producing any other ulterior effect, would be a mere idle waste of time and skill, and quite unworthy either of praise or attention. It is in these particular instances which I have noticed above, as in numerous others in different lines of art, a mere sleight of hand, exceedingly curious, as exhibiting the possible extent of human skill, but no more.

In Wilkie’s pictures, this exhibition of mere manual skill is used very sparingly, and is almost always kept in subjection to, or brought in aid of, other infinitely more valuable ends. With the single exception of the “Cut Finger,” which is a mere gratuitous effort of this manual dexterity, all his pictures are moral tales, more or less interesting, from their perfectly true delineation of habits and manners, or impressive, from their development of character, passion, and sentiment. The “Opening of the Will” is as fine in this way, as any of Sir Walter Scott’s novels; and the “Rent Day” includes a whole series of national tales of English pastoral life in the nineteenth century.

It is a great mistake to consider Wilkie as a comic painter, in which light he is generally regarded by the public on both sides of the Atlantic. When they are standing before his pictures, they seem to feel themselves bound to be moved to laughter by them, as they would by a comedy or a farce; and without this, they do not show their taste; whereas laughter seems to me to be the very last sensation these works are adapted to call forth.

Speaking of the best and most characteristic of them, I would say, that scarcely any compositions of the art, in whatever class, are calculated to excite a greater variety of deep and serious feelings; feelings, it is true, so uniformly tempered and modified by a calm and delightful satisfaction, that they can scarcely be considered without calling up a smile to the countenance. But the smile arising from inward delight is as different from the laughter excited by strangeness and drollery as any one thing can be from another. It is, in fact, the very essence of Wilkie’s pictures, that there is literally nothing strange, and consequently nothing droll and laughter-moving about them.

From the works of no one English artist have I received so much pure and unmixed pleasure and instruction as I have from those of Sir David Wilkie. He differs from all the great old masters, inasmuch as I think he possesses more vigor of pencil, and more natural and characteristic truth of expression than any of them. His style cannot, indeed, be said to possess the airy and enchanting graces of Claude, or the classic power and beauty of the Poussins, or the delicious sweetness of Paul Potter, or the sunny brightness of Wynants, or the elegant warmth of Both, or the delightfully rural and country-fied air of Hobbima. In fact, he has no peculiar or distinguishing style of his own; and this is his great and characteristic beauty. There is nothing in his pictures but what belongs positively and exclusively to the scene they profess to represent. When any of the above qualities are required in his pictures, they are sure to be found there; not because they are part of his style, but because they are part of Nature’s, in the circumstances under which he is representing her. The artist never obtrudes himself to share with nature the admiration of the spectator. And this is a very rare and admirable quality to possess in these days of pretence and affectation; when subject is usually but a secondary consideration, and is kept in submission to the display of style, manner, and what is called effect.

TO AMIE—UNKNOWN.

———

BY L. J. CIST.

———

They tell me, lady! thou art fair

As pale December’s driven snow;

That thy rich curls of golden hair

Are bright as summer-sunset’s glow;

That on the coral of thy lips

Dwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips;

And in thy deep cerulean eye

A thousand gentle graces lie;

While lofty thought, all pure as thou,

Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow!