GAY AND SERIOUS.
Engraved & Printed expressly for Graham’s Magazine by S. Dainty

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXVI. May, 1850. No. 5.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Poetry and Music

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

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1850. No. 5.

SHAKSPEARE.

ULRICI’S DISCOVERY.—ANALYSIS OF HAMLET.

———

BY H. C. MOORHEAD.

———

More than half a century ago, one of Shakspeare’s most illustrious commentators deemed it necessary to accompany the free expression of his views with words like these:

“I am almost frighted at my own temerity; and when I estimate the fame and the strength of those that maintain the contrary opinion, I am ready to sink down in reverential silence, as Æneas withdrew from the defense of Troy when he saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno heading the besiegers.”

But the enthusiastic study of Shakspeare was then just beginning. How many antiquarians, book-worms and hypercritics have since toiled and quibbled over him! how many philosophers have deeply meditated him! how many ponderous volumes have been written upon him? How many great actors have played him? How many nations have heard and read him? Surely this mine, however deep and fruitful, must long since have yielded all its treasures.

If, indeed, the shadows of mighty names could subdue the inquiring spirit of this age to any degree of fear or reverence, the Shakspeare student might now be content to receive, with implicit confidence, the creed which has been written. But whilst the works of Nature are daily undergoing new investigations, and receiving new illustrations, it is fit that those works which of all human productions most resemble them—the works of Shakspeare—should be subjected to a similar scrutiny. And so they have been, and with results worthy of the days of telegraphs and locomotives. A German critic, named Ulrici, has recently made a discovery which as far surpasses all former Shaksperian discoveries, as the voyage of Columbus surpassed the voyages of those navigators who before him had timorously hugged the shore.

A writer in the North British Review, for November, 1849, explains the subject briefly thus:

“Ulrici’s most remarkable discovery is, that each of Shakspeare’s plays has for its foundation some moral idea or theme, which is reflected and echoed over and over again with endless variety and profit, in all the characters, expressions, and events of the piece. The subtle German critic would have produced more converts to his doctrine had he illustrated it fully by the analysis of some one play, instead of having merely suggested its prevalence by means of a slight sketch in each.”

The reviewer, then, observing that Ulrici’s views had been received in England with a “wide skepticism,” proceeds to prove them by analyzing the “Merchant of Venice.” He also, incidentally, mentions the theme of “Timon of Athens,” and of “Love’s Labor Lost.” Beyond this no hint is given as to the “ground-idea” (as it is termed) of any of the plays; and yet so palpable is Ulrici’s theory, that the writer of these pages, after having read the reviewer’s remarks, found no difficulty in applying it to any of the plays with which he was familiar, by simply revolving them in his mind. As any person tolerably read in Shakspeare may do the same, the “wide skepticism” above referred to must soon give way to universal conviction, accompanied by astonishment that the discovery was not sooner made, and the frank admission that Shakspeare has been understood by Ulrici alone.

Our author has always been called the Poet of Nature; and the better he is understood, the better he is found to deserve the title. The leading features of all mountains, of all lakes and rivers, of all mankind, are the same; yet in the whole world there are no two of either precisely alike. The theme in each of Shakspeare’s plays is one—pervading every part of it, and giving tone and color to the whole. Yet how endless the variety of character, of action, of sentiment! So striking, indeed, is the diversity, that the unity has, for more than two hundred years, been strangely overlooked; so consummate is the art, that it has wholly “concealed the art.”

If we examine the play of Hamlet by the light of Ulrici’s torch, we shall find that its subject, like its plot, is very comprehensive. Yet there is in it a “central idea,” to which all the various topics discussed are more or less intimately related. This idea may be expressed by the single word DISCRETION—discretion in its most comprehensive sense, as signifying, “prudence, discernment and judgment, directed by circumspection.” I propose to show that with this idea every incident, every character, every speech, I might almost venture to say, every sentiment of the play is connected, by the relation either of resemblance or of contrast.

It will be most convenient (on account of the intricacy of the play) to examine the several scenes and speeches, in connection with different aspects of the theme. I shall therefore employ the following division:

I. Reserve; contrasted with which (1) Extravagance of conduct and language; (2) Espionage; (3) Inquisitiveness; (4) Flattery.

II. Vacillation.

III. Craft.

The reader will readily perceive that all these qualities have an intimate relation with the quality of discretion, directly or by contrast, in its use or its abuse. As it is Shakspeare’s custom to pursue his subject into all its collateral branches, there are doubtless many other modifications of the theme of Hamlet, but the above division will answer our present purpose.

I. Reserve.

In the second scene of Act First, the king and queen expostulate with Hamlet on his immoderate grief for the death of his father; reminding him that it is a common occurrence, and urging him to “cast his nighted color off.” In the next scene, Laertes, who is about to embark for France, makes a long speech to Ophelia, recommending throughout reserve in her conduct toward Hamlet:

The chariest maid is prodigal enough,

If she unmask her beauty to the moon.

The admirable speech of Polonius to Laertes, which immediately follows, is composed of ponderous maxims, all of the same import; as, for example, “Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;” “Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment;” “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” etc., etc. And the scene closes with a speech from Polonius to Ophelia, in which he cautions her respecting Hamlet, telling her to be “somewhat scanter of her maiden presence,” etc.

In the next scene (the fourth) occurs Hamlet’s speech to Horatio on drunkenness, which, it will be observed, in conformity with the theme, turns entirely upon the imprudence of the practice. In the fifth scene of the same act, Hamlet, after his interview with the Ghost, baffles the curiosity of Horatio and Marcellus. Not content with keeping his own secret, and swearing them not to reveal what they had seen, he makes them further promise that if he should see fit “to put an antick disposition on,” they never will, “with arms encumbered thus, or this head-shake, or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, as Well, well, we know; or, we could, and if we would; or, if we list to speak, or such ambiguous giving out,” intimate that they “knew aught of him.” In the same scene the Ghost says: “I could a tale unfold,” etc. “But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison-house.”

In the first scene of the third act, Hamlet’s rude speeches to Ophelia, “Get thee to a nunnery,” etc., are mainly on the same subject; and the next following scene contains the celebrated advice to the players, every word of which inculcates reserve or moderation; it teaches the same lesson as the speeches of Polonius and Laertes, above referred to, though it is applicable to very different circumstances. Hamlet’s speech to Horatio, immediately after, is to the same purpose:

“Blessed are those

Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,

That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger

To sound what stop she pleases; Give me that man

That is not passion’s slave,” etc.

In the same scene Rosencrantz and Guildenstern endeavor to find out Hamlet’s secret; but he baffles and rebukes them with the beautiful illustration of the flute:

Ham. Will you play upon this pipe?

Guild. My lord, I can not.

· · · · · · ·

Ham. Why look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ; yet can not you make it speak. S’blood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Such are a few of the chief passages in which the lesson of “reserve” is taught directly. The reader will find many others, (maxims, illustrations and allusions,) in every scene; but I pass on to the notice of some instances in which the same lesson is taught indirectly or by contrast. These passages may properly be arranged under several heads.

(1.) Extravagance of conduct and language.

Hamlet is for the most part, calm and self-possessed. But on the occasion of his first interview with the Ghost, in the 4th scene of the first act he is transported (as, indeed, he well might be,) beyond all bounds of moderation: in the words of Horatio:

He waxes desperate with imagination.

His speech to Laertes at the grave of Ophelia is a still more remarkable example of extravagance:

Zounds, show me what thou’lt do;

Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself?

Woul’t drink up Esil? eat a crocodile?

I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine?

To outface me with leaping in her grave?

Be buried quick with her, and so will I.

And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw

Millions of acres on us; till our ground,

Singeing his pate against the burning zone,

Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth,

I’ll rant as well as thou.

Ophelia’s madness is caused by the extravagance of her love; and it is worthy of remark that she is finally drowned in consequence of venturing too far on the “pendent boughs” of a willow which grew “ascaunt the brook.”

In the last scene Hamlet and Laertes, whilst playing with rapiers, become “incensed,” and thus the final catastrophe is produced.

In the last scene of the second act Hamlet meets the players and makes them recite Eneas’ tale to Dido. The only justification of this long and otherwise tedious passage, will be found in its close connection with the theme; for it is an admirable specimen of bombast.

Unequal matched,

Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage, strikes wide;

But with the whiff and wind or his fell sword

The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,

Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top

Stoops to his base; and with a hideous crash

Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear, etc., etc.

How different this from Shakspeare’s own style! We shall presently see that the speeches of the Player King and Player Queen are direct illustrations of another aspect of the theme; indeed every thing connected with this “play within the play,” is directly to the main purpose.

In the latter part of the first scene of act second Ophelia relates to her father the wild conduct and appearance of Hamlet, and Polonius attributes it to the extravagance of his love:

This is the very ecstasy of love, etc.,

and descants on the “violent property” of that passion. Laertes, as we have seen, could speak well in favor of reserve, but he seldom practiced it. His conduct is generally violent, and his speech ranting; as in his riotous appearance before the king in act fourth, scene fifth, and in his contest with Hamlet at the grave of Ophelia.

(2.) Espionage.

This method of ferreting out secrets is extensively practiced throughout the play.

In the first scene of act second, Polonius instructs Reynaldo (who is going to Paris), where Laertes then was, to “make inquiry of his (Laertes’) behaviour;” to find out his associates, and by pretending to know his vices—by “putting forgeries upon him,”—draw from them an account of his way of life:

Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of troth;

And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,

. . . . . . . .

By indirections find directions out.

In the next scene the king and queen employ Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as spies upon Hamlet; and, to ascertain whether he loves Ophelia, the king and Polonius agree to hide behind the arras, whilst the latter, as he expresses it, “looses his daughter to him” in the lobby. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern make several attempts to sound Hamlet, but, as they report to the king and queen—act third scene first—he “with a crafty madness keeps aloof.” In act third, scene fourth, Polonius again plays the eaves-dropper in order to overhear the conversation between Hamlet and his mother, and Hamlet, hearing him, and supposing him to be the king, makes a pass through the arras and kills him.

I took thee for thy better; take thy fortune;

Thou find’st, to be too busy, is some danger.

(3.) Inquisitiveness.

Inquisitiveness is a very prevalent feature of the play. There are the challenging of sentiments—ghost-seeing—the sending and receiving of messages—soliloquies—(a species of self-examination,)—and the conversation is to an unusual extent made up of questions and answers. To this head may also be referred, (at any rate the reader will at once recognize their relation to the central idea,) the riddles of the old grave-digger in the church-yard scene, (act fifth, scene first,) and his witty evasions of Hamlet’s questions. Also Hamlet’s refined speculations, in which, as Horatio says, he “considers the matter too curiously;” as, when he shows in act fourth, scene third, how a “worm may go a progress through the guts of a beggar;” and “traces the noble dust of Alexander till he finds it stopping a bung-hole,” in act fifth, scene first; and in his reflections on the lawyer’s skull, and on that of “poor Yorick.”

(4.) Flattery.

In act third, scene third, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern vie with each other in flattering the king. In act fourth, scene seventh, the king flatters Laertes respecting his skill in fencing. Osric plays the flatterer when he agrees with Hamlet first that it is very hot, then cold, then hot again; and Polonius, when he sees the cloud in the shape of a camel first, then of a weasel, and then of a whale, according as Hamlet directs. In act second, scene second, Hamlet says to Rosencrantz: “My uncle is king of Denmark; and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little.” And in act third, scene second, he teaches the use of flattery:

Why should the poor be flattered?

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,

Where thrift may follow fawning.

II. Vacillation.

Discretion, pushed to extremes, ends in vacillation, and this is the leading trait in Hamlet’s character. His father’s ghost appears, tells how he was “sleeping, by a brother’s hand cut off,” and enjoins on him, as a solemn duty to avenge his death. Hamlet acknowledges the duty, and resolves to perform it; he feels himself “prompted to his revenge by heaven and hell,” and yet he shows from the first a painful consciousness of his own infirmity of purpose.

The time is out of Joint; O cursed spite,

That ever I was born to set it right.

His numerous soliloquies are accordingly for the most part mere developments of this trait of his character; and illustrations of the inevitable tendency of meditation to beget inaction. The narrow or bigoted mind, which either can not or will not see more than a single feature of a subject, may well be prompt and decided; but whoever is capable and willing to survey any great question in all its aspects, will reach a firm conclusion,—if he reach it at all,—only by slow and painful steps. Laertes, who is little better than a ranting madcap, no sooner conceives a purpose, than he hastens to execute it; whilst Hamlet, who is a calm philosopher, ponders, and procrastinates, and does nothing.

In the last scene of act second, Hamlet, after having listened to the recitation of a player, compares his own “motive and cue for passion,” with that of a fellow, who spoke merely “in a fiction, in a dream of passion;” and reproaches himself for coldness and inaction; but ends at last in the conclusion that the spirit he had seen may be a devil, and that he must have “grounds more relative than this.”

The next scene contains the great soliloquy on death. “To be or not to be,” etc. On a former occasion Hamlet had exclaimed:

O that the Everlasting had not fixed

His canon ’gainst self-slaughter!

And he now concludes that the most profound meditation on the subject merely

Puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,

Than fly to others that we know not of.

This soliloquy has sometimes been condemned as taking an unworthy and inadequate view of the great subjects of death, and “that undiscovered country” beyond the grave; and if it had been Shakspeare’s purpose to discuss these subjects, the criticism would undoubtedly be just. But let us bear in mind that his object in this passage was simply to illustrate “vacillation of mind” in connection with the highest subjects of human contemplation, and we shall find that he has accomplished all he undertook in a manner entirely worthy of himself.

Very similar to this is the king’s soliloquy on repentance, in act third, scene third.

What if this cursed hand

Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens

To wash it white as snow? . . . .

Then I’ll look up;

My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer

Can serve my turn? . . . .

Try what repentance can: What can it not?

Yet what can it, when one can not repent.

Throughout the whole speech the mind of the guilty monarch fluctuates between hope and despair; and Hamlet, seeing him on his knees, exclaims: “now might I do it, pat; and now I’ll do it;” but again falls to moralizing, and puts it off to a more convenient season.

Hamlet’s first soliloquy, before he has seen the Ghost, (act first, scene second,) turns on the queen’s inconstancy in forgetting his father and marrying his uncle so soon: “But two months dead!” “A beast that wants discourse of reason, would have mourned longer.” And his conversation with Horatio immediately after is to the same effect:

The funeral bak’d meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

In his interview with the queen in act third, scene fourth, where he compares the picture of his father with that of his uncle, he dwells on the same topic. See also the dumb show in act third, scene second, and the dialogue between the Player King and Player Queen. Every line of these speeches illustrates the theme.

P. King. I do believe you think what now you speak;

But, what we do determine oft we break.

. . . . . . . .

This world is not for aye: nor ’tis not strange

That even our loves should with our fortunes change.

. . . . . . . .

The great man down, you mark his favorite flies;

The poor advanced makes friends of enemies.

. . . . . . . .

For who not needs shall never lack a friend;

And who in want a hollow friend doth try,

Directly seasons him his enemy.

The constancy of Hamlet’s father is throughout opposed to the inconstancy of his mother. The Ghost on his first appearance dwells on the subject:

From me, whose love was of that dignity

That it went hand in hand even with the vow

I made to her in marriage.

And after all the wrongs he has suffered, whilst enjoining upon Hamlet to change his course, he charges him to contrive nothing against his mother; and when he afterward appears at the interview between Hamlet and the queen, he interposes in her behalf:

But look! amazement on thy mother sits;

O, step between her and her fighting soul.

The queen also, with all her faults, remains constant in her affection for Hamlet, and “lives, almost, by his looks.” Ophelia is constant in her love,—to insanity and a watery grave; and Hamlet makes fine speeches on constancy of purpose. His soliloquy in act first, scene fifth, is in a noble strain:

“Remember thee!”

Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat,

In this distracted globe. Remember thee?

Yea, from the table of my memory

I’ll wipe away all trivial, fond records,

. . . . . . . .

And thy commandment all alone shall live

Within the book and volume of my brain, etc.

But his “remembrance” is like that of a man who “beholdeth his natural face in a glass, and goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what manner of man he was.”

III. Craft.

The word craft properly signifies art, ability, dexterity, skill, as well as cunning and dissimulation—and all these qualities have a close relation to discretion.

The pretended madness of Hamlet is therefore illustrative of the theme; just as the real madness of Lear is illustrative of the theme of that play. The dissimulation of Hamlet, however, is not such as to lessen our esteem for his character. Surrounded as he is with spies and enemies, we feel that it is a justifiable stratagem. It is worthy of remark that Edgar employs a similar means of defense in the Play of King Lear; and that as Shakspeare’s love of contrast has led him thus to oppose the assumed madness of Edgar to the real madness of Lear, so here we have the real madness of Ophelia opposed to the assumed madness of Hamlet.

Hamlet displays craft also (but still a justifiable craft,) in his device of the play, “to catch the conscience of the king.” And when he has succeeded, he triumphs in this proof of his own skill, with a very natural vanity. “Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, (if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me,) etc., get me a fellowship in a cry of players?” In his interview with his mother, (the picture scene,) he dwells chiefly on her want of discernment; and, at the conclusion of the scene, alluding to his “two schoolfellows,” he boasts that he will “delve one yard below their mines, and blow them at the moon;” a feat which he very fully accomplishes. But after all he feels and acknowledges that he is a mere instrument in the hands of a higher power.

Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,

When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us,

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough hew them how we will.

And when Horatio endeavors to dissuade him from fencing with Laertes, because he acknowledges a foreboding of evil he replies: “Not a whit, we defy augury; there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come; the readiness is all.” These solemn sentiments were a fit prelude to the tragic fate upon which he was rushing.

Polonius frequently boasts of his own discernment. As when he says to the king:

Hath there been such a time (I’d fain know that,)

That I have positively said ’tis so;

When it proved otherwise.

And though he was mistaken as to the cause of Hamlet’s madness, he reasoned justly on the subject, and erred in his conclusion only because there was a supernatural cause at work, which he could not penetrate. The king also dwells on the same topic (skill or management,) in many places, and especially in his several conversations with Laertes.

But I must hasten to a conclusion; hoping that I have awakened sufficient interest in the reader’s mind to induce him to pursue the subject with the play before him; and assuring him that he will find the theme in some one of its various phases, ever present; from the sentinel’s challenge at the beginning, to the speech of Fortinbras on propriety at the end; in the love-letter of Hamlet; in the carol of Ophelia; in the doggerel song of the old grave-digger; and every where else.

A glance at the progress of the play will show that the theme, like the plot and the characters, is gradually developed. A brief notice of the contents of each act will make this apparent.

Act first.—This act is wholly occupied with matters of an inquisitive character, and lectures on reserve and prudence.

Act second.—Craft is the characteristic of this act. Reynaldo is appointed a spy upon Laertes: Hamlet begins to play the madman: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are appointed spies upon Hamlet: Polonius and the king resolve to secrete themselves where they can overhear Hamlet talking with Ophelia: and Hamlet conceives the project of using the players to make the king betray his own guilt. The object of all these plots, however, it will be observed, is merely to gain information.

Act third.—In this act the several plots formed in the last, are carried into execution.

Act fourth.—Here the subject assumes a more serious aspect; Ophelia’s indiscreet love ends in madness and death: Laertes, who has heretofore discoursed like a philosopher on moderation, now becomes furious, bearding the king on his throne; if craft is employed it is no longer for the mere purpose of finding out secrets, but for the destruction of life; as when the king sends Hamlet to England, to be put to death; and when, on his unexpected return, Laertes and the king concert his death by means of the treacherous fencing-match.

Act fifth.—Inquisitiveness now assumes a more intricate form in the old grave-digger’s riddles, and in Hamlet’s refined speculations. Credulity (as Horatio’s account of prodigies in the first act,) becomes bigotry in the priest who buried Ophelia, and faith in a special Providence in Hamlet. Foppery and affectation reach their height in Osric; discretion assumes its highest form in Hamlet’s frank apology to Laertes, and in his anxiety lest he should leave a “wounded name” behind him; Horatio crowns his constancy by resolving to die with his friend; and ungoverned passion produces the scandalous conflict at Ophelia’s grave, and the scuffle in fencing, which is the immediate forerunner of the bloody catastrophe. The change of rapiers has been condemned as a bungling device; but was it not most probably designed to illustrate the theme, showing, as it does, the blind and heedless rage of the combatants?

It is manifest that Ulrici’s method of reading these plays must lead to a re-consideration of the most important criticisms which have heretofore been made upon them. The propriety and relevancy of each part being considered with reference to the “central idea,” many apparent anomalies will be reconciled, and many imputed faults vindicated. A new value will also be given to them; for, viewed in this light, the masters of eloquence,—the Senator, the Advocate, and the Preacher,—may, from these models, learn how to discuss a theme, or conduct a discussion. The poet rambles through all nature, yet never for one moment forgets his purpose; now he convulses us with laughter, and now melts us to tears; now fires us with indignation, and now chills us with horror; yet ever, amidst these various and conflicting emotions, steadily pursues his argument. Every speech is to the same purpose, and yet there is no repetition; and, though he perseveres till the subject is wholly exhausted, our interest seldom for one moment languishes. Let him, therefore, who would see Logic, and Rhetoric, and Poetry in their most perfect form and combination, repair to the pages of Shakspeare.

SUMMER FRIENDS.

They came—like bees in summer-time,

When earth is decked with flowers,

And while my year was in its prime

They reveled in my bowers;

But when my honey-blooms were shed,

And chilling blasts came on,

The bee had with the blossom fled:

I sought them—they were gone.

They came—like spring-birds to the grove,

With varied notes of praise,

And daily each with other strove

The highest strain to raise;

But when before the frosty gale

My withered leaves were strown,

And wintry blasts swept down the vale,

I sought them—they were gone.

I. G. B.

LINES.

———

BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.

———

Sweet moon, I love thee, yet I grieve

To gaze on thy pale orb to-night;

It tells me of that last dear eve

I passed with her, my soul’s delight.

Hill, vale and wood and stream were dyed

In the pale glory of thy beams,

As forth we wandered, side by side,

Once more to tell love’s burning dreams.

My fond arm was her living zone,

My hand within her hand was pressed,

And love was in each earnest tone,

And rapture in each heaving breast.

And many a high and fervent vow

Was breathed from her full heart and mine,

While thy calm light was on her brow

Like pure religion’s seal and sign.

We knew, alas! that we must part,

We knew we must be severed long,

Yet joy was in each throbbing heart,

For love was deep, and faith was strong.

A thousand memories of the past

Were busy in each glowing breast,

And hope upon the future cast

Her rainbow hues—and we were blest.

I craved a boon—oh! in that boon

There was a wild, delirious bliss —

Ah, didst thou ever gaze, sweet moon,

Upon a more impassioned kiss?

The parting came—one moment brief

Her dim and fading form I viewed —

’Twas gone—and there I stood in grief

Amid life’s awful solitude.

Tell me, sweet moon, for thou canst tell,

If passion still unchanged is hers —

Do thoughts of me her heart still swell

Among her many worshipers?

Say, does she sometimes wander now

At eve beneath thy gentle flame,

To raise to heaven her angel-brow

And breathe her absent lover’s name!

Oh when her gentle lids are wet,

I pray thee, mark each falling gem,

And tell me if my image yet

Is pictured tremblingly in them!

Ay, tell me, does her bosom thrill

As wildly as of yore for me —

Does her young heart adore me still,

Or is that young heart changed like thee?

Oh let thy beams, that softest shine,

If still my love to her is dear,

Bear to her gentle heart from mine

A sigh, a blessing, and a tear.

SPIRIT OF HOPE.

———

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

———

Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest.

How shall I lure thee to my side again,

Thou, who wert once the Angel of my Youth?

Thou, who didst woo me with thy blandest strain —

Tinting wild Fancy with the hues of Truth;

Whose plumy shape, floating in rosy light,

Showered purest pearl-drops from its fairy wing,

Making earth’s pathway like the day-star bright,

Thou charmer rare of life’s enchanted spring!

Fair were the scenes thy radiant pencil drew,

When on my eyes the early beauty broke:

And thy rich-ringing lyre, when life was new,

A glowing rapture in my bosom woke.

Then thy gay sister Fancy made my dreams

Lovely, and lightsome as the summer-hours,

And in her fairy loom wrought hues and gleams

That clothed the Ideal in a robe of flowers.

Now, thou hast vanished from my yearning sight —

Thou comest no more in melting softness drest —

No more thou weavest sweet visions of delight,

No charm thou bring’st to lull my heart to rest.

The bloom has faded from thy face, dear Hope —

The light is lost—the shadow comes not back!

Thy green oasis-flowers no more re-ope,

To scatter fragrance o’er life’s desert track.

Oh, angel-spirit of my perished years!

Thy early memory stands before me now:

Ah! by that memory, which so fair appears,

Unveil once more the beauty of thy brow;

Come—if I have not quite outlived thee—come!

And bid thy rival dark Despair depart —

His touch has left me blind and deaf and dumb —

Bring thou one ray of sunshine to my heart!

A GALE IN THE CHANNEL.

———

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” ETC.

———

It was on a sunny day in the winter of 183-, that we dropped down the Mersey and took our leave of Liverpool. Our vessel was a new ship of seven hundred tons; and as she spread, one after another, her folds of white canvas to the breeze, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful sight. The scene around was lively and inspiriting. Innumerable craft of all sizes covered the waters far and near: here, a large merchantman moving like a stately swan, there, a light yacht skimming along with the swiftness of a swallow. The sunlight sparkled and danced on the billows; the receding coast grew more picturesque as we left it astern; and the blue expanse of the Irish channel stretched away in front, until lost in a thin haze on the opposite horizon.

I had been reading below for several hours, but toward nightfall went on deck again. How I started at the change! It was yet an hour to sunset, but the luminary of day was already hidden in a thick bank of clouds, that lay stretched ominously along the western seaboard. The wind had increased to a smart gale, and was laden with moisture. The billows increased in size every minute, and were whitening with foam far and near. Occasionally as a roller struck the ship’s bows, the white spray flew crackling over the forecastle, and sometimes even shot into the top: on these occasions a foreboding, melancholy sound, like the groan of some huge animal in pain, issued from the thousand timbers of the vessel. Already, in anticipation of the rising tempest, the canvas had been reduced, and we were now heading toward the Irish coast under reefed topsails, courses, a spanker and jib.

“A rough night in prospect, Jack!” I said addressing an old tar beside me.

“You may well say that, sir,” he replied. “It’s bad on the Norway coast in December, and bad going into Sandy Hook in a snow-storm; but both are nothing to a gale in the channel here,” he added, as a sudden whirl of the tempest covered us with spray.

“I wish we had more sea room,” I answered musingly.

“Ay! I’d give the wages of the voyage if we had. How happy you all seemed in the cabin, sir, the ladies especially, an hour or two ago—I suppose it was because we are going home—ah! little did any of us think,” he added, with a seriousness, and in a language uncommon for a sailor, “that we might be bound to another, and a last home, which we should behold first.”

At this moment the captain shouted to shorten sail, and our conversation was of necessity cut short. The ship, I ought to have said, had been laid close to the wind, in order to claw off the English coast, to which we were in dangerous propinquity; and, as the gale increased, the heavy press of canvas forcing her down into the water, she struggled and strained frightfully. While the crew were at work, I walked forward. The billows, now increased to a gigantic size, came rolling down upon us one after another, with such rapidity that our good craft could scarcely recover from one before another was upon her. Each time she struck a head-sea she would stagger an instant, quivering in every timber, while the crest of the shattered wave would shoot to the fore-top like the jet of a fountain: then, the vast surge sinking away beneath her, she would settle groaning into the trough of the sea, until another billow lifted her, another surge thundered against her bows, another shower of foam flew over her. Now and then, when a more colossal wave than usual was seen approaching, the cry “hold on all” rang warningly across the decks. At such times, the vast billow would approach, its head towering in the gathering twilight, until it threatened to engulf us; but, just when all seemed over, our gallant ship would spring forward to meet it, like a steed started by the spur, and the mountain of waters would break over and around us, hissing, roaring and flashing by, and then sinking into the apparently bottomless gulf beneath us.

Meanwhile the decks were resounding with the tread of the sailors, as they hurried to and fro in obedience to the captain’s orders; while the rattling of blocks, the shouts of command, and the quick replies of the seamen, rose over the uproar of the storm.

“Let go bowlines,” cried the stentorian voice of the captain, “ease off the tack—haul on the weather-braces.”

Away went the huge sail in obedience to the order.

“Ease off the sheet—haul up to lee!”

The crew redoubled their quickness; and soon the immense courses were stowed. In a few minutes the ship’s canvas was reduced to reefed topsails, spanker, and fore-topmast staysail. By this time evening had set in, though the long twilight of that latitude prolonged a sickly radiance.

But even this contraction of sail was not sufficient. The thick duck tugged at the yards, as if it would snap them in two. Every moment I expected to see the spanker go.

“We must take in that sail,” said the captain finally, “or she will tear herself to pieces. All hands in with the spanker.”

In an instant the men were struggling with the huge sheet of canvas; and never before had I been so forcibly impressed with the power and usefulness of discipline. In an incredibly short interval the gigantic sail, notwithstanding its struggles, was got under control, and safely stowed.

The ship now labored less for awhile, but, as the storm increased, she groaned and struggled as before. The captain saw it would not do to carry even the little sail now remaining, for, under the tremendous strain, the canvas might be continually expected to be blown from the bolt-ropes. And yet our sole hope lay in crowding every stitch, in order to claw off the English coast! The sailor will understand this at a word, but to the landsman it may require explanation.

Our danger, then, consisted in having insufficient sea room. If we had been on the broad Atlantic, with a hundred or two miles of ocean all around us, we could have lain-to under some bit of a head-sail, or fore-topmast sky-sail for instance, or a reefed fore-sail. But when a vessel lies-to, or, in other words, faces the quarter whence the wind comes, with only enough canvas set to steer her by, she necessarily drifts considerably, and in a line of motion diagonal to her keel. This is called making lee-way. Most ships, when lying-to in a gale, drill very rapidly, sometimes hundreds of miles if the tempest is protracted. It is for this reason that a vessel in a narrow channel dares not lie-to, for a few miles of lee-way would wreck her on the neighboring coast. The only resource, in such cases, is to carry a press of sail, and head in the direction whence the wind comes, but not near so close to it as in lying-to. This is called clawing off a lee-shore. A constant struggle is maintained between the waves, which set the vessel in the same track they are going themselves, and the wind, which urges her on the opposite course. If the canvas holds, and the ship is not too close to the shore under her lee, she escapes: if the sails part, she drives upon the fatal coast before new ones can be got up and bent. Frequently in such cases the struggle is protracted for hours. It is a noble yet harrowing spectacle to see a gallant ship thus contending for her life, as if an animated creature, breasting surge after surge, too often in vain, panting, trembling and battling till the very last.

The captain did not appear satisfied with taking in the spanker; indeed, all feared that the ship could not carry what sail was left. Accordingly, he ordered the topsails to be close-reefed. Yet even after this, the vessel tore through the waters as if every moment she would jerk her masts out. The wind had now increased to a perfect hurricane. It shrieked, howled and roared around as if a thousand fiends were abroad on the blast.

In moments of extreme peril strong natures gather together, as if by some secret instinct. It was in this way that the captain suddenly found himself near the old topman, whom I had been conversing with in the early part of the evening, and who, it appeared, was one of the oldest and best seamen in the ship.

The captain stood by the man’s side a full minute without speaking, looking at the wild waves that, like hungry wolves, came trooping down toward us.

“How far are we from the coast?” he said at last.

“Perhaps five miles, perhaps three, sir!” quietly replied the man.

“And we have a long run to make before we get sea-room,” said the captain.

“We shall all be in eternity before morning,” answered the man, solemnly.

The captain paused a moment, when he replied,

“Our only hope is in the topsail-clews—if they give way, we are indeed lost—God help us!”

“Amen!” I answered, involuntarily.

Silence now ensued, though none of us changed our positions. For myself, I was occupied with thinking of the female passengers, soon, perhaps, to be the prey of the wild waters. Every moment it seemed as if the topsails would give way, she strained so frightfully. It was impossible to stand up if exposed to the full force of the gale. So we sheltered ourselves in the waist as we best could. The wind as well as spray, however, reached us even here, though in diminished violence, the latter stinging the face like shot thrown against it. It seemed to me, each minute, as if we made more lee-way. At last, after half an hour’s suspense, I heard the surf breaking, with a noise like thunder, on the iron-bound coast to the eastward. Again and again I listened, and each time the awful sound became more distinct.

I did not mention my fears, however, for I still thought I might be mistaken. Suddenly the captain looked up.

“Hark!” he said.

He stood with his finger raised in the attitude of one listening intently, his eyes fixed on the face of the old sailor.

“It is the sound of breakers,” said the seaman.

“Breakers on the lee-quarter!” cried the look-out at this instant, his hoarse voice sounding ominously across the night.

“Breakers on the lee-beam!” answered another.

“Breakers on the lee-bow!” echoed a third.

All eyes peered immediately into the darkness. A long line of foam was plainly visible, skirting quite round the horizon to leeward.

“God have mercy on our souls!” I involuntarily ejaculated.

The captain sprung to the wheel, his eye flashing, his whole frame dilated—for he had taken a sudden and desperate resolution. He saw that, if no effort was made, we should be among the breakers in twenty minutes; but if the mainsail could be set, and made to hold for half an hour, we might yet escape. There were nine chances to one that the sail would split the instant it was spread, and in a less terrible emergency he would have shrunk from the experiment; but it was now our only hope.

“Keep her to it!” he shouted; “keep her well up. All hands to set the main-course!”

Fortunately we were strong-handed, so that it would not be necessary to carry the tack to the windlass, notwithstanding the gale. A portion of the crew sprung to man this important rope; the remainder hurried up the rigging, almost disappearing in the gloom overhead.

In less than a minute the huge sail fell from the yard, like a gigantic puff of white smoke blown from the top. It struggled and whipped terribly, but the good ropes held fast.

“Brace up the yard—haul out the bowline!” thundered the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir!” and it was done.

“Haul aft!”

The men ran off with the line, and the immense sheet came to its place.

This was the critical moment. The ship feeling the additional propulsion, made a headlong plunge. I held my breath. I expected nothing less than to see the heavy duck blown from the yard like a gossamer; but the strong fabric held fast, though straining awfully.

“She comes up, don’t she?” interrogated the captain of the man at the helm.

“Ay, ay, sir—she does!”

“How much?”

“Two points, sir!”

“If she holds for half an hour,” ejaculated the captain, “we may yet be saved.”

On rushed the noble ship, seeming to know how much depended on her. She met the billows, she rose above them, she struggled perseveringly forward. In five minutes the breakers were visibly receding.

But hope had been given only to delude us. Suddenly I heard a crack, sharper than an explosion of thunder, and simultaneously the course parted from its fastenings, and sailed away to leeward, like a white cloud driven down the gale.

A cry of horror rose from all. “It is over!” I cried; and I looked around for a plank, intending to lash myself to it, in anticipation of the moment for striking.

When the course went overboard, the head of the ship fell off immediately; and now the wild breakers tumbled and roared closer at hand each moment.

Suddenly the captain seized my arm, for we were holding on almost side by side.

“Ha!” he cried, “is not that dark water yonder?” and he pointed across our lee-bow.

I looked in the direction to which he referred. Unless my eyes deceived me, the long line of breakers came to an abrupt termination there, as if the shore curved inwards at that point.

“You are right—there is a deep bay ahead,” I cried, joyfully. “Look! you can see the surf whitening around the cape.”

The whole crew simultaneously detected this new chance of escape. Though unable to head to the wind as before, there was still a prospect that we could clear the promontory. Accordingly, the next few minutes were passed in breathless suspense. Not a word was spoken on board. Every eye was fixed on that rocky headland, around which the waters boiled as in the vortex of a maelstrom.

The ship seemed conscious of the general feeling, and struggled, I thought, more desperately than ever. She breasted the huge billows with gallant perseverance, and though each one set her closer to the shore, she met the next wave with the same stubborn resolution. Nearer, nearer, nearer we drilled toward the fatal cape. I could now almost fling a biscuit into the breakers.

I had noticed a gigantic roller coming for some time, but had hoped we might clear the cape before it reached us. I now saw the hope was in vain. Towering and towering, the huge wave approached, its dark side almost a perpendicular wall of waters.

“Hold on all!” thundered the captain.

Down it came! For an instant its vast summit hovered overhead, and then, with a roar like ten thousand cataracts, it poured over us. The ship was swept before it like a feather on a gale. With the waters dashing and hissing over the decks, and whirling in wild eddies under our lee, we drove in the direction of the cape. I held my breath in awe. A strong man might almost have leaped on the extreme point of the promontory. I closed my eyes shuddering. The next instant a hurrah met my ear. I looked up. We had shot by the cape, and miles of dark water were before us. An old tar beside me had given vent to the cheer.

“By the Lord!” he said, “but that was close scraping, sir. Another sich would have cracked the hull like an egg-shell. But this craft wasn’t made to go to Davy Jones’ locker!”

And with all the coolness imaginable, he took out a huge piece of pig-tail, leisurely twisted off a bit, and began chewing with as much composure as if nothing unusual had happened.

A year ago, when in New York, I met the captain again, unexpectedly, at the Astor. We dined together, when I took occasion to ask him if he remembered our winter night’s experience in the Irish Channel ten years before.

“Ay!” he said. “And do you know that, when I went out to Liverpool on my next trip, I heard that search had been made all along the coast for the fragments of our ship. The escape was considered miraculous.”

“Sir,” I replied, “I’ve had enough of the Irish Channel.”

TO MRS. E. C. K.

———

BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN.

———

Lady, when first upon my listening ear

Thy song harmonious fell, subdued, entranced,

And spell-bound by the strain, my spirit glanced

Adown Time’s darkening track, and as it hung

Upon the magic numbers, seemed to hear

The lay that erst to Lycidas was sung,

By Siloa’s rapt bard, whose visual orbs

Were quenched in the intenser brilliancy

Of Truth’s divinest radiance, that absorbs

All lesser brightness; thus I mused of thee;

But when I saw thee, fair as Hope’s young dream,

Freshness like Morning’s on thy brow and cheek,

Through which the soul’s celestial light doth beam

As through a sculptured vase, I felt how weak

Are images of manhood’s pride and fame

That birth-right’s priceless value to proclaim,

Where genius, wit, and poesy divine,

Make woman’s heart of love their best and holiest shrine.

VALENTINE HISTORIES.

———

BY S. SUTHERLAND.

———

Florence Hastings sat alone in one of the spacious apartments of her uncle’s stately mansion in —— square. The luxuriously cushioned sofa was drawn quite close to the cheerful grate-fire, while the pale cheek of its occupant, and the slight form almost hidden in the folds of a large shawl, betokened an invalid. And such in reality was our young heroine. Fresh in her memory, and consequently in its effects upon her personal appearance, was a lingering and dangerous illness, and barely three weeks had elapsed since the crisis was safely past, and she had been pronounced convalescent.

Books and writing materials were now scattered carelessly upon a table beside her—but they did not claim her interest. She seemed in an unusually nervous, restless mood. At times her eyes would wander around the apartment with a strangely dissatisfied look, (for every thing before her wore an appearance of splendor very agreeable to the gaze of the beholder,) then she would bury her face in her hands, while something glittering and dewy—something greatly resembling a tear-drop, would trickle slowly through those slender fingers. Could it, indeed, be a tear-drop? What cause for sorrow had Florence Hastings, the young and accomplished heiress? Florence was an orphan. At the early age of ten years she had lost both the tender father, and the sweet mother who had watched over her steps in infancy, and since that period she had felt too deeply that there was no one to whom she could look for the true love and sympathy for which her spirit pined. Her uncle and guardian, absorbed in the duties of an extensive mercantile establishment, troubled himself little about his niece. He was well assured that her own goodly inheritance amply supplied all her desires—and the morning salutation with which he honored Florence as she took her accustomed seat beside him at the breakfast table, and the gracious smile of approbation when he beheld her at evening bending over her studies in the parlor, were generally sufficient to relieve his mind of all scruples concerning the duties of personal intercourse. On this point, however, no one who knew Mr. Hastings would have rested any blame upon him. He was to all a man of few words—naturally cold and calm in manner. His wife resembled him greatly in every respect—being of a quiet, placid temperament, which no emotion was ever observed to ruffle—pursuing the tenor of her way by rule rather than by impulse. So in this case, at least, it was plainly evident that “Love’s delight” had not consisted in “joining contrasts.” Casual observers might have said that a similar description would apply to Mr. Hastings’ niece—but in doing so they wronged her. Florence was, indeed, reserved, and apparently cold, but it was from habit and education—not by inheritance. Once she had been a sunny, glad-souled child, whose bounding footstep and merry laugh resounded gayly through a home where she was tenderly loved and cherished—but she was sensitive, too, beyond her years; and when the light of that pleasant hearth was forever extinguished, and she sat in affliction and desolation of spirit by the fireside of those who till then had been strangers to her, the chilling atmosphere of her new home effectually checked the return of that animation of manner, which, from the fortunate inability of childhood to retain a lasting remembrance of sorrow, might have been expected. So the gleeful laughter of the once happy-hearted little Florence was hushed, and her joyous, springing step exchanged for a slower and more measured tread. It was a mournful thing for one so young and gentle and loving in spirit as Florence, to be obliged to repress all exhibition of the sweet, frank impulses of her nature, and live on with no voice to whisper words of encouragement and affection. Yet the orphan succeeded in moulding her manner in accordance with her new and strange existence. A weary task it was, and oftentimes did her rebellious soul

“Beat the bars

With burning wing and passionate song,

And pour to the benignant stars

The earnest story of its wrong.”

But the “benignant stars” alone looked down upon these struggles; no human ear ever caught the moan of that fettered and wounded spirit. Mrs. Hastings never dreamed, nor is it to be supposed she would have cared, that the quiet and apparently passionless child who came with such seeming carelessness to receive her customary good-night kiss, would have clung to her fondly, and returned the caress with impassioned earnestness, had it been impressed upon her brow with the slightest token of feeling.

Till Florence had attained her fourteenth year her education had been superintended by a governess who came daily to her uncle’s dwelling, and with whom, being devoted to books and study, she had made rapid progress. But for many reasons which I have not space here to enumerate, it was at length thought advisable to send her to a celebrated seminary located in the neighborhood of her residence. About the same period, Mr. Hastings’ family received an addition, by the arrival of a niece of his wife’s, who had also been consigned to his guardianship. Ida Hamilton was about a year the senior of Florence, and a bright, frank, gay-spirited creature, who had passed her life hitherto under none but genial auspices. She was exactly what Florence would have been had her soul always dwelt in the kindly atmosphere of affection. At the school which they attended together, Ida was called “the Sunbeam,” and Florence “the Iceberg;” and the society of the former was courted by all, while the latter was uncared for, though none dared to think her neglected, for they said she was cold and proud —

“Proud of her pride,

And proud of the power to riches allied;”

and when in the hour of recreation she sat apart from all, apparently absorbed in a book, and paying little heed to what passed around her, what token had they for suspecting that it was the indifference of a heart only too proud to seek for sympathy where she believed she would meet with no return. Ida Hamilton had been an orphan from infancy; but the place of her parents had been supplied by near and kind relatives, who had petted and cherished her as their own. Her first grief had been her separation from these relatives, when by the ill health of one of its members the family circle was broken up, and a residence in the South of Europe advised by the physicians. Ida was, meanwhile, left to the care of her guardian, Mr. Hastings; and deeply as she at first mourned the departure of her beloved friends, hope painted in glowing colors her reunion with them at some future day, and so by degrees the young girl became reconciled to the change. For awhile she felt, indeed, a restraint upon her happy spirit, for the constraint and formality which seemed the governing powers of her aunt’s domestic circle formed a vivid contrast with that free-hearted and universal cordiality of feeling to which she had been accustomed. But it was scarcely to be supposed that she would long be daunted at the unpromising aspect of things around her. Confiding, affectionate and yielding to those who loved her, Ida was “as careless as the summer rill that sings itself along” with those who had no claim upon her heart, and possessed withal of a certain independence of manner which rendered all caviling out of the question. If Mrs. Hastings felt any surprise when her niece gradually cast aside the awe with which her presence had at first inspired her, as usual, she gave no manifestation of it. But the servants, well-trained as they were, looked exclamation points at one another when, while engaged in active duties, they heard Miss Ida’s lively sallies to their master and mistress, and talked their astonishment when, while in their own distinct quarters, they caught the sound of her voice as it rang out dear and free in laughter, or warbled silvery and sweet, wild snatches of some favorite song.

It may be supposed that with such pleasant companionship the life of Florence Hastings had become more joyous. But it was not so. Though for more than three years Ida Hamilton and Florence had been domesticated beneath the same roof, upon the morning on which my sketch begins (the ever memorable Fourteenth of February, 1850,) they were to all appearance scarcely better acquainted than upon the day of Ida’s introduction to Mr. Hasting’s dwelling. Bending daily, as they had done, over the same studies, they had never sought one another’s sympathy; and when they left school, it could scarcely be expected that the bond of union would be more closely cemented. Mutually calculated though they were to become warm-hearted friends, beyond the common civilities of life, no intercourse had subsisted between them. Ida never jested with Florence, or strove to provoke a smile by the thousand little witcheries that she sometimes practiced upon others—not excepting her stately uncle and aunt, and at intervals even in this case with success. Florence often wished that she had but possessed a sister like Ida; her heart throbbed with a deep, irrepressible yearning whenever that little, soft hand by chance touched hers; but she had learned too perfectly the art of keeping her feelings in check to betray them now, even “by faintest flutter of a pulse, by lightest change of cheek, or eyelid’s fall.”

As I have said, Florence was but just recovering from a lengthened and dangerous illness, from the effects of which she was still weak. During that illness she had been constantly attended by Mrs. Hastings; and while deeply grateful for her care, she had, though unobserved, moments of irritability when the immobile features of her aunt were an absolute annoyance. And it was enhanced by the striking contrast of Ida’s bright face, who daily paid a ceremonious visit to the sick-room—Ida, who was never cold to any one but her! Then she would wish that Ida Hamilton would not come near her at all—she was never so wretched as after the reception of her unconscious visiter; and yet when Ida delayed her coming an hour later than usual, she was restless and uneasy! And these spells of feverish excitability greatly retarded her recovery. It was the return of one of them upon the present occasion, by which the tears that filled her eyes may be explained.

Among the various manuscripts lying upon the little table before her, and bearing the signature of Florence Hastings, was the following, characteristic of her present emotions, and upon the surface of which the ink was still moist. She had evidently penned it but a few seconds previously.

This world is fair, with sunshine and with flowers,

That fragrance to its happy wanderers bring;

And while with listless step I roam life’s bowers,

Fain would I pluck the blossoms where they spring;

Ah! must I check the wish and pass them by —

Must sunless ever be my spirit’s sky?

And yet they deem me reckless of the love

Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain

At the strange picture of a mind above

All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;

Oh! can they think my proud, high heart would show

The wish for blessings it may never know?

Watchful and wary of each look and word,

Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learn

The feelings that within so oft are stirred,

That such emotions in my bosom burn,

Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way,

And for awhile to anguish yield the sway.

Alone! What weary thoughts at that word throng,

Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave,

Yet it shall be the burthen of my song

Until I rest within the quiet grave;

No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known —

And I must still live on unloved—alone!

They call me cold and reckless of the love

Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain

At the strange picture of a mind above

All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;

How can they dream my proud, high heart would show

The wish for blessings it may never know!

Florence was suddenly aroused from her melancholy reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching the door of her chamber. In another instant there was a low knock—and hastily dashing aside her tears, and assuming, as if by magic, her wonted exterior, she bade the intruder enter. It proved to be a servant, who placed a small package in her hand, saying, as she did so, “A Valentine for you, Miss Florence.” The latter started with pleasurable surprise; who in all the wide world could have taken the trouble to write her a valentine? But the query was answered by a single glance at the superscription. It was strangely familiar—it was Ida Hamilton’s! Just as she broke the seal the servant withdrew, saying that she had been requested to call in half an hour for a reply.

When the package was unclosed, the following verses met the gaze of the astonished and delighted Florence. They were entitled “A Supplication to Florence.”

Hearest thou my spirit chanting

At the portals of thy heart?

’Tis to cross that threshold panting—

Pining—bid it not depart.

List not to its prayer unheeding,

Entrance though it seeks to win—

When it rises softly pleading,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

From a world of care and sadness,

From its shadows and its sin,

For Love’s sake, with love and gladness,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

Ah! within that mansion holy,

May its nobler life begin?

Turn not from its pleadings lowly,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

Accompanying this playful but deeply earnest little strain—doubly earnest, as coming from Ida to Florence—was an explanatory letter. Ida Hamilton wrote thus:

“It must, doubtless, seem very bewildering to you, Florence, that I should have taken the liberty of addressing a Valentine to one between whom and myself there has not hitherto existed an intimacy sufficiently familiar to warrant the presumption. But when, in excuse for my boldness, I plead my sincere wish for a nearer intimacy, my earnest desire to call you by the holy and tender name of friend—you will forgive me, will you not, dear Florence?

“For the past three years, dearest Florence, your image has haunted and troubled me—haunted me, because, from the moment of our first meeting, I have felt my heart irresistibly drawn toward you—troubled me, because the belief of others, and their oft-repeated assurance that you were totally destitute of warmth of character, could not consequently be aught but a source of pain. For this I must also crave your forgiveness, for I know now that in having for a time given credence to such assertions, I did you a grievous wrong.

“For the last few months I have watched you closely, Florence, though you little dreamed yourself the object of my scrutiny. I have ascertained that you are not the statue-like being you have been represented, and, indeed, appear—that you are in reality

‘Not cold, but pure—not proud, but taught to know

That the heart’s treasure is a holy thing.’

“You are not aware that once, when you imagined yourself quite unobserved, I beheld you bending tearfully over the miniature of that dear parent whom God so early recalled to his heavenly mansions—that I saw you press your lips to it wildly and passionately; and though you spoke but the simple word “Mother!” the tone in which that word was uttered, was the revelation that I sought. And from that moment I found it easy to realize how the chilling atmosphere of my aunt’s domicil had operated upon your gentle heart, while I felt that had I been transplanted to my present abode at an earlier and more impressible age, I, too, should have learned to wear a mask similar to that which concealed your ardent and sensitive spirit. And the discovery that brought such joy to my soul, gave new life to its former yearnings for your friendship. But toward myself you had never evinced the slightest token of preference—wearing in my presence the exterior which deceived all others; and I could not offer advances which I feared might be intrusive and unwelcome. So I strove to content myself with a silent interest in all your motions, and never until your recent illness allowed myself to imagine that the affection of a faulty, wayward heart like mine, would prove to you an acceptable gift. The occasion to which I refer was during one of my visits to your sick chamber, when, as I rose to leave you, you clasped my hand for the first time with a pressure, while as I spoke formally enough, my pleasure at seeing you recovering so rapidly, a faint color suffused your cheek. It faded instantly, however, and your wonted self-possession returned; but not before my heart had experienced a thrill of delight at the hope, delusive though it may have been, of winning your regard at some future day. It is that hope which has given me courage for my present proceeding—it has emboldened me to ask whether we may not become friends—become dear friends, Florence?

“In conclusion, I would say to you that I have to-day received a letter from a distant relative, who lives at the South, urgently pressing me to come and reside with her till the friends of my early youth return from abroad. She writes to me in a spirit of genial, heart-breathed kindness, very welcome to my thirsting soul—and her letter is different, indeed, from the precisely-worded epistle in which my aunt invited me to become a member of her household. It rests with you, Florence, to tell me whether I shall go or stay. My present abode has never been a congenial one; but your friendship would cast a heart-glow around it, and render me perfectly content to remain where I am.

“I await with impatience your answer. If it should prove that I have had but a pleasant vision, too bright and sweet ever to be realized, be at least frank with me, Florence, as I have been with you.

“Ida.”

Florence Hastings closed that precious letter, upon which, as she read, her tears had fallen thick and fast. To her it was the first of those moments in life

“When such sensations in the soul assemble

As make it pleasure to the eyes to weep.”

And with scarce an instant’s delay, she traced the following reply.

“Do not leave me, Ida. Heaven bless you for your generous avowal—for your sweet offer of affection! Oh! if you could but imagine how intensely happy it has made me! I have always loved you, though I scarcely dared confess it even to myself, for I never dreamed that I could be an object of interest to any one. My life has hitherto been so sad, and dark, and desolate; and my proud efforts to conceal from view the yearning for sympathy and appreciation that possessed my soul, have given me an apathy of manner which could not but prove repelling to those with whom chance brought me in contact. You alone have read me aright—you alone know that I am not what I seem; that discipline and not nature, is shadowed forth in my outward demeanor.

“Come, then, to me, darling, and let me reveal myself to you more fully. Let me fold you to my bosom, and then, while I confess how precious to my soul is the promise of your true and earnest friendship, you will forget that to you at least I have ever seemed

“The Iceberg.”

Florence had just finished her answer when the servant came for it, and this time her voice trembled perceptibly, as she repeated to the messenger her desire to see Miss Hamilton as soon as she had perused it.

Five minutes elapsed; Florence, meanwhile, impatiently pacing the apartment, her usually colorless cheek deeply flushed, and her dark eyes glowing with an excitement that was destined speedily to end in happiness the most perfect she had known since early childhood. At length there was a light, hurrying tread upon the stair; nearer and nearer it drew—and in another instant the door of Florence’s apartment was hastily unclosed, and Ida Hamilton stood before her! There was a quick burst of tears on the part of each; then Florence Hastings sprung forward and clasped her newly found friend to her heart, returning her caresses with impassioned fondness, and in tones that thrilled to the inmost soul of her companion, murmuring, “Ida—my own Ida! Darling, darling Ida!”

The Iceberg was irremediably thawed.

There is a cosy family party assembled in the well-lighted parlors of Mr. Gordon’s dwelling, in —— street. It is the anniversary of his wedding-day. Upon the festival of St. Valentine, exactly nine-and-forty years ago, (for Mr. Gordon has passed the allotted “three score and ten,”) as his wife, he brought to his then humble abode a lovely and sunny-souled maiden of eighteen, now metamorphosed into the gray-haired matron by his side, who has proved his genial partner through all life’s joys and sorrows—the still blithe and sweet-voiced Grandma Gordon. From time immemorial, the members of Mr. Gordon’s family, from far and near, have gathered together upon this especial occasion. His own immediate household had consisted originally of five sons and as many daughters; and though some of these now rested beneath the sod, in their place had arisen a numerous flock of grandchildren—and a prouder boast still, he had lived to pet, and I had almost said spoil, no less than two bright-eyed and most wonderful great-grandchildren—to wit, Master Benjamin Franklin Gordon, or little Bennie, as everybody calls him, a promising young gentleman of some three or four summers, and Helen Gordon Bond, a most precocious young lady, who is now gliding rapidly onward toward her second birthday. Both these important juveniles are present upon this particular occasion. Grandfather Gordon, himself a silvery-haired, benevolent-featured old man, (in appearance precisely such a grandsire as the genius of a Waldmuller would have delighted to immortalize upon canvas,) was seated in a capacious and well-cushioned arm-chair by the fire. Occupying with becoming dignity the post of honor upon his knee is little Helen, while Bennie Gordon has perched himself upon one arm of his grandfather’s chair, and is teasing him for the information whether the little toy-watch he holds in his hand—his first assumption of manliness—is wound up or wound down.

It will be, perhaps, proper to introduce the reader to a portion of the assembled family group. Yonder, upon the sofa, sit the two elder sons of Mr. Gordon, busily engaged in a discussion upon the merits of last year’s Art-Union exhibition. Alfred, the senior, is the genuine grandfather of little Bennie.

That lady, who is just about leaving her station at the piano, is the parent of little Helen. She is a sweet, fair creature, so childlike in appearance, that it is difficult to recognize her as a wife and mother. She has just been singing, “Be kind to the loved ones,” with a grace and feeling that touched all hearts.

Next we behold a group of some half a dozen little girls, huddled together in a corner, in most sociable proximity to one another. Katie Wilmot, at present the “leading member,” a rosy, chatty little curly-pate, is detailing most eloquently her experience of Santa Claus’s last donation visit, while the others are patiently waiting their turn to relate how lavishly he supplied their stockings.

Those two maidens of “sweet sixteen,” or thereabouts, seated upon the ottoman, with their arms very lovingly entwined round one another, are Mabel Wilmot and Fanny Gordon, light-hearted school-girls and affectionate cousins—inseparable companions whenever a happy chance throws them together. But, alas! their opportunities of intercourse have as yet been “few and far between,” for Mabel’s home is in the country, many miles distant. The cousins have recently, however, laid their plans for removing this obstacle to their intimacy. They talk of becoming voluntary old maids, and of coaxing grandfather to build for their sole occupation an “Old Maid’s Hall.” Mabel has repeatedly declared her determination never to be such a goose as to get married; while Fanny, in one of her frequent letters to Mabel, has written, “Is it not a glorious thing to be an old maid? And what further recommendation can a lady need in the eyes of society if it is known that she is an old maid!” It may be well if their plans are eventually put into execution, for rumor says, though Mabel Wilmot disclaims the assertion with a most indignant toss of her glossy ringlets, that a certain Mr. Merritt, the high-souled, noble-looking, and wealthy rector of B——, has lately, for the first time, been suspected of interested motives in his intercourse with a member of his flock; while the bright eyes and witching smile of Fanny Gordon seem to argue for the future a prospectus of hearts beguiled, one of which may eventually cause the overthrow of the projected building.

A youth of nineteen or so, who is at present busily engaged entertaining several younger cousins, is Mr. Harry Gordon, a theological student, with whom social qualities and professional abilities, will always be happily blended. He is amusing his juvenile companions with a game of his own invention—a sort of play upon names, of which the following may be taken as examples:

What well known scriptural name might a mother use in requesting her son to escort home two young lady visiters?—Jeroboam. (“Jerry, bow ’em!”)

If an old gentleman told his son to crowd into an already well-filled omnibus, the name of what conspicuous personage present would form the command?—Benjamin. (“Ben, jam in!”)

The names of what popular authors of Great Britain might a person, while gazing at a large bonfire, with propriety repeat?—Dickens, Howitt, Burns. (“Dickens! how it burns!”)

The second of these was received with especial applause—not forgetting to mention the brilliant sparkle of Grandfather Gordon’s eyes at this original mode of bringing his pet, Bennie, into notice; while the third particularly attracted the laughter and approval of a group around the centre-table, consisting of Mrs. Gordon, the mother of Harry, Amy Carter, her niece, and Mrs. Clinton, her sister. Amy is an orphan, and has been so from infancy. But the tenderness of her grand-parents, with whom she has always resided, has shielded her from the evils of orphanage. She is a blithe, happy-hearted girl of seventeen, the very soul of mirth and music. She is grandma’s especial darling; and the dear old lady never gazes into that lovely, sunny face, never hears that sweet voice warbling its merry carols, but she thinks of her own bright youth, and says, with complacent fondness of her treasured grandchild, “She is just what I was at her age.” It is Grandfather Gordon’s firmly expressed opinion that Amy, more than any other member of their household, resembles his wife as he first knew her. Cousin Harry calls his favorite Amy the Household Witch, because she has managed to wind herself so closely about the hearts of all her relatives, that every eye invariably brightens as her light footstep is heard approaching. But this evening Amy seems for once herself to have been bewitched, for she has found an absorbing object of interest in a spirited volume now lying open before her, entitled, “Greenwood Leaves,” by Grace Greenwood. Amy Carter has long felt an appreciation of the authoress, and to-night is not the first time that, with all the fervor of a young, warm, generous heart, she has wished her God speed in her journeys through Authorland. Mrs. Clinton, who sits close beside her, with one of Amy’s hands resting lovingly in hers, appears to be equally interested in a splendidly bound and illustrated volume of Mrs. Osgood’s poems. She has just finished reading to her sister, Mrs. Gordon, a brief essay upon the productions of her favorite poetess, cut and preserved from a popular newspaper, and from which the ensuing is an extract.

“The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables, but a spontaneous gushing forth of thoughts, fancies, and feelings, which fall naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the sense echoed in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions might be intelligibly written in the characters of music. In all her poems we find occasion to admire the author as well as the works. Her spontaneous and instinctive effusions appear in a higher degree than any others in our literature, to combine the rarest and highest capacities in art with the sincerest and deepest sentiments, and the noblest aspirations. They would convince us, if the beauty of her life were otherwise unknown, that Mrs. Osgood is one of the loveliest characters in the histories of literature or society.”

And it was pleasant to see what a beautiful glow of sympathy and enthusiasm illumined the countenance of the reader as she concluded that most happy and fitting tribute to genius.

Mrs. Clinton is the youngest child of Grandfather Gordon. When only eighteen, she became the wife of one to whom she was devotedly attached, and two years afterward bent wildly over the death-couch of her idolized husband. Ten years have passed since then, and time has softened the sorrow which at first seemed too grievous for human endurance. Though now past her thirtieth birth-day, Mrs. Clinton looks much younger. You would scarcely suppose her more than two-and-twenty; and though not what the world calls a beautiful woman, it would be difficult to deny that there is something striking and noble in her appearance. She is somewhat above the medium height, with a form of faultless symmetry, and a step and carriage, though stately, yet eminently graceful. The contour of her head is certainly superb, and its effect upon the observer greatly enhanced by the arrangement of her abundant soft, brown hair, which is always wound about it simply, and with a grace the more perfect, because, while perfectly natural, it is unconsciously artistic. But her features are decidedly irregular and unimpressive; and it is only when those large, gray eyes are lighted, as upon the present occasion, from within, when some inner chord is touched, and the usually pale cheek is flushed and animated with the fire of feeling, that you are ready to accord to her the power of fascination. But once meet that peculiarly soulful look, and it will reflect itself continually, and haunt you forever after. You will probably gaze frequently again upon the same immobile features, but expressionless they will seem never more. By those to whom she deigns to reveal herself, Mrs. Clinton is worshiped as the personification of all that is lovely and lovable and intellectual. And there are many also who have caught accidental glimpses of that beautiful, noble, and impassioned spirit, and who would give worlds for the slightest token that the deep interest with which she inspires them is returned. Mrs. Clinton has had many offers of marriage; she has turned coldly yet tearfully from the homage of many a true and manly, ay, and gifted heart; for though she has long since laid aside the weeds of widowhood, her soul is still arrayed in mourning-garb for the husband of her bright, fresh youth. She is one of those beings, few and rare, indeed, with whom, having once passionately loved and survived the object of their attachment, no compensation, however heart-offered, could induce one moment’s oblivion of the past, or the most remote thought of yielding to another that place in their holiest affections which has been occupied by the departed. Though shut out from a sphere of usefulness which she might truly have called her own, the years of Mrs. Clinton’s widowhood had not been inactive. As she recovered from the effects of that well-nigh overwhelming affliction, her little niece, Amy, was approaching the most interesting stage of childhood. Her beautiful, bright face, and the daily revealings of a mind unusually intelligent, together with the sweet orphan’s naturally winning and bewitching ways, won more and more upon the heart of her aunt. And so, when Amy Carter was nine years old, Mrs. Clinton begged that her niece might be altogether withdrawn from school, and that she might herself be allowed to superintend the little girl’s education. So from that time Amy dwelt beneath the spiritual dominion of her aunt; and never was pupil more docile, or preceptress kinder or more fondly beloved. And Amy’s devotion to Mrs. Clinton is still as ardent and enthusiastic as in the days of her childhood. Wherever the latter has stationed herself, you may be sure that the former is not very many paces distant. Mrs. Clinton sometimes laughingly, but lovingly, styles Amy her shadow; and her eyes are often suffused with happy tears at some unobtrusive mark of the young girl’s earnest affection.

But upon the foregoing imperfect daguerreotypes, gentle reader, I have already lingered longer than my time admits; for, after all, my principal object in asking you to bear me company within the precincts of this pleasant household, was, that we might inspect some of the Valentines in yonder daintily-wrought basket resting upon the table, beside which fair Amy Carter is seated.

(As a particular secret, dear reader, I will whisper to you that the authorship of most of these little friendly missives is ascribed to Mrs. Clinton.)

The first Valentine within our reach is addressed to Harry Gordon.

When on your downy couch you lie,

And thoughtful heave the pensive sigh,

Or muse on conquests—Cupid’s bow

Oft bent by thee—

Ere slumber comes—just then bestow

One thought on me.

And if your fancy can but paint

A modest maid, not quite a saint,

In stature small, in visage fair,

Mild and discreet,

’Tis she would free your mind from care

With whispers sweet.

Upon the reception of which, it may be as well to mention, our anticipated doctor of divinity had laid his hand most impressively upon his heart, in token of his appreciating divination of a passion so divine.

Next we have a Valentine upon the tiniest of all tiny sheets of gilt-edged note-paper. It is inscribed to little Helen Bond.

Little Helen—list awhile,

And I’ll strive to wake a smile

On thy pure and dimpled cheek,

As I tell thee of a freak

That thy dainty spirit played,

Dreaming not ’twould be betrayed.

Little one—when thou to-day,

Cradled in sweet slumber lay,

To a very distant goal,

Lo! thy truant spirit stole.

To my study, love, it came;

And I hope thou wilt not blame,

That with eager, wild delight,

Greeted I a guest so bright!

With a sweetly joyous shout,

First it gayly skipped about,

Chanting forth a song of glee,

That awhile it might be free!

Then it nestled at my side,

Welcomed there with love and pride,

When it touched my silent lute,

Asking why its chords were mute?

And with eyes upraised to mine,

Pleaded for a Valentine!

Little Helen—not in vain

Did thy spirit seek the strain;

Not in vain, love, did it stray

From its native haunts away;

For I roused my lyre again,

Singing to a soft refrain

Prayers and wishes, warm and fond,

For thy Future—Helen Bond!

And such prayers are and will be

Gushing from my soul for thee

Every day and every hour,

Rare and lovely little flower!

Long may they who guard thy bloom

Live thy life-path to illume;

And may hearts as true respond

E’er to thine, sweet Helen Bond!

Where thy fairy feet fall lightly

Ever may their eyes beam brightly,

And those voices meet thine own,

Cherishing its faintest tone.

So will Love and Happiness,

Spirits bright, that reign to bless,

O’er thee wave their magic wand,

Darling little Helen Bond!

Here are two Valentines written upon the same sheet of paper—not for economy’s sake, gentle reader, but to convey an idea that the parties addressed are as they profess to be—one in spirit. The first is inscribed to Mabel Wilmot, and the following is its language.

Mable, dear Mable! pray beware,

Or else you’ll fall into a snare;

Laid down, I’m very much afraid

For you—a volunteer—old-maid!

He waits but till you’re free from school,

To take you ’neath his lordly rule;

For then he hopes to hear you say,

You’ll “love and honor and obey!”

’Tis naught to you, though wealth and merit

Beyond a doubt he does inherit;

You’re bound to live and die a maid,

Demure, respectable and staid.

So, Mable, darling, do beware

Of that gay sportsman’s cunning snare,

And as your hand and heart’s his mark.

Just bid your heart emit the spark!

Upon the opposite page are traced the ensuing lines to Fanny Gordon.

Sweet Fanny! deep within my “heart of hearts,”

A true and holy sentiment hath birth,

Which there must ever dwell till life departs —

Respect and reverence for thy modest worth!

Like the dear violet, blooming in the shade,

Scarce daring e’en to court the sun’s soft rays,

Shrinking and trembling when by chance betrayed

To the wild ardor of some earnest gaze.

Thus art thou, Fanny! and thus will the light

Of thy fair spirit burst from its disguise

With sudden glory, and the vision bright

Shall thrill all hearts with love and glad surprise;

And startled souls shall thy bright soul allure

To kneel and worship at a shrine so pure!

You should have seen, dear reader, with what exuberance of glee Katie Wilmot received her Valentine, which is the one we are now about to unfold. You should have caught the sound of her merry, ringing laughter, and the gayly triumphant tone in which, holding her newly-gained treasure to view, she exclaimed, “Sister Mabel—Cousin Fanny, can you guess who this is for? Ah, you can’t guess—you wouldn’t dream of such a thing? It’s for me—for me!” Then you should have witnessed how joyously the little fairy clapped her tiny hands together, and the impromptu polka which she accomplished round the apartment after the following all-important little missive was read to her.

TO KATIE.

Within my heart, you darling elf!

I’ve caged your little frolic self,

There will I hold you tight and fast—

And so you see you’re caught at last;

While this resolve I’ve made sincerely,

To kiss and pet and love you dearly;

You need not struggle to get free,

You’re snugly locked—Love has the key;

And once within his power, you know,

He never lets a prisoner go!

You saucy witch! you need not pout,

And vow you’ll surely raise a route,

Unless within one minute more,

I summon Love to ope the door!

Now plead not with that coaxing smile,

Just to be free a little while;

You waste your cunning, for in vain

You strive to break Love’s silken chain.

Whene’er he plays the jailor’s part

He’s “up to” every dainty art,

And though you think he’ll let you off,

When well you know you’ll laugh and scoff

The moment when, on loosened pinions,

You wing away from his dominions;

From that wild dream you’ll soon awaken,

To learn you’re wofully mistaken;

Love never yet betrayed a trust,

So, for your comfort, stay you must!

Ah! by this time I see you’ve found

You’re really safely caught and bound;

So, having tamed you down in season,

I’m sure you soon will list to reason,

And cease for liberty to pine,

My true heart’s captive Valentine!

Yes, Katie Wilmot was very proud of that; and she might have been heard from time to time, through the evening, repeating with peculiar satisfaction what seemed to be her two favorite lines,

While this resolve I’ve made sincerely

To kiss and pet and love you dearly!

These three appropriate little verses, addressed to Amy Carter, next demand our attention.

The “Household Witch,” thy winning name,

Because o’er all around thee,

To weave Love’s magic spell the aim,

Which true as Truth has found thee!

Then as through future years thy smiles

Illume this favored dwelling,

All shadows by thy frolic wiles

And witchery dispelling.

By wile and smile in every niche,

All needless gloom suppressing,

Remaining yet the Household Witch,

Still prove—the Household Blessing!

Dear Amy Carter! The ardent, impulsive kiss which your lips imprinted upon that well-known handwriting, told how precious was this pleasant tribute; that you recognized and blessed the traces of your childhood’s loving friend, of your girlhood’s guardian angel!

One more poetical heart-effusion and our recording space is filled even to overflowing. It is inscribed to Mrs. Clinton.

Though I turn, I fly not,

I cannot depart;

I would try, but try not,

To release my heart;

And my hopes are dying,

While on dreams relying,

I am spelled by art.

Thus the bright snake coiling

’Neath the forest tree,

Wins the bird beguiling

To come down and see.

Like that bird the lover,

Round his fate will hover,

Till the blow is over,

And he sinks—like me!

Ah, Mrs. Clinton! when you read that token of a never-fading attachment, your sorrowing spirit murmured in tones of subdued melancholy, “For years he has followed me, and though I have never encouraged his attentions, it has seemed as if I could not be forgotten—as though he could not bear to give me up. Yet I can never be grateful for his love, I must only regret that it has been bestowed upon me. I can make him no return—for still with me

“Affection sheds its holiest light

Upon my husband’s tomb!”

And so with “tears, radiant emanations,” welling from the innermost depths of your soul, and glistening in your eyes, with intuitive delicacy, you placed that avowal of disappointed affection in your portfolio, deeming it there so safe from observation that not even Amy, your darling, would ever catch a glimpse of it. But, unfortunately, on the way to your own apartment, it escaped from its hiding-place, and was picked up upon the stair by one of your little nieces, who transferred it to the general Valentine-receptacle in the parlor. By and by you will doubtless ask yourself with regretful wonder, how it came there.

But the day is already too far spent to admit of a longer sojourn with the Gordons. And it is solely the fault of the recorder, gentle reader, if you are not able to bid them adieu with the firm conviction that theirs is one of those “homes of America” to whom Miss Bremer referred when she said so sweetly, “wherever there is a good husband and father, a true wife and mother, dutiful children, the spirit of freedom and peace and love, and that beautiful feeling of noble minds which makes them confer happiness on their fellow-creatures according to their gifts and wishes, there also would I fain be myself, to see, to enjoy, to shed tears of delight that paradise still is to be found on this poor earth.”

THE VALLEY OF SHADOW.

———

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

———

When daylight ends, where night begins,

(May Jesus save us from our sins!)

There lies a narrow, shadowy vale —

(Mark me, I but repeat a tale

Which once, I know not how, or when,

Came mystically within my ken:)

A dark, sepulchral, silent vale,

Lying beyond the ultimate pale

Of distant Time—beyond the din

Of human tongues—by which the Djin,

And Ghoul, and Afreet, hating light,

Come in the noiselessness of night

To chant unearthly notes and bars

To the unquiet, pensive stars —

To carol many a carping tune

In mockery of the mourning moon —

By which the jackal and the lynx

Make curious queries to the Sphynx,

Who never drops her stony eyes

From contemplation of the skies

To heed the rout, whose awful howls

Alarm the fiery-visioned owls,

That, at the decadence of day,

Flit round and round in search of prey.

Without a stream, without a tree,

The vale has been and still will be —

Though obelisks with many a trace

Of many an immemorial race,

With many a mighty pyramid

In which lost histories lie hid,

Rudely engraved on silent stone,

For countless centuries unknown,

Point, here, and there, and yon, to where

God and his angels dwell in air; —

And thistles rise and grow and bloom,

And cypresses, those trees of gloom,

Frown everywhere along the pale

Which is the entrance to the vale; —

But nothing—nothing moves within:

There is no tumult and no din: —

Shut out by hills that scarcely show

A rift of sky to those below,

The dwellers in this lonely spot

Rest even by memory forgot: —

Recumbent, in a sunless rest

They lie, with hands across their breast,

So motionless of hand or head

That he who gazed would deem them dead,

Or sleeping, when their toil was done,

Until the rising of the sun.

They have no mind, thus left alone;

Strike them; you will not hear a groan;

An icy torpor fills their veins;

They have no mortal cares, or pains,

Or sense, as we have; theirs is life,

If sleep be life, with nothing rife

Which we who love the setting sun

And crimson sky and crystal run,

And all things else that God has made —

We, who would moulder in the shade,

Can contemplate or understand

Like these inhabitants of the land,

These rigid and insensible blocks

Of clay, as cold of heart as rocks:

Still, so the legend sings, whose tune

Dropped, dew-like, from the tearful moon,

When sky and earth shall pass away,

When space becomes eternal day

The Dwellers of the Vale will rise

Beyond what once have been the skies,

Radiant, before immortal eyes,

To live and love in Paradise!

THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.

THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.

[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

———

BY C. F. ASHMEAD.

———

There is a game,

A frivolous and foolish play,

Wherewith we while away the day.

Byron’s Mazeppa.

The Lady Arabella H—— was the reigning belle and beauty of a court not excelled, in the long annals of its previous history, for accomplished and fascinating women. Many stars, of no little magnitude, sparkled in the regal diadem of female loveliness, but she outshone them all. In the graces of her person, in wit, in accomplishments, she appeared without a competitor—not to say without a rival. Her own sex reluctantly yielded the palm to her indisputable pretensions, and the other proudly crowned her with its leaves. She was the Venus of the day.

Countless suitors knelt at her feet—from the gay nobleman to the grave statesman—for in the versatility of her attractions lay some charm for all. But the lady was strangely cold to the accents of love. One gallant after another retired with his suit rejected, and despair in his heart: and it might have been believed that the exquisite temple of her form enshrined a soul callous to the passion it was so peculiarly fitted to inspire.

A brilliant ball was in progress. It was graced by the presence of royalty, and the arrangements and decorations were worthy of the distinguished visiters. Beauty and fashion, and taste, conspired to lend a magic to the festive scene. Conspicuous among the admired of her sex shone the graceful figure of Lady Arabella H. Her loveliness on this evening surpassed itself: and there was a languishing tenderness in her eyes that bespoke a softer mood than her wont, and lent hope once more to her despairing suitors. With renewed energy, these crowded around her to seek her smiles, while new aspirants for her gracious favor added the meed of their respective homage. One gallant alone remained aloof from the idol of universal worship. This was the young Lord R—, remarkable for his handsome person, his general accomplishments, and more than all, his noble soul. It was but recently that he had appeared at court after an absence abroad. On his first return, he had seemed to share in the fascination caused by the charms of the Lady Arabella. But by degrees, he had shunned her society: and on this evening, he evidently avoided passing within the charmed circle of her blandishments. His very glances appeared schooled to prevent their resting on her, as he stood dejectedly within the door, with his eyes cast upon the ground.

“What aileth thee, my lord, that thou holdest thyself to-night beyond the attraction of yonder dazzling orb?” inquired Sir Charles G—, advancing close beside him.

“I may not approach without being singed by its fire, from which I have already suffered more than enough for my happiness.”

“By my troth, then, the star is resolved to approach thee: for lo! the lady nears us now, and takes her station not far from thy side, attended by some of her satellites.”

Lord R. did not trust himself with a single glance to ascertain the correctness of the assertion: but turned his face toward the ante-room.

“Thou art too diffident of thyself,” continued Sir Charles. “Attack the peace of the haughty belle even as she hath thine, and she will surrender her hand at thy discretion.”

“You flatter, my friend. How dare I to entertain hope, when so many have been rejected by her with less than indifference? Nay, there remains no alternative for my happiness save to shun her altogether.”

A stifled sigh here arrested the attention of the speakers, and the fair being who was the subject of their remarks passed within the door-way in which they stood. She leaned on the arm of a young nobleman who regarded her with looks of anxiety. A sudden indisposition had that instant seized her, and she was retiring to seek her recovery apart from the crowd.

“Leave me here alone,” said she to her companion, when they had reached the recess of a window in the ante-room. “It is but a slight faintness, and I shall be myself again presently.”

The gallant obeyed, and the lady occupied the ante-room in solitude.

Giving way to a burst of tears, she murmured, “Alas! he whom alone I love of all that seek my hand hath declared that he will in future shun me altogether; and yet the very declaration implies that he is not indifferent to me. Untoward fate! how hast thou permitted a misapprehension so cruel?——”

A succession of sobs interrupted her voice, and her soliloquy sunk into inaudible words. But her unhappy train of thought continued, and she remained for a considerable time with her emotion deepening rather than diminishing.

At length, by an effort, she recovered in some measure her self-possession. The surprise her absence from the dancers would occasion now suggested itself to her mind, and she had arisen for the purpose of rejoining them, when two persons entered the ante-room.

The projection of the window hid her from their observation: and it was fortunate for her that this was the case; for, on recognizing in one of the intruders the graceful figure and handsome countenance of Lord R., her former emotion returned with increased violence. Smothering her sensations to prevent her attracting their attention, until the effort almost choked her, she sank back again upon her seat, where the damask window-curtains afforded her an effectual screen from discovery.

Entirely unconscious of her presence, the two gallants drew a small side-table near the window, and sat down to a game of draughts.

The gentleman who accompanied Lord R. was the same with whom he had recently been conversing, and he had, with the charitable design of diverting his friend’s melancholy mood, suggested a trial against himself of the noted skill of Lord R. at the game in question—he being himself also a scientific and accomplished player.

They went through five or six successive games, and Lord R. was every time the winner.

As they played, the Lady Arabella, whose situation gave her an opportunity of viewing the board, though, as has been said, it was such as to prevent her being herself observed, gradually became interested in the moves, enlisting all her sympathies on the side of the successful combatant.

“Conquered completely,” said Sir Charles at length, pushing back the board and rising from the table. “You are more than a match for me, and yet I have ever been counted no mean player.”

“I have never met any one able to beat me since the first dozen games I played as a tyro,” replied Lord R., as he followed the example of the other in leaving the table, and linking his arm within that of his friend, they made their exit from the apartment.

It was not until some little time after their departure that our heroine arose from the seat she occupied. But when she did so, it would have seemed, from her countenance, that some bright and sanguine idea had struck her, possessing the power to dispel her previous desponding state of mind.

When she again appeared in the ball-room, Lord R. had quitted the scene. But her hope, whatever it was, evidently extended beyond the present into the future: and the reader, who is acquainted with her sentiments, may augur, from the beaming smiles which throughout the remainder of the evening she shed around her—too bright to be the result of aught else than heartfelt confidence and joy—that she had discovered some delicate mode of communicating her preference for him whose love for her, the words she had so lately heard from his own lips, left her no room to doubt.

The Lady Arabella suddenly grew extraordinarily partial to a pleasing, though not heretofore engrossing amusement. Hoyle had not at that day been published; but practice was her teacher, and she became an astonishing adept at Draughts. A passion emanating from so admired a source soon spread throughout the court circle, until checker-boards took the place of dancing and music, and conversation, in every festive concourse. For the remainder of the season, nothing else was in vogue. The ball-room continued empty, the drama remained unnoticed, and the worshipers at the shrine of Pleasure sought her only at the table of the fashionable game. The lady who was skillful at draughts, was deemed something more worthy to aspire to distant rivalry with the Lady Arabella, and the man who excelled at the same, was thought more fitting to become, however unsuccessfully, her suitor.

The excitement in the metropolis, caused by the retirement of lords and ladies to their country residences, was at its height. The atmosphere exhaled the balmy softness and fragrancy of an English June; and a succession of delicious days witnessed the arrival of a party of the first noblemen of the realm at the Castle of ——.

This castle was beautifully situated on the margin of a winding lake, surrounded by the most bewitching and graceful mountain scenery. Art, moreover, lent its aid to increase the attractions of the spot, and gardens, groves, grottos, arbors, and fountains, appeared at every turn in rich and tasteful variety. It was a residence worthy of a divinity. And such, indeed, Fortune had placed in it, for the magnificent domain was the inheritance of the father of the Lady Arabella, while his daughter was the goddess of the place.

It was a singular mandate which here congregated around her the chivalry of the day. She had caused it to be known that she desired her suitors, one and all, to meet her at this particular crisis, in trial of their skill against her own, at the late fashionable game of draughts. He who should prove her successful antagonist, the proclamation declared, was to take his revenge in claiming her hand. Three months had been given them for practice, and the time had at length expired. The aspirants day by day were arriving in numbers, and the castle became filled with guests.

England might well have been proud of the flower of her manhood, as they showed on this occasion. Stately and stalwort forms, and haughty brows, and eyes of intellectual fire, were to be seen among the motley but graceful crowd.

At length, the day which limited any further arrivals dawned. It was the same that was to decide the fate of those visiters already assembled.

At an early hour, clad in a dress of simple white, with a bodice of blue satin, the Lady Arabella descended among her palpitating guests.

“I am ready, gentlemen,” said she, with one of her radiant smiles. “I will retire to the adjoining colonnade, and let him who wishes to make the first trial join me there. When a single game with him is over, another can take his place. There is but one suggestion I would make,” she added, “which is, that those who are deemed the most skillful players remain until the last.” So saying, she turned and departed.

The colonnade which the Lady Arabella had thus dedicated to the singular contest, was situated so as to receive the breeze from the neighboring lake. A fountain of pure water, placed near, likewise contributed to refresh the atmosphere, while the picturesque mountain scenery in the distance delighted the eye, and the songs of birds in an adjoining grove made melody to the ear.

After a few moments’ consultation among her suitors, our heroine was speedily followed into this pleasing retreat, first by one and then by another in rapid succession. The only interruption the routine experienced was that caused by the necessity of her taking some refreshment. In this manner, the day wore away, and each of her antagonists retired in turn, crest-fallen and vanquished.

It was almost twilight, and there now remained but one gallant to be tested. He had unanimously been voted the best player present; and had therefore, according to the Lady Arabella’s suggestion, been preceded by all his companions. As he entered the colonnade with an embarrassed, though graceful step, the lady blushed, and her eyes grew soft and tender. Intent upon the great stake before him, these indications were lost upon the nobleman, who took his seat at the board. In fact, he dare scarcely trust himself with more than a glance at the fair being opposite him, lest the dazzling vision should disarm his skill.

But for the first time throughout the day, the gentle combatant played carelessly. Her eyes were riveted upon the countenance of her opponent, rather than as previously, fixed upon the board. Her moves seemed made without foresight, resembling those of a beginner more than an adept, and she failed to crown a single king. In a word, the meanest antagonist might have won the game at issue, and in a quarter of an hour her opponent gained an easy victory.

“Dare I,” asked he—gathering some suspicion of a preference on her part, which alone could have led to this result, after the skill she had previously manifested towards his rivals—“dare I presume to claim the rich reward?”

His voice grew lower—he drew his chair to her side, and ventured to raise his eyes to her countenance.

It beamed sweet affection; and as she extended her hand to meet his, the nobleman grasped the treasure as one which that gesture made willingly and confidingly his own.

The victorious gallant was Lord R., and ere another winter, the Lady Arabella H—— became his bride. Draughts went out of fashion in the beau monde, but, during their hours of privacy, the game continued, throughout their life-time, a favorite recreation of the happy pair whom it was instrumental in bringing to a blissful union.

THE “STILL SMALL VOICE.”

———

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

———

The stars were weary—all the summer night

They held high revelry through heaven’s blue halls,

And danced along their wanton wanderings

To the weird chiming of the “Sister Seven,”

Now, slowly paling like young beauty’s cheek

Returning from the midnight festival,

Their glances faded, lest they should behold

The gentle dalliance of the earth and sky.

The silver lute of the young morning star

Thrilled faintly into silence, as the dawn

With red lip kissed the mountain’s snowy brow,

Which, bathed in softest slumber, blushed to own

The gentle pressure. As the waves of light

Broke o’er the margin of a darkened world,

In golden ripples, faintly they revealed

Bright uplands, where the spirit of the mist

Hung low upon the bosom of the hills,

And wept soft dewy tears, while o’er their crests

Swept her long tresses of the wreathing cloud,

With white peaks flashing through their tangled curls,

Like jewels crushed in the disheveled hair

Of maniac beauty, in some gentle hour

Of quiet sadness; and more faintly still,

Gleamed through the shadows at the mountain’s base,

Where smiling valleys dimpled Nature’s cheek,

And laughing meadows cradled singing streams.

On Horeb’s mount a holy man of God

Stood forth to view the fragrant strife of morn,

Sunshine with shadow—rosy day with night —

And sleeping Death with glory-wakened Life.

A close dark mantle wrapped his agéd form,

His brow uncovered, though a snowy lock,

Stirred by the breeze of morning, waved above

Its frozen marble; while the gathered shades

Of many years hung, like a coronal

Of withered leaves, around it—and his eyes,

Strange, deep, and fathomless, gleamed forth beneath

Its deadly whiteness, like two liquid flames.

From the recesses of a marble tomb.

Mystic and subtle as some charmed perfume,

A sense of pleasure thrilled upon his heart,

As quick, faint pulses of the scented breeze

Brought balmy odors from the dewy flowers,

Waved the plumed monarchs of the forest proud,

And wafted on the islets of the cloud

Through liquid sapphire, where they seemed to float

Softly and dreamily, and full of love.

He bowed and worshiped—and “the Lord passed by.”

The sky was changed—and hoarsely, from afar,

A sound of waters, and of mingled winds,

Through forests raging, crept upon the ear;

And, driving o’er the azure fields of heaven,

Cloud after cloud came rolling swiftly on,

Black Pelion upon gloomy Ossa piled.

Like giant towers they gather, and from point

To point along their frowning battlements

Red signal-fires are flashing far and free.

Hark! the deep watchword of the rushing storm!

The thunder-spirit calls his squadrons dark,

Far through the trackless void of scowling space,

And lightning rends the cloudy canopy,

As prophet’s vision tears aside the veil

That shadows o’er the future, and beholds

Beyond unfolded naught but dim, and wild,

And fearful mystery. Then the sullen roar

Of elemental conflict crashing fell —

A mingled din of crushing thunderbolts,

And sadly moaning winds, and heavy drops

Of rain, as though the demons of the storm

Wept o’er the ruin which their fury wrought.

’Twas past—and o’er the eastern mountains rolled

The cloudy banners, and the chariot wheels

Of burning levin—by the tempest led,

(As some great conqueror from battle won,)

The serried hosts of falling waters passed

Beneath the rainbow’s bright triumphal arch;

And Nature shouted as the wing of peace

Fell softly o’er the wild and wasted track

Of elemental war. “The Lord was not”

Amid the rushing armies of the storm,

Its fierceness was the shadow of his frown,

Deep-veiled, yet dark, and terribly sublime;

And, as upon its far retiring verge,

The glorious rainbow brightened, ’twas a dim

And faint reflection of His mercy’s smile!

Again the spirit of a fearful change

Came stealing o’er the blue and tranquil heaven —

A hollow, rushing murmur filled the air,

And the low sobbing of the rising wind

Grew deeper, till in howling gusts it whirled

Dark wreaths of earthy fragments to the sky,

As though the maddened gnomes were hurling death

Against the vapory armaments of air;

And lurid flames with blue and ghastly glare

Gleamed o’er the face of Nature till it blanched,

As though the warning of the last dread trump

Had smote her guilt upon a coward heart.

The earthquake rising from his burning lair,

Deep in the bosom of a rock-ribbed world,

Shook everlasting hills from out his path,

Like a roused lion flinging from his mane

The dewy drops of morning. At his tread

The pale earth trembled, and anon there came

A crushing down of rocky battlements,

Which, for a moment, high and quivering hung,

On cloud-crowned pinnacles, then thundering fell

Far down the dark, immeasurable void

Which yawned beneath them like the livid lips

Of fierce, insatiate hell. He tore away

The iron nerves from that strong mountain’s heart,

As though the destiny of a conqueror lay

Deep hid within it, and the hour was come

When he must march to seek it, in a last

And wild death-revel. As this passed away,

In racking throes, which might have seemed the strong

Convulsive shudder of dissolving worlds,

The earth moaned feebly, as a dying child

Will murmur faintly in its fever-dream —

Then darkness gathered round it, like the deep,

Black jaws of cold annihilation.

It came—it vanished—and “the Lord was not”

Throned high upon the earthquake’s blasting rage;

But, at the echo of His chariot wheels,

The iron land tossed like the ocean waves,

And mountains dashed aloft their crested heads

As surging billows flout a stormy sky.

The air was stagnant, cold, and dark, and dull,

Heavy as morn to aching senses, when

Some dreamer wakes to feel a load of care

Pressed back upon his memory, and hastes

To close his eyes, that he may cast it off,

And dream once more of happiness and hope.

Like molten lead along the sullen sky,

Gray clouds hung drooping, for the summer wind

Seemed frozen, and its restless wing was dead.

Strong, swift, and chainless as some maddening thought,

There came the spirit of a change, which seemed

To wave aloft the banner and the sword

Of a destroying angel—withering winds

Rose, winged with lightning, and the brazen sky

Was one red desert, peopled with a host

Of burning shadows, lurid shapes of hell,

That wildly mingled with the falling stars,

And whirled in flaming chaos up to heaven!

Clouds heated to a whiteness writhed and tossed

Along the horizon’s verge of liquid fire,

And, from their snowy foldings rent and torn,

Gushed forth a stream of meteors, like deep gouts

Of crimson blood from Beauty’s mangled bosom.

Bright glowed the valleys, and the eternal hills

Seemed towering to the brassy vault of heaven

In gorgeous pyramids of living flame —

A mighty holocaust, and offered high

On the red altars of a crumbling world

To some fierce god of elemental fire.

It flamed—it faded—but “the Lord was not”

Upon the burning pinions of its strength;

His glance, which withers dynasties and thrones —

His passing breath, where hangs the fate of kings

And mighty nations, kindled up the sky,

And lightened o’er a terror-stricken world.

Noontide poured down upon the sleeping earth

And dreaming waves a long and fervid kiss

Of panting passion, and the Orient’s heart

Glowed in its languid atmosphere of love.

The storm, the earthquake, and the flashing fire.

Had left it placid as the orbéd brow

Of slumbering Beauty—through the fragrant air

There came no sounding sweep of angel wings,

No frowning fury rushing on to tread

The wrathful wine-press of avenging God;

But the rich music of a “still, small voice,”

From the far arches of the vaulted sky

Stole slowly earthward, and as though the breath

Of God were sweeping o’er the Æolian line

Of universal being, till it thrilled

A new creation into loving life,

Hushed was the chiming of each starry sphere,

The universe of harmony was dumb,

For in the music of that “still small voice,”

Was blent the omnipresence of the Lord.

The prophet shrouded up his lofty brow

Deep in his mantle, and his soul grew still

With silent worship, as his thirsting heart

Drank the rich murmur of that mystic tone

Which told the mighty presence of his God!

The true existence of a gifted soul

Is like that prophet’s vision, and it seems

A dread reality, to which his trance

Was but the faint foreshadowing. The hues

Of morning sleep upon enchanted earth

When the young soul exulting presses on

To chase the pleasures of its opening day.

Its dreams are fairy cloudlets, flushed with hope,

Wrought into beauty by the singing wind,

Which bears them on its wing so joyously;

While the glad revel of its morning song

Fills the blue arches of its summer heaven.