The writer of these Sketches endeavors to give entire in each number, some distinct portion of the history of the Barbary States; this however is in some cases impracticable, either from want of time on his part, or from want of place in the sheets of the Messenger. The present number will contain merely the conclusion of the portion, commenced in the last, so that the next, may embrace the whole of the war between France and Algiers.

In a country where the establishment of innocence or guilt depends much less on the weight and character of evidence, than on the interests or influence of those possessing power, and where punishment is entirely disproportioned to offence, no unfavorable inference could be fairly drawn from the flight of the accused. The D'Ghies family had been uniformly the friends of the Americans, and Hassuna although suspected of too much devotion to the interests of France, upon the whole bore a fair character, and was on terms of social intimacy with the family of Mr. Coxe. The charge against him was of a strange nature, and one not likely to be substantiated; he protested that he was innocent of all improper conduct with regard to the unfortunate traveller, that the British Consul was anxious to procure his destruction from motives of personal enmity, and that his only desire was to go to England where he could easily clear himself from all imputations. Nor could any feelings of peculiar delicacy towards the British Consul be expected to influence Mr. Coxe on this occasion. The efforts made by Warrington in 1818 to rescue Morat Rais, after the attack on the American Consul, have been already noticed; he had also in 1828 endeavored, though ineffectually, to protect Dr. Sherry an Englishman who had circulated a story that the frigate Philadelphia was burnt by Maltese hired for the purpose by the Americans; and he had on various other occasions advanced pretensions to superiority over the Consul of the United States, which were unfounded and insulting.

Under these circumstances, Mr. Coxe resolved to protect the fugitive minister, and he therefore immediately wrote a letter to the Pasha, in which he requested a Teskera or written assurance under the seal of the State, that no attempt would be made to molest Hassuna; stating at the same time, that he only required what was frequently granted to the other Consuls. No answer having been made to this request, it was repeated on the 7th of August. On the 9th the Pasha replied by letter that he could not grant the warrant for Hassuna's safety, as the affair was one of great importance between himself and the British Government, and in which the American Consul was in no wise concerned; he added that if Mr. Coxe could obtain Warrington's permission in writing to interfere in the case and deposite it with him, he would make no farther objection, and that the American Consul "might however keep Hassuna in his house until the affair should be decided."

Mr. Coxe was naturally indignant at the terms of this letter, by which his exercise of a right allowed to other Consuls, was made to depend upon the will of the representative of Great Britain; and the more so as he had reason to suspect, that it had been dictated by Warrington himself. To keep Hassuna in his house until the affair was decided, would be merely to act as his jailer until the hour of his execution; for the Pasha it was well known would not scruple to declare him guilty of theft or murder if the British Consul should require it, and it would be scarcely reconcileable either with principle or usage, to continue to protect a man, after his conviction of such crimes according to the forms of law of the country.

Fortunately at this moment the American sloop of war Fairfield had just entered the harbor of Tripoli, and her commander Captain Parker, after examining the circumstances of the case as far as known, agreed to receive Hassuna on board his ship, and to conduct him to some place from which he could with safety proceed to England. Being anxious however to secure themselves from charges of improper conduct on the part of the Government, the plan was privately intimated to Yusuf, and they were not disappointed in their expectations, that he would rejoice at being thus delivered from the difficulty. The guards were indeed doubled on that night, and they patroled the streets leading from the American Consulate to the harbor, but this was only intended to deceive Warrington; for Hassuna was safely conducted on board the Fairfield, in the dress of a Christian, without any interruption from the numerous parties of soldiers whom they met on the way.

When Hassuna's evasion was known in Tripoli, the utmost joy was manifested by the inhabitants, and he received on board the Fairfield the visits of Hadji Massen and of many other principal persons of the city, who congratulated him openly on his escape from the vengeance of the British Consul. The Fairfield remained in Tripoli until the 14th of August, during which period every attention was received by her officers from the Pasha and his Court; she then sailed for Tunis, and from that place to Port Mahon, where Hassuna left her; but instead of proceeding to England as he had declared to be his intention, he went by way of Spain to France in which country he has since resided.

On the 10th of August Mr. Warrington addressed a most angry epistle to the American Consul, in which after asserting that D'Ghies had been "proved guilty of fraud and theft and suspected of murder," and taking it "for granted that the Commander of the Fairfield must be perfectly well acquainted with the delinquency of the fugitive," he requested that his letter should be shown to Captain Parker; declaring in conclusion that should the criminal escape from justice the whole responsibility would rest upon Mr. Coxe, and the case be submitted to the American Government. Mr. Coxe replied on the 11th that he had yet to learn how and when the guilt of Hassuna had been established; and that although he deeply lamented the fate of Major Laing, yet his feelings should not prevent him from maintaining the honor of his flag, nor induce him to submit to any dictation. On receipt of this answer Col. Warrington entered a protest in the name of his Government against Mr. Coxe's interference in the affair; the Pasha also addressed a letter on the 12th to the American Consul, in which he declared that person answerable for all the consequences of Hassuna's departure, and expressed his resolution to complain to the Government of the United States on the subject. This letter although bearing the seal of the Pasha, was written in Italian in the hand of the Chancellor of the British Consulate, and delivered by Vanbreugel the Consul of the Netherlands who was known to be devoted to the service of Warrington. These circumstances rendered it extremely probable that the letter was drawn up by the British Consul and merely sealed by Yusuf as a peace offering, particularly as the British flag was again displayed on the following day in token of reconciliation. Under this impression Mr. Coxe replied on the 14th, that so far from fearing inquiries as to his conduct, he had already submitted the circumstances to the consideration of his Government, not doubting that it would approve a course by which the Pasha of Tripoli "had been indirectly saved from great trouble and uneasiness." Here the American Consul's agency in the affair terminated; a few days after Yusuf at a private audience, expressed the most friendly feelings to Mr. Coxe, and hinted his satisfaction at having been thus happily extricated from so disagreeable a situation.

Meanwhile Mohammed D'Ghies remained in the house of Baron Rousseau. On the 12th of August Colonel Warrington accompanied by some other Consuls, made a formal demand on the Baron for the delivery of Major Laing's papers, exhibiting the deposition of D'Ghies in support of his proceedings. Rousseau appeared to be highly indignant at this demand, and Mohammed on seeing the declaration which was said to have been made by him, denied all knowledge of it; having been assured however that no injury would be done to him, he left his asylum and in the presence of the Pasha and the greater part of the Consular corps, he repeated the assertion first made to the Bey, declaring at the same time that his subsequent denial had been extorted from him by the French Consul, who had threatened otherwise to expel him from his house. Baron Rousseau upon this struck his flag, and immediately embarked with his whole family for France, without deigning to make any reply to the accusations preferred against him; his departure while the affair was undetermined, and he had nothing to fear but exposure, was certainly not calculated to produce an impression in his favor.

Soon after the French Consul had quitted Tripoli, the persons whom the Pasha had summoned from the South arrived, and were examined in the presence of the British and other Consuls. It would be unfair to condemn any man on the testimony of Moors and Arabs, as those people appear to be morally incapable of giving a correct account; particularly too when as in this case the examination was exclusively conducted by those who were opposed to the accused. From the accounts of Col. Warrington, it appears to have been clearly established by their examinations, that the papers of Major Laing were received by Hassuna about the spring of 1828; of their having been delivered by him to the French Consul no direct evidence has been adduced besides the declaration of Mohammed D'Ghies. Many collateral circumstances however united to confirm this statement, and even Mr. Coxe notwithstanding all the prepossessions which he may be supposed to have entertained in favor of Hassuna and against Colonel Warrington, admitted to the latter on the 20th of November 1829, his conviction that the communications of the unfortunate traveller had been thus disposed of.

This affair excited much attention in Europe when the circumstances became known there. The British Ambassador at Paris was instructed by his Government, to demand from that of France, explanations with regard to the conduct of its Representative in Tripoli. A commission was accordingly instituted at Paris, which after interrogating Rousseau and examining the proofs presented, declared the charge against him to be wholly without foundation, and that against Hassuna D'Ghies to be unsupported by sufficient evidence. The Government of Great Britain appears to have been satisfied with this decision; the measures adopted by France in consequence of it will be hereafter related. The London Quarterly Review however, in which several articles relative to Laing had already appeared, protested against the report of the commission; the number of that periodical for March 1830, contains a statement of the circumstances which occurred in Tripoli so partial, so unjust, and accompanied with such illiberal remarks with regard to Mr. Coxe, that some notice of it seems here to be necessary.

From the minuteness with which many of the events are detailed in this Review, and the apparent precision as to dates, it is probable that the materials were furnished by Colonel Warrington himself: yet the statement is defective with regard to several important particulars; facts with which the British Consul was undoubtedly acquainted, and which might have given a different color to the case, are omitted; and there are errors calculated to lessen confidence in accounts not confirmed by other testimony than the assertion of the Reviewer. One of these errors is remarkable, and it is not easy to conceive that it arose from accident. In the Review it is said that the Pasha made his declaration respecting the receipt of the papers by Hassuna and their delivery to the French Consul, on the 5th of August; that in consequence of this, D'Ghies had taken refuge in the American Consulate on the 9th, and had been transferred on the same night to the Fairfield, which sailed the day after. Thus Mr. Coxe is represented as having acted with so much haste, that it was impossible for the Pasha or Colonel Warrington to explain the motives of their desire to arrest Hassuna, or to take any measures for proving his guilt until he was beyond their reach. Now from the official documents of the American Consulate, it appears that D'Ghies sought an asylum there on the 20th of July, that he was placed on board ship on the 9th of August, and that the Fairfield remained in the harbor until the 14th; he therefore passed nearly three weeks in the house of Mr. Coxe, during which the Pasha was twice requested to give an assurance for his safety such as had been often granted in similar cases to Consuls of other Powers; he was not placed on board the Fairfield until an invasion of the Consular dwelling was reasonably apprehended, and he continued in the port five days afterwards on board that ship. These circumstances must have been known to the person who furnished the materials for the article, and should in honor have been stated correctly.

The motives assigned in the Review for Hassuna's intercepting the papers, are that he had arranged some plan either for destroying Major Laing, or for extorting money from his friends in order to insure his safe return; that this plan had been discovered by the traveller, and that D'Ghies, learning that his schemes had been thus penetrated by the person who was their principal object, had suppressed the communications in order to prevent the exposure of his villainy. This supposition appears to be founded chiefly, if not entirely, on a passage in one of the letters received from Laing, intimating the discovery of some treachery on the part of those about him; the charge that Hassuna had been accessory to the murder of the traveller, is to be attributed only to the enmity of Warrington, as nothing has been elicited in any way calculated to confirm it. With regard to the French Consul's share in the affair, the Reviewer after citing some plausible reasons for believing him to have been implicated, and many which are utterly futile, seems to consider that he may have been induced to such dishonorable conduct purely from desire to obtain distinction by appropriating to himself in some way, the results of Laing's expedition. The grounds for this opinion are that Rousseau had for some time previous, been engaged in researches concerning the interior of Africa, upon which subject he not only corresponded with scientific societies in France, but also conducted a journal in Tripoli.

The Reviewer however in all these accounts and conjectures, is careful to forget that Hassuna was the Prime Minister of Tripoli, that political reasons may have impelled him to prevent the delivery of the papers, and that he may have acted in the whole affair conformably with the usages not only of Tripoli, but of almost every Government in Europe. A British officer engaged in exploring the interior of Africa, may well have been the object of suspicion at Tripoli. Has scientific research been even ostensibly the only motive for such expeditions? Would Major Laing have been permitted to proceed under this pretext through certain parts of Russia? Would a French or Russian officer until lately have been allowed to visit British India? The Tripoline Government did not dare refuse a passage to the English traveller through its dominions; his actions were doubtless observed, and it was proper that they should have been; his letters may have been opened, may have been found to contain matter the communication of which would be dangerous to the state, may have been in consequence destroyed, may have been even delivered to a Consul of another Power. Such things are constantly done in St. Petersburg, in Vienna, in Paris, and in many other places, and although they cannot be defended, yet it is scarcely fair to brand the African Minister with infamy for that which is daily practised by Metternich, Nesselrode and Thiers.

A PÆAN.

How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?
Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep!—oh! to dishonor
Her beauty with a tear!
They loved her for her wealth—
And they hated her for her pride—
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her—that she died.
They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak—
That I should not sing at all—
Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully—so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride.
Of the dead—dead—who lies
All motionless,
With the death upon her eyes,
And the life upon each tress.
In June she died—in June
Of life—beloved, and fair;
But she did not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.
From more than fiends on earth,
Helen, thy soul is riven,
To join the all-hallowed mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven—
Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a Pæan of old days.

E. A. P.

CHARLOT TAYON.

It is curious to speculate on the infinite variety of causes which have influence in the formation of character; on the numerous diversities which are found under different circumstances; and the multiplicity of qualities, which, in their various combinations, make up each whole. What any man might have become under different training, or with different fortunes, it is vain even to conjecture. Yet we cannot refrain from speculating on the change which circumstances might have made in the characters and destinies of many, who "crawl from the cradle to the grave" unregarded and unknown.

Poor old Charlot Tayon! I have often puzzled myself to tell to what class of men he belonged by nature. Illiterate, uncultivated, ignorant, bred up on the outermost verge of civilized life, and spending all the prime of youth and manhood far beyond it, it was hard to tell whether this rude training had encouraged or retarded the growth of those qualities which made him in my eyes a remarkable man.

A native of upper Louisiana, he had entered, in early youth, into the service of the king of Spain as a private soldier. His corps was one of those whose duties condemned them to pass their days in the wild prairies, which, extending from the neighborhood of the Mississippi to the Rio del Norte, serve rather as the range than the habitation of small but numerous bands of Indians. Such a life is of course a life of toil, hardship, and danger. The qualities which fit a man to encounter these, are, under other circumstances, rewarded by fame. Even in scenes so remote, they do not always fail of a reward, which to him who receives it seems like fame. His few companions are his world, and their applause is to him the applause of the world. He perils every thing to win it, and, having fought his way to the head of a company of rangers, is as proud, and with good reason, as Wellington himself of all his honors, purchased at less expense of hardship or danger. It is thus that I account for the unequalled pride of this poor old man, associated as it was in his uncultivated mind with all that lofty courtesy which so surely accompanies a just sense of unquestioned and unquestionable merit.

I have said that he began life as a common soldier. A campaign of hard service was rewarded by the rank of fourth corporal. Another gave him the third place among these humble but important officers. In eight years he rose, step by step, and year by year, to the rank of first sergeant. Three more placed him, by the like regular gradations, at the head of his company.

As this was an independent corps, serving at a distance from the settlements, and only returning to them at long intervals, his station was one of great responsibility. This he assumed boldly, and exercised freely. Incapable of fear, he was not easily withheld from danger by a distant authority, and, relying on the brave man's maxim, "that success in war justifies a breach of orders," he made little scruple of disregarding his, whenever an opportunity of striking a blow presented itself. On some such occasion he incurred the displeasure of his immediate superior, the commandant at St. Charles. To this worthy, the success which exposed the impolicy of his own cautious prudence, was by no means a justification for disobedience. He accordingly recalled Tayon, imprisoned him, and sent him in chains to New Orleans.

Here the history of his imputed offence was so creditable to him, and the bearing of the rude soldier so forcibly struck the intendant, that his persecutor was deposed, and the prisoner returned in triumph, bearing with him a commission as commandant of the post.

This was, in his estimation, the acmé of greatness to a subject. Of the unapproachable majesty of the "King his master," as he delighted to call him, he might have formed some such conception as we have of angelic natures. But among mere men of common mould, he had seen nothing, until his forced journey to New Orleans, and had perhaps never imagined any thing above the dignity that encircled the commandant at St. Charles.

There is nothing strange in this. An officer at once judicial and executive, supreme in both capacities, always acting in person, and enforcing his authority by the summary processes of despotism, is an awful personage in his province. Though but a king of Liliput, he is a king to Liliputians, and especially to himself. Such was Charlot Tayon in his own estimation; he truly "bore him like a king," and when the throne of his power was removed from under him, he lost nothing of majesty in his fall. He was neither Dionysius at Corinth, nor Bonaparte at St. Helena. He was neither familiar, nor peevish, nor querulous, but sat himself down, in quiet poverty, in a cottage on the edge of the village over which he had reigned.

I saw him but seldom, but always delighted to converse with him. I found him uniformly affable, courteous and communicative. Though too self-respectful to talk gratuitously about himself, a little address alone was necessary to make him do so. He spoke not a word of English, but though illiterate, (for he could not read) his French was remarkably pure and euphonical. French has often seemed to me the appropriate language for monkeys. In his mouth it was the language of a man. Speaking slowly, deliberately, and calmly, in a strong, stern, sustained tone, with a countenance which bore no trace even of a by-gone smile, there was more to strike the ear, and awaken the imagination, in his manner, than in that of any man I ever saw. The tout ensemble spoke an ever present, deep, but proud and uncomplaining sense of wrong unutterable and irreparable. His figure, except on horseback, was awkward and ungainly. He was very old, and moved with difficulty. His short legs and arms, his broad bony hands, and his huge Roman nose, reminded me always of the legs, claws, and beak of a paroquet. His features, however, were not bad, though harsh. A deep-set dark grey eye surmounted by a shaggy brow, and a mouth firmly compressed and flat, were in perfect keeping with the rest of his face, and in character with the man. His dress was uniformly a blue cotton hunting shirt and trowsers, with moccasins on his feet, and a blue cotton handkerchief tied on his head in what is called the French fashion, with the ends hanging far down his back. In this garb his centaur figure, mounted on the back of a wild horse, was certainly one of the most picturesque I ever saw.

I once drew from him a sort of sketch of his life. It was little more than a confirmation of what I had heard from others. This I have already mentioned. But his manner, and the ideas which escaped from him, gave me more insight into his character. His was the first example I had ever seen of loyalty, not originating in personal attachment, wholly uninfluenced by personal considerations, adopted as a principle, but cherished into a passion. I doubt if he knew whether the king he served was king of France or of Spain, and am very sure that he knew no difference between Charles 3d, Charles 4th, and Ferdinand. Whoever he was, he was "Le Roi mon maitre." As such he always spoke of him to the last, owning no other allegiance, acknowledging no other political obligation but the will and pleasure of the "king his master." Was he therefore malcontent?—just the reverse. "The king my master laid his commands upon me, to deliver up the post which he had done me the honor to place under my authority, to an officer appointed to receive it on behalf of the government of the United States; and I obeyed him. He gave me to understand at the same time that it was his pleasure that I and my people should submit to the authority of the United States, and conform to their laws, and I have obeyed him. You see me quietly acquiescing in the new order of things, and endeavoring in all things to regulate myself by your laws; and I do so, because the king my master has commanded it."

There was nothing in his manner of saying this, betokening that restiveness with which men submit to what they cannot help. He seemed merely to find a satisfaction in rehearsing the principles by which he had always professed to be governed, and contemplating the conformity between these and his actions.

At the time of the cession of Louisiana to the United States, the old man was in comfortable circumstances. The best house in the village was his, and he had slaves and several arpens in the common field.¹ But he had now fallen on evil days. He scorned to acquire any knowledge of the language, laws, and customs of the new masters of the country, and desired only to live in retirement and obscurity. But he could not help having some dealings with the world, and the management of these he committed to an only son, who had acquired a considerable proficiency both in our language and laws.

¹ An arpen is the French acre. In the sense in which the word is here used, it means an allotment of land, in the common field of a village, of an arpen in breadth, and usually forty arpens in length. Three or four of these contiguous to each other, enclosed by the common ring fence, and brought under the plough, were sufficient to supply as much of the necessaries and comforts of life as the simple peasantry of that country had any idea of.

But if Master Louis excelled his father in these things, he was as much his inferior in every honorable and manly virtue. In short, a greater knave never breathed, as soon appeared by his so managing the old man's affairs as to reduce him to want. At the same time his craft, though sufficient to defraud his father, was no defence against the superior art of the adventurers who flocked to the country. He too was reduced to poverty, and spurned by his father, detested by his countrymen, and despised by the Anglo-Americans, his name was a by-word of scorn. But he still bustled about, trafficking in every thing he could lay his hands upon, negotiating bargains between new comers and the old inhabitants, and cheating both as often as he could. But the profits of his villainy were small, for he was too cautious to venture on any bold measure.

At length, however, the fiend he served seemed to have betrayed him into the hands of his enemies. At the opening of one of the terms of St. Charles' Court, I found his name on the criminal docket. I looked for the charge, and found it to be for stealing a slave. This was a capital offence, and I at once concluded that Louis' time was come. He had not a friend on earth. No witness could be expected to soften a word of testimony; no juror would do violence to his conscience for his sake, and he had therefore no hope but in innocence; and nothing could be more improbable than that.

The trial came on. In a corner of the room I observed a cluster of the poor peasantry of the village huddled together with looks of concern and awe, occasionally muttering in low and earnest tones. They are a good-natured people, and I was not surprised to see, as I supposed, some tokens of relenting toward poor Louis. But I was soon led to put a different construction on their manner, when I caught a glimpse of a figure sitting with the head bowed between the knees, which I at once recognized as that of the culprit's father.

As the cause proceeded, the excited interest of the old man came in aid of his pride, and he at length raised himself; made signs to those around him to stand aside, and thus sat full before me. He was pale and ghastly, and his eye was sunken, fixed, and rayless. With a countenance betokening stupor, like that of one just recovering from a stunning blow, he appeared to look on without seeing, and to listen without hearing.

It turned out that Louis' case was not so bad as I had apprehended. The prosecution was conceived in folly or malice, for the slave had been taken on a claim of property, by the advice of a lawyer. Of course I had but to say a few words to the jury, and he was acquitted.

This turn of the case was so sudden, that the poor Frenchmen, who understood only a word here and there, were unprepared for it, and began among themselves an eager jabbering, which at length awakened the faculties of the old man. He caught a few words, and then seemed, for the first time, to listen understandingly to what he heard. But whatever emotion he felt was either repressed by self-command, or buried in the depth of conscious abasement. He soon rose, and left the room, followed by the little party that had surrounded him.

The next morning I happened to be passing through the bar-room of the house I lodged in, and as I entered the door, I heard the bar-keeper say, "Here he is." I looked up. There was only one other person present, and his back was to me. Turning at the moment, I saw that it was old Charlot. I immediately approached him, accosting him with marked courtesy. He seemed not to hear me, but tottered toward me, looking up in my face with a dim lack-lustre eye, as if endeavoring to distinguish who I was. As I accosted him, extending my hand, he laid hold of it and drew himself forward, still gazing on me with the same fixed inquiring look. "C'est Monsieur le Juge?" asked he, in a subdued and tremulous voice. At the moment his eye found the answer to his question, and, before I could speak, he had fallen on his knees, and my hand was pressed to his lips, and bathed in tears which rained from his wintry eyes. I was inexpressibly shocked, and more humbled in his humiliation than at any other moment of my life.

I raised him with difficulty, and in a voice choked by tears, he tried to speak. I knew what he would say, and replied to his meaning. "You have no cause to thank me," said I. "Your son had done nothing for which he could lawfully be punished; his acquittal was inevitable, and he has merely received sheer justice at my hands." While I spoke, he recovered himself enough to speak. "Ah! Monsieur," said he, "that is true. But in the case of a poor wretch, hated and despised by all, who neither has, nor deserves to have a friend on earth, is not mere justice something to be thankful for? Bad as he is, he is my only son, and I must have leave to thank you."

I led the poor old man to a seat, and tried as soon as possible to change the conversation, and lead his mind to the topics on which I had before heard him dwell with pleasure. A question about his friend and comrade, the famous Philip Nolan, effected my object. His dim eye for a moment flashed up like the last flickering of an expiring lamp, and he became eloquent in praise of the companion of his youth, his fellow in arms, and partner in innumerable dangers. The excitement soon died away, but it subsided into calmness and self-possession. He rose, and took his leave with recovered dignity of manner. He tottered to the door, and to his horse, a half-broken colt, which he mounted with difficulty. As he touched the saddle, he became a new creature. His infirmities had disappeared, and he was now a part of the vigorous and fiery animal he bestrode. There he sat, swaying with every motion of the prancing horse, restraining his impatience with a skill and grace too habitual to forsake him, and with an air which betokened a momentary flush of pride. He was like Conrad restored to the deck of his own ship. I could not see his face, but I had pleasure in thinking that the excitation of the moment might operate as a cordial to his drooping spirit. I looked after him as he passed up the street in a curvetting gallop, with his head-gear streaming on the wind, and bethought me that I might never see him again.

I was not mistaken. The blow that brought him to his knees before any but his God, or "the king his master," had crushed his heart. He never held up his head again, and was soon at rest. The prevalence of the Catholic religion among the French has preserved one spot sacred to the men and customs of other days, and there he lies.

LINNÆUS AND WILSON.

Fisher Ames has remarked, that it is as difficult to compare great men, as great rivers. He might have found a happier illustration; but the meaning is obvious, that whilst distinguished men bear to each other some points of resemblance, they are remarkable for points of discrepancy. Johnson traced lines of analogy and contrast between Dryden and Pope, whilst Playfair did the same between Newton and Leibnitz. Plutarch led the way in this kind of writing, but his parallels were occasionally more fanciful than true.

In many things antiquity has excelled; but in natural science and in works of fiction, the palm is due to modern times. Cuvier and Pliny, could not be impartially measured, without giving to the former a decided advantage. The light which fell on the latter was dim, in comparison with that by which the philosopher of France was guided in his researches. Persian monarchs might formerly have been amused by the tales which adulation told in their presence; but Sir Walter Scott has redeemed fiction from many of the purposes to which it has been applied.

Among the scores of men who have devoted their talents to natural science, Linnæus and Wilson are not the least conspicuous, and they bore a likeness to each other in the obscurity of their origin. The first was the son of a Pastor, who lived in a village of Sweden, and partly sustained his family by cultivating a few beds of earth. The manse (to use a word familiar in Scotland,) has more than once been the birth place of genius, as Thomson, Armstrong, and the translator of the Lusiad could have testified. The latter was descended of a line of peasantry—but they both evinced that science has palms to bestow, on all by whom they shall be nobly attempted and fairly won, whilst she leaves it to kings to adorn the undeserving with hereditary titles.

They both appear to have lived for a time out of their element, for the one had well nigh been sent to the awl, whilst the other was a weaver in Paisley. But the taste of Linnæus was early formed, whilst that of the ornithologist was not developed, until comparatively late in life. The biography of the Swede is full of incidents to show that his passion for plants took its rise in infancy, and grew with his years. The circumstances of his father being unexpectedly improved, the new residence of the Pastor was embellished by a garden, and though gardening had been his business, it now became an amusement. When the parent was employed among his plants, the son was seen by his side, drawing from paternal instruction, the elements of that science in which he was destined to excel. But the Ornithologist betrayed no early predilection for the branch of knowledge to which he subsequently became devoted. It was not until he had expatriated himself, and killed for his own sustenance, one of our forest birds—that the high resolve was formed of consecrating himself to the investigation of the feathered tribes. There is something striking in this event. An exile from Scotland, driven by poverty to seek an asylum on our shores, not knowing to what destiny his steps were tending, is reminded by an incident of the claims of science on his personal services. He had seen the birds of his own country, which Grahame had celebrated in one of his poems; but it is probable that the dishevelled plumage of the one alluded to deeply affected his mind. To an accident we owe a series of galvanic experiments, and the discovery of the law of gravitation; and if this be so, it is not to be wondered at, that to an event seemingly unimportant we should owe the enlargement of Ornithology.

Linnæus and Wilson made but small attainments in any other branch than the department in which each of them became eminent. The first was conspicuous in his medical profession, but this was the result of adventitious circumstances. He gained some acquaintance with Mineralogy, and even explored the province of Dalecarlia as a kind of Peripatetic Lecturer—but this branch belongs to Natural Science. He was sent in youth to an academy, with a view to prepare for the sacred office; but his habits, though marked by innocence, unfitted him for its duties. He appears to have been deficient in what Phrenologists call the organ of language, and especially in the acquisition of the modern tongues; but whilst others were becoming familiar with words, he was ruminating by Lake Helga, and stripping Lake Wetter of its plants, that the tribes of the North might learn to speak in flowers, and thereby resemble in traits of sentiment and imagination the caravans of the East. The attainments of the Ornithologist were from his circumstances necessarily limited. Confusion is generally consequent on education which has not discipline for its basis. Before Wilson left Scotland he attempted poetry, and some of his productions were attributed to Burns; but this kind of mistake is frequently made by the partiality of friends. The poetical productions of the Ornithologist are not entitled to much consideration; at least his temperament in this respect was more vividly displayed in action than in verbal expression. Both possessed remarkable powers of analysis, and in each the elements of taste were mingled in such a way as to turn the scale in favor of science rather than of imagination. The genius of both moved in a limited but perfect circle. That filled by the Botanist was stocked with herbs and the foliage of the Zones, surmounted by the golden flowers of the Line—and all held together by a diamond chain, whilst the choice assemblage was enlivened by the hum of the insect tribes. The other filled by the Ornithologist, was supplied from the air, and he crowded within its circumference birds of emerald and ruby grain, in the centre of which the Eagle was poised, whilst his ear was regaled by the song chanted at intervals from the curling vines of the Tropics, or the volume of melody from the woodlands of his adopted country. Each of them eventually insulated his mind to his vocation, and this is better than dispersing mental power over various pursuits. They thus reduced their genius to something of an integral kind, without the appendage of fractional parts.

Linnæus was not without decided advantages in those opportunities which foster intellect, promote emulation, and give impulse to genius. Hannah More has remarked that the best kind of education is drawn from the conversation of well-informed parents. It has been stated that the Botanist enjoyed this privilege in an eminent degree. His father took unusual pains to mature his mind, and though subjected to occasional disappointments, he met with friends even in Professors, who had sagacity to discern the sphere which he was one day to occupy. He found his way to the University of Lund, and subsequently to the one at Upsal, where lectures were delivered on his favorite science, and botanical gardens were open to his inspection. We are at a loss to imagine in what circumstances more delightful a scholar could have been placed, than those in which Linnæus was placed when he took up his abode at Hartecamp, the villa of his friend Cliffort, near Haerlem. Here he found books of science, and works of taste, exotic shrubs mingled with indigenous plants, museums filled with gems from the mines of Golconda, and cabinets full of shells culled from the grottos of the sea, and from the beaches of distant oceans. But truth constrains us to place the Ornithologist in the back ground of this picture. We find him struggling with penury from the beginning, and even traversing the moors of Scotland in search of a precarious subsistence. No university opened to him its ancient gates and cloistered cells. No man of wealth placed aviaries under his superintendence, and decoyed for his use speckled birds into the captivity of some sylvan Paradise. After his removal to this country he met with friends, but like himself, they were for the most part penniless. Among them, Joseph Dennie is worthy of mention—a man prompt to encourage every good design. He was at that time editor of the Port Folio, and through the medium of that work he served the cause of Ornithology. Dennie was the pioneer of literature in this country, and he is to be measured by the quality rather than the quantity of his works. He wrote no brilliant poems or ingenious tales, no dissertations in which philosophy led the way, and no historical works in which imposing events were arranged for the eye of posterity; but his Lay Preacher will always bear witness to the graceful structure of his mind.

Linnæus and Wilson both encountered hardships in the attainment of their purpose. Scotland treated the one, and Sweden the other, with unfeeling neglect; but the Botanist seems to have suffered most from the jealousy of rival Professors. It is singular that envy should so often disturb the quiet of men devoted to liberal pursuits; but Newton permitted some of his works to lie by him unpublished for years, because he dreaded critical attacks; and the quarrels of Addison and Pope were the subject of merriment to the people of their day. The toils of the Botanist introduced him to the perils of the Lulean desart. This rugged district was faithfully explored by the Swede; and in performing this journey, he drew subsistence from the milk of the reindeer, reconnoitered the hills and dells of Lapland, adventurously gathered moss from the brow of the precipice, and filled his herbarium with plants that rose among the rocks of the waterfall. He descended dangerous rivers in his boat; but this was the only journey in which Linnæus appears to have suffered much personal inconvenience. His subsequent tours through France, Germany and England, were excursions of pleasure, on which he went to enjoy the triumphs awarded to genius. But rugged as was the Lapland desart, the Ornithologist traversed desarts more extensive. Though poverty forbade the attempt to explore our forests, he disregarded its monitions, and we find him passing through the vale of Wyoming, and encircling the Lakes that indent the interior of New York, and then standing by those inland seas that roll on our northern borders. He descended the Ohio in his lonely skiff—he searched the islands which picture its waves—he paused in sight of smoke curling from the wigwam—he drew the chain of science around the copse, and slept in the green saloons of our wilderness. He was a Stoic of the woods as to personal suffering, but a Platonist at the same time in the mellow sensibilities of his nature.

They were both instructors of youth, but under circumstances widely different. The one was a preceptor of youth in the sequestered nooks of Pennsylvania; the other became the dignified lecturer from beneath a canopy spread over him by regal munificence. The one taught the elements of Education—the other enlarged on the lore of Science. As an instructor, Linnæus was the more successful. He resembled in some measure the Greek philosophers who taught in the suburbs of Athens, and he made Hammarby a kind of Swedish Lyceum. He possessed a remarkable talent for waking into action the latent enthusiasm of his pupils. What custom could have been more inspiring than the one he introduced at Upsal, of dividing his pupils into bands, and enjoining it on the leader of each to sound a horn when a plant should be discovered, never before seen by the fervid eye of science. This enthusiasm accounts for the fact, that his pupils subsequently explored so many countries, and investigated their floral kingdoms, whilst one of them accompanied Sir Joseph Banks round the world, and sounded his bugle among the islands of the Pacific.

They both enlarged the limits of Science. Before the time of the Swedish philosopher, Botanists had arisen in different countries; and from the earliest periods, studies based on the objects of nature must have drawn attention both for ornament and use. Lord Bacon, from the elevation which he occupied above the rest of his species, looked far into the wonders of Natural History; but Linnæus took entire possession of the green and flowery land, and led in the tribes of men to enjoy its fragrance and pluck its fruit. The poetical affections have from the infancy of time been associated with vernal buds and flowers. Poetry, when it assumes the form of language, is the melody which the mind makes when the imagination is excited by objects in the frame-work of nature, or by events susceptible of picturesque representation. In the floral games men were acting from ideal impulses, and they were doing the same through the ages of chivalry. They thus furnished materials out of which Tasso reared his immortal work. But it is one thing to look at objects as they sparkle through the medium of the imagination, and another to open on the same objects the eye of science. Many have celebrated the loves of the Shells who have not understood Conchology, and Darwin understood Plants scientifically without comprehending them poetically. But Linnæus possessed astonishing invention, and he easily detected the errors of ancient systems, and convinced mankind of the superiority of that system which bore the seal of his own imperishable mind. In like manner the Ornithologist did not strike out into ways entirely novel, but he extended paths on which men had hitherto gone for the acquisition of knowledge. He has greatly enlarged our views of the history and habits of the feathered race. From the mountain's height, as well as in the deepest recesses of the wilderness, he stretched out his hand and clasped the blue and purple bird, that our intellectual pleasures might be augmented.

Of these distinguished men, the success of Linnæus in life was by far the more conspicuous. He eventually reached every desire which he could at any time have cherished. His Professorship at Upsal yielded him a revenue equivalent to his wants. He thrust forth from thence pupils in successive companies; but distance did not diminish the veneration in which they held his person. Foreign countries sent him the symbols of admiration—literary associations vied with each other in doing him honor—and kings bestowed on him the title of nobility. But it is probable that the rural life of Tully and Pliny strongly impressed his imagination, for his highest ambition was to possess a villa. He purchased Hammarby, which, under his direction, became stocked with the productions of every clime. Here he held a kind of rural court, and, to use his own language, was happier than any Eastern Sultan. Kings and nobles sent presents to his villa, whilst pilgrim students detached for his use twigs from the Sabine farm, and leaves from the tomb of Pausilippo. The Celtic flower and the Turkish vine met in his green-house, and the bird marked by the hues of the Tropics, found a home on his lawn. But there is a contrast to this in the circumstances of the Ornithologist too painful to be distinctly traced; and he was one of the few who have lived for that gratitude which reaches its object only in the grave.

In that piety due from a creature to his Maker, Linnæus appears to have surpassed the Ornithologist. The Swedish naturalist was remarkable for his gratitude, and he often mentioned in glowing words the way in which he had been led to results and discoveries so important. He felt his dependence when buried in the solitude of the desart—nor did he forget to rear an altar at Hammarby. But the Ornithologist probably excelled him in some moral qualities, and among them was disinterestedness. The love of money was a passion too strong with Linnæus, and too feeble for his own comfort with Wilson—and neither of them, in this particular, struck the golden medium. The sensibility of the Ornithologist was likewise more refined than that of the Botanist. Linnæus was buried in the Cathedral of Upsal, with a pomp which kings alone could bestow; but Wilson was not indifferent to the spot in which he should repose. In going into battle an Admiral once thought of a tomb in Westminster Abbey—and Napoleon wished to lie on the Seine, among the French people whom he had loved so well; but the Ornithologist desired to be buried where the birds could find access to his grave.

Each of these distinguished men created an æra in Natural History. Some philosophers have associated their names with the heavenly bodies, and we are reminded of them whenever we lift our thoughts to the milky way, or to the planets as they turn in on their bright pilgrimage to share the evening repose of our world. Of some we are reminded by the balmy air, or by the insects which make it vocal; and we call others to remembrance when we look on the Peruvian Lama, or the stately Lion: but so long as the earth shall evolve its Plants, the Swedish sage cannot be forgotten—and so long as the birds can chant a note, the Druid of Ornithology shall not want a requiem.

LOVE AND POETRY.

They bid me Poetry resign—the mandate I obey:
Farewell, forever then farewell, to the inspiring lay.
I go to other happiness—in a bright and sunny clime
I'll rove amid the orange groves, the olive, and the vine.
I'll sing and dance to merry strains of some Italian band—
I'll dream no more of Poetry, nor of "my native land;"
And as the gondolier doth guide me home from mirth and song,
My thoughts shall with the gondola glide undisturbed along.
I'll live for fêtes and operas—I'll haunt the masquerade,
And all sweet visions of the Lyre shall from my memory fade;
And Love—(for that were Poetry)—I must resign: apart
The Lyre and Love can ne'er exist within the human heart.
And now once more I bid adieu to all thy tender joys
Sweet Muse, and fly to festive scenes—to folly, mirth and noise;
But ne'er amid these labyrinths, do I expect to find
A solace for the loss of Love and Poetry combined.

A FAIRY TALE.

Down in a deep recess of the loveliest valley upon the face of the earth there was a tiny grotto cut in the solid crystal. The few rays of light that penetrated through its deep shade, fixed in its vaulted roof an unfading rainbow. Its floor was inlaid with many colored pebbles of the smallest size, which Fairy hands had brought from the neighboring stream. Its sides were hung with tapestry wrought by the same delicate fingers, and in colors more vivid than ever dyed a painter's brush, representing the benevolent deeds of the fairest and kindest of their race. Here might be seen one of those beneficent little creatures replacing, for the weary bee, the load of wax he had lost in his flight; and another busied in scattering again, on the wing of the restless butterfly, the golden dust which the gay flutterer had brushed off by a too close contact with his own favorite flower; and yet a third, unallured by beauty, but urged by kindness, exerting all the energies of her delicate frame to assist the industrious ant home with her heavy burthen. Within the grotto was a couch formed by the bright feathers of the hummingbird; and, above it, hung a canopy of film spun by Fairy hands before the first beams of the morning sun could dissolve their work, and while yet every thread was strung with pearls. But what was the beauty of the spot compared with the excelling loveliness of her that dwelt within? She belonged to the most fragile of all the race, one of those who are fabled to have sunk beneath the weight of a single grain of wheat. The pencil of no mortal artist would be delicate enough to trace her features, and human language is too imperfect to describe the surpassing loveliness of this ethereal being. The gossamer strung with tiny pearls, and floating on the herbage of an autumnal morning, surpassed not in lightness the ringlets on her shoulder; and her footstep could only be traced by its displacing the golden dust from the flower, as she tripped from petal to petal, giving them their colors with a brush steeped in the dyes of Fairy-land. For her ministry was amidst the brightest part of creation, and her happiness to do offices of love—to raise the drooping head of the thirsty flower-cup, and bring it the freshest dew-drop of the morning. To be prepared for her ministry she had been placed by Titania upon this lower earth—but she was first bathed in the fountain of Oblivion, and thus separated from her former existence. Yet there still remained in her soul some faint recollections of the land of her home, falling upon her spirit sweet as the dying strains of music sometimes wafted to the wanderer from his native shore when he is leaving it forever. Still there was a void left in the soul of this Fairy inhabitant of earth. The yearnings of her heart told her she was an exile, though she knew not the land whence she came. Her Queen, in pity to her loneliness, formed for her a being suited to her love. On awakening one morning she beheld at the door of her grotto the loveliest object upon which her eyes had ever rested. It was that brightest of flowers, the Lily of the Valley—but such a one as never before sprung from the dark bosom of the earth. The dazzling purity of its blossoms seemed to mingle like moonbeams with the twilight of the morning, and its delicate green stem bent gently towards her as if seeking her affection. When the rising rays of the sun pierced even the depths of this shadowy valley, the soft green leaves of the Lily shaded the grotto from their influence.

It would be impossible to describe the love that filled the heart of our little Fairy for the beautiful flower—for we have not yet known what it is to be alone in a strange world without a kindred tie, or any thing to which the heart can cling, and which it may claim for its own. Now this was the Fairy's flower. She had not gone to seek it, but it had sprung up on her own threshold. All the day long was now bright to her. Her first thoughts, when she awoke, were to see if her Lily still stood in its loveliness before her, and then she moistened her lips with the dew that hung ever freshly from its silvery bells. The days rolled on, and our little Fairy heeded not their course. She knew not that they were bearing with them the brightness of Spring—for her existence had known no Winter. But heeded or unheeded, the days rolled on. Spring and Summer were gone, and Autumn was fading into Winter. The dazzling brightness of the Lily deepened into an unearthly hue, and its head was bowed with more than pensive grace. It was a bright morning, towards the last of Autumn, when our Fairy, awakening, looked towards her lovely favorite. But it was gone. She arose in haste, and beheld only a little heap of dust where her flower once grew. Alas! words cannot describe the anguish of her heart. There was a darkness—a mystery—in the fate of her beloved, which she could not unravel, and it fell so coldly upon her spirit, that she believed Winter was enclosing her heart also in its frost-work, and she wept for another home, where winter should come no more. But at length the destroyer passed away, and the bright things of the earth shot up again to meet the joyous Springtime. The voice of gladness was heard once more from the lofty mountain to the humble valley. Our little Fairy felt its influence—she felt the frost-work melt from her heart, and she wondered if she could love any flower again as she had loved her departed Lily.

And again, almost in the same spot, there sprung up a Heart's Ease, so bright and glowing that it seemed the very offspring of Joy. At first our Fairy would not trust herself to love it. She remembered that Winter would come again, and she thought, too, the new flower wanted the loveliness of her Lily. But invariably her heart smiled beneath its influence, and there was Springtime once more in her soul. The recollection of Winter passed from her mind, as the ice before the sun. But again Summer ripened into Autumn, and that, in its turn, was changed into Winter, and again the little Fairy was left alone. She beheld one morning her bright little gem of a flower set in the brilliants of frost, and sparkling as gaily as if the light still came from within. She hastened to dissolve with her breath the diamond fetters of her favorite, but alas! their weight had been too heavy for the little creature, and it fell with them to rise no more.

The Fairy wept—but not so bitterly as erewhile. She knew the Spring would come again with fresh flowers; and when it did come she beheld a sweet Mignonette spring up on her threshold, but so different in beauty from her former favorites that she turned from it in disappointment. Yet when the humble flower filled her grotto with fragrance, and insensibly its sweetness stole into her heart, and possessed it with a delightful tranquillity she had never experienced before, her soul fainted within her when she remembered that Winter would snatch away from her this loved one as it had done her other loved ones before. And in truth, but a few brief months, and the blast had swept over this fragile flower, leaving no trace of its existence but the perfume it exhaled with its last breath, on the gale that bore it into eternity.

Now it was that our poor little Fairy felt a dreariness, not to be shaken off, fall heavily upon her spirits. She wished no longer for Spring. She wished never again to fix her heart upon the perishing flowers of Earth. The shadow of mortality seemed to have fallen even upon her bright little grotto, and she sighed for another home.

And now the time of her sojourn was over. Lying down upon her downy couch she slept. After a while, opening her eyes, she found herself in Fairy-land, and her heart told her that this was indeed her home. Those dim recollections of a former existence that had formerly floated in her mind, now revived with all the vividness of reality; and what she had believed to be but ideal forms of beauty, she now found to be the images of things familiar in a previous state of being. Even her beloved Lily, so fair yet so fleeting, was but the type of one that grew in Fairy-land in glorious and imperishable beauty. She saw here, too, thousands of her own race busied in gathering up the evanescent sweets of earthly flowers to embody them in forms of divine loveliness, unchangeable by the frosts of Winter, and springing up forever in sempiternal beauty. And now our Fairy was, for the first time, a happy Fairy. The longings of her heart were satisfied. She was an exile no more. She had found a home utterly free from the chilling shadows of mortality.

THE WAGONER.

I've often thought if I were asked
Whose lot I envied most—
What one, I thought most lightly tasked
Of man's unnumber'd host—
I'd say, I'd be a mountain boy,
And drive a noble team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry,
And lightly fly
Into my saddle seat;
My rein I'd slack—
My whip I'd crack—
What music is so sweet?
Six blacks I'd drive, of ample chest,
All carrying high the head;
All harness'd tight, and gaily drest
In winkers tipp'd with red—
Oh yes, I'd be a mountain boy
And such a team I'd drive, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry,
The lint should fly—
Wo, hoy! you Dobbin! Ball!
Their feet should ring
And I would sing,
I'd sing my fal de rol.
My bells would tingle, tingle ling,
Beneath each bear-skin cap;
And as I saw them swing and swing,
I'd be the merriest chap—
Yes, then I'd be a mountain boy
And drive a jingling team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry—
My words should fly,
Each horse would prick his ear;
With tighten'd chain
My lumbering wain
Would move in its career.
The golden sparks, you'd see them spring
Beneath my horse's tread;
Each tail, I'd braid it up with string
Of blue, or flaunting red;
So does, you know, the mountain boy
Who drives a dashing team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry
Each horse's eye
With fire would seem to burn;
With lifted head
And nostril spread
They'd seem the earth to spurn.
They'd champ the bit, and fling the foam,
As on they dragged my load;
And I would think of distant home,
And whistle upon the road—
Oh would I were a mountain boy—
I'd drive a six-horse team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry—
Now by yon sky,
I'd sooner drive those steeds
Than win renown,
Or wear a crown
Won by victorious deeds!
For crowns oft press the languid head,
And health the wearer shuns,
And Victory, trampling on the dead,
May do for Goths and Huns—
Seek them who will, they have no joys
For mountain lads, and Wagon-boys.

SACRED MELODY.

By the rivers of Babel we flung
Ourselves on the earth in despair—
Our harps on the willow-trees hung,
And wept for thee, Zion, afar.
For those who had made us their prey,
And bore us as captives along,
Then proudly demanded a lay—
To sing them, oh! Zion, thy song!
But the spoiler shall ask it in vain:
We will not this triumph accord—
He never shall list to the strain
That wafted the praise of the Lord.
For perish the hand that would string
The harp, unremembering thy woe,
And cursed be the tongue that would sing,
Oh! Zion, thy songs for the foe.

SENSIBILITY.

"Still in tears!" said Margarette Claremont, as she entered the parlor after a walk. "Which is it now, my dear Alice, Werther or Madam de Stael's Corinna?"

"Neither," answered Alice. Margarette looked over her shoulder, and saw that the book her cousin held was a volume of Kotzebue's plays, and that "Self-Immolation" was the one that engrossed her attention.

"How prodigal you are of your tears, dear cousin!" said Margarette,—"and how you waste your sensibilities on these high-wrought, and ultra-sentimental fictions! Will not your health be impaired, and your mind enervated by such excess of indulgence?"

"I fear no such results," said Alice,—"and should blush at the obduracy of my heart, should it fail of being moved when reading works in which such deep feeling is portrayed."

"Weep as much for legitimate sorrow as you will, Alice—even when portrayed in fictitious narrative, but do not expend your sympathies on scenes such as never did, and never will occur in the world." Alice made no reply, as Margarette turned and ran up stairs, but the thought of her heart was—"I am thankful I am not a stoic! thankful that my feelings are not congealed."

Alice Lansdale and Margarette Claremont were both orphan nieces of the wealthy bachelor Mr. Claremont, with whom they resided. The former was the daughter of his only sister. Her parents died when she was quite young, and consigned her, destitute of property, to the care of her uncle, with whom she had now resided several years. Margarette was the daughter of his only brother. She had been an orphan but few months, during which period she had been domesticated in the family of Mr. Claremont, to whom had been committed the guardianship of herself, and her ample fortune.

"Have you nearly got through with your play, Alice?" said Margarette, as she re-entered the parlor. Alice made no answer, as she sat with her head leaning on one hand, her book spread on the table before her,—while the other hand held a handkerchief that was ever and anon applied to her eyes. Margarette advanced, and leaned on the back of her chair.

"How much longer are you going to read, Alice?" asked Margarette.

"Why can't you be quiet, and leave me undisturbed?" said Alice.

"Because I have something to tell you," answered Margarette.

"About goody Mason's lame finger, I suppose," said Alice.

"No—about two elegant looking young men I saw in the street an hour since,"—said Margarette.

"Who were they?" enquired Alice, without raising her eyes from her book.

"I do not know,—but from your description, I conjectured them to be your cousin Hubert and the Black Prince, as you call him."

"Why did not you tell me this before?" said Alice, springing on her feet. "They will be here immediately; cousin Hubert at least,—and here I am, looking like a fright, with eyes as red as a toper's! Why could you not have told me when you first came in?"

"I had been talking with Susan Hall, and forgot it," said Margarette. "And after all, perhaps it is not them."

"O, I know it is!—they were expected very soon. But tell me how the one you took to be the Black Prince looked, and I shall know at once if it was him."

"Tall—yet hardly as tall as his companion—with black hair, black eyes, and an acre of black whiskers; and—pardon me—a dash of impudence in his expression—at least I thought so, as I passed him."

"O, it must be him," said Alice, "though if it be, the latter part of your description is only your own imagination. But why do I linger here, when I must try to make myself look decent to see them? for cousin Hubert, at least, will come,"—and she left the room with a sigh.

Scarcely half an hour had passed ere Alice was summoned, according to her expectations, to meet her cousin, and Mr. Gordon, the Black Prince.

The young men made a long call,—for Alice had much to ask them of what they had seen and learned, during their absence; and they had much that was interesting to communicate. They had scarcely closed the door behind them, after taking leave, ere Alice exclaimed—

"Is he not a divine creature, cousin Margarette?"

"Which of them?" asked Margarette.

"Which! you stupid creature!—as if you knew not which I meant!—But which of them do you like best?"

"I was most pleased with your cousin's conversation," Margarette replied.

"Why?" asked Alice. "I am sure Gordon converses elegantly."

"He has words enough at command," said Margarette,—"but a scarcity of ideas; and those he has are not weighty. While listening to him I could not help thinking it was like dressing a little four-penny doll, in a large robe of silver tissue. Mr. Montague's conversation was really entertaining and instructive."

"I expected you to be severe, of course," said Alice, "yet I think you can find no fault with his manners."

"He is quite at his ease, and appears a gentleman, certainly," said Margarette, "yet his manners did not please me. There was too much show—he was too easy—has too much manner; and, if I may judge from one interview, he is not at all wanting in self-complacency."

"Cousin Hubert's quiet way suited your singular taste better, I dare say," said Alice.

"It certainly did—for he did not appear to be thinking of himself. His manners to-day were truly polished and refined; and if they arise from his heart, as I hope they did, I should judge very favorably of the man."

"I suppose you think him best looking, too!" said Alice—"best dressed and all!"

"In person they are both elegant young men," said Margarette, "but Mr. Montague's dress certainly suited me best,—as I doubt whether to be comfortable is not his first object in the choice of his apparel. As for Mr. Gordon, he must make dress a study. You see, Alice, as I had nothing to do but look and listen, I could learn a good deal of them in the hour and a half that they were here."

"Well, as you studied them, do let me know what you think of their faces."

"I have told you enough for once," said Margarette, "wait for the remainder till I see them again—perhaps I may change my opinion."

"No, no," said Alice,—"let me have it now—When you change your opinion, you can let me know it.—What of their faces?"

"Mr. Gordon, then," said Margarette, "knows that he is handsome,—and he has studied the exterior of his head so much, that I should fear he has somewhat neglected the interior."

"And what of cousin Hubert's?"

"I think his head very fine—very classical. His face is decidedly intellectual—his eyes uncommonly good."

"And what of his mouth and teeth?" said Alice.

"Peculiarly handsome," said Margarette. "And now, as you can possibly have no more questions to ask, pray let me know your opinion."

"You must have known that a long time. Cousin Hubert is—I can't say what he is—but just what I approve; and as for Gordon, he is the divinest creature alive!"

While this conversation was going on in Mr. Claremont's parlor, one not dissimilar was carried on in the street betwixt the gentlemen, Montague and Gordon.

"Who is this new cousin of yours, Montague?" asked Gordon.

"I cannot claim her as a relation," said Montague. "She is cousin to my cousin only, and a perfect stranger to me."

"N'importe," said Gordon. "But what do you think of her?"

"I have not had time to form an opinion," said Montague.

"You received some kind of impression, necessarily," said Gordon. "No one can be almost alone with a stranger for an hour or more, and not form some idea of what the character may be."

"She is certainly very silent and reserved," said Montague. "Her countenance denotes intellect,—but she appears cold, and has a loftiness that is repelling.—I fear she may prove wanting in that sensibility, of which cousin Alice has so abundant a share."

"O, she is a block of marble—a bank of snow—a statue of ice," said Gordon. "There would be infinite amusement in trying whether the marble would yield! the snow melt! the ice thaw!—She is a new variety of the species. I have seen nothing like her!"

"You admire her," said Montague. "I do exceedingly," said Gordon.

"Your taste has much changed," observed Montague. "It is but a short time since you were in raptures about my cousin, and they appear to be exceedingly unlike."

"True,—and Miss Claremont therefore excites the deeper interest. She will require some labor, some ingenuity to make her dissolve. Alice, pardon me, is always melted."

"Alice has strong sensibilities," said Montague, "and is as unsophisticated as a child. She hides none of her feelings."

"Did you notice Miss Claremont's smile," asked Gordon.

"I did, and confess it was very beautiful. Her whole face smiled, and seemed to beam with delight. But it was so evanescent, I scarcely caught it, ere it was gone."

"A slight shade of sadness was the prevailing cast of her countenance," said Gordon.

"She has recently lost a most excellent father," said Montague. "You noticed she was in mourning."

"Could an unfeeling heart lodge beneath that smile?" asked Gordon.

"The source of the smile might be the head—not the heart," answered Montague.

"I will never believe it—at least not till I try whether she has a heart or not," said Gordon.

"Very well," said Montague. "I told you in the beginning, I had not had time to form an opinion."

Between the two young men who held this conversation, there was as strong a contrast as could be between a noble-minded, well-educated, well-principled young man, and an exquisite of the first water. Gordon was quite free from all gross irregularities, but he had no principle of action; no motive beyond present gratification. The Bible was Montague's counsellor and guide; and he was endeavoring so to live on earth, as to live forever in Heaven. The young men had been much together in boyhood, and afterwards at the university; and though the difference in their characters grew broader, and more strongly marked every day, yet their intimacy in some degree continued. Montague was interested in the welfare of his early associate; and Gordon, though often angry at the warnings, exhortations, and reproofs of his friend, could not endure the idea of relinquishing his friendship. He really had a kind of affection for Montague; and he felt that it gave him additional consequence to be permitted to call such a man friend. Some months previous to the period now spoken of, Montague had been called on business to a distant part of the country; and Gordon, having nothing to do, offered to accompany him, and they had now just returned, after an absence of half a year. Montague had his fortune to make; Gordon inherited one from his father.

One morning about a week after his return, Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, where he was a frequent visiter. He was not quite as cheerful and conversable as usual, and after trying a long time to draw him out, Alice said—

"You are depressed this morning, Hubert. What is the matter?"

"I have just witnessed a scene of distress, that I cannot get out of my mind," said Montague.

"What was that?" asked Alice.

"It was an Irish family that occupy a hovel about half a mile from hence. The family consists of the father, Patrick Delanty, his wife and six children, the eldest a daughter, not more than thirteen years of age. They have been but few weeks in town, and are wretchedly poor. The wife is ill of a raging fever, and the two youngest children of measles, from which the others are but just recovered. Delanty is obliged to be out at day-labor, to keep his family from starvation; so that all the care and labor of nursing the sick, and looking after the other children, devolve on the eldest daughter, and a boy, two or three years younger.— Such poverty—such squalid and complicated misery, I have never before witnessed."

"Poor creatures!" said Alice. "But why will they leave their native land, and come here among strangers, where no one cares for them, to endure such misery?"

"To get rid of greater misery at home, cousin Alice!" said Montague.

"O, they are much to be pitied, poor creatures!"—said Alice; "but there are such hordes of them, that it is impossible to afford them effectual relief."

Montague said no more, as he found that the sympathetic cord in his cousin's heart was not touched. He just cast his eyes on Margarette, who was sitting, busily at work, in a recess at the opposite end of the room, to see if her compassion was awakened: but she was diligently plying her needle,—and but for the motion of her hand, he thought she looked exceedingly as if she were made of stone! "Heartless! unfeeling!" he thought, and almost murmured, as he arose and precipitately took leave.

The day next but one, Montague was again at Mr. Claremont's. Neither of the young ladies mentioned the Delantys; for Alice was wholly engrossed in a new novel,—and Montague concluded that Margarette had not even heard that there were any such people. But his own heart was too full of them, not to speak of their situation.

"Cousin Alice," said he, "you are so compassionate that I wonder you do not ask after the welfare of the poor Irish family."

"O, poor creatures! how are they? I have thought of them several times since you were here, and wished they had stayed in their own country, among their own friends, that they might be properly looked after. Have you seen them since you were here last, cousin Hubert?"

"Yes—yesterday, and again this morning."

"And how are they?"

"The children are somewhat better, but the mother still very ill. The family, however, together, are more comfortable than when I first saw them. Some young lady has kindly visited them, and not only in some measure relieved their pressing necessities, but given judicious and salutary advice to the daughter about the management of their affairs. When they described her to me, I felt a hope that it was you, cousin Alice."

"O no, Hubert, I could not go—such a scene of suffering would have shaken me all to pieces. Really I do not think I could bear it! But how did they describe the young lady?"

"As neither tall nor short, with a beautiful face, and a 'raal Irish heart'—kind as an angel!" said Hubert,—and he glanced his eyes toward Margarette, to ascertain if there were any look of consciousness in the expression of her face; but she was looking over the morning paper, and at that moment exclaimed—

"Dunlap and Miss Reed are married, Alice."

"How could I, even for a moment, suspect it might be her?" thought Montague. "She cares no more for them than if they were reptiles!"

"Who could it be, cousin Hubert?" asked Alice. "Did you not ask them if they knew her name?"

"I did—but they knew nothing of her but her kindness, of which they could not say enough. She even made the bed, with her own hands, and put fresh linen upon it, which she brought with her for the purpose, for the sick mother, who told me of it with tears of gratitude in her eyes."

"Well indeed she might!" cried Alice. "Think of what an office for a young lady!—such a combination of disease and filthiness! If I hear of any young lady in town, sick of a fever, I shall at once know who was Mrs. Delanty's nurse."

"May Heaven preserve her health," said Montague with fervor. "Persons of less active kindness could much better be spared; and the community would suffer little loss, were they laid on a bed of sickness."

"Very true," said Alice. "Yet there are very few, who can with propriety be called young ladies, who are capable of rendering such services. One might be ready to relieve suffering if it existed under less disgusting circumstances; but for a delicate female to encounter such dirt, and disease, and poverty at once, is too much!"

"Firm principle, a truly feeling heart, and a self-denying spirit, could alone enable a delicate woman to do it," said Montague,—"and these could!" He looked around to ascertain whether Margarette had really left the room, and then added—"And pardon me, my dearest cousin, if I suggest to you, that would you strive to conquer that extreme sensibility, which makes you shrink from scenes of suffering, and constrain yourself to witness and relieve distress, in your own person, you would render yourself, at once, far more happy and useful, if not more interesting. Active benevolence is one great secret of happiness." At this moment Mr. Claremont entered the room; the conversation turned to other subjects, and Montague soon took leave.

Mr. Gordon had not kept himself aloof from Mr. Claremont's, during this period; on the contrary, he had called frequently—as frequently as he dared, and reconnoitred to the best of his ability to ascertain the vulnerable part of Margarette's character, while he had brought all his small arms into successive requisition. His first and most natural effort was by flattery,—by which it is said all women may be subdued; and perhaps they may, and all men too, provided it be of the right kind, and administered in the right manner. But here Mr. Gordon completely failed. He was too gross; his colors were too glaring; there was no soft shading away,—nothing to touch the heart, through the medium of a refined taste; and Gordon found, though he knew not why, that he excited disgust instead of pleasure. He wondered that what he had ever found so efficacious with other young ladies—what would have caused the cheek of Alice to glow, and her eye to sparkle, was so powerless here. "I said she was a new variety of the species," thought he, "and I must try again." And he did try again—first by doing her silent homage,—breathing near her ear the deep-drawn sigh, and casting upon her the look of warm admiration and deep interest. But he soon closed his pantomime, as Margarette heeded not, even if she heard his sighs; and his impassioned glances were completely thrown away, as they rarely met her eye,—and when they did, seemed not to be understood. The next attempt was to aid in gratifying her in her favorite recreations, and in the indulgence of her taste. "Was Miss Claremont fond of prints?" "Particularly so." "He was very happy! He had a choice collection—and would fetch over his portfolio for her examination." "Was there any book in his library that Miss Claremont would like to read? He had the most approved editions of all modern authors, and it would afford him great pleasure if Miss Claremont would make a selection from among them, of any thing new to her." "He was very obliging—but her uncle's library was large, and well selected, affording sufficient intellectual nourishment for years—beside that he purchased every new work of merit." "Miss Claremont was an equestrian. He had a palfrey that would rival Margaret of Cranstoun's, which was entirely at her service." "He was exceedingly kind—but Mr. Claremont had one that was at once so spirited and gentle, that on his back she felt entirely at ease." Poor Gordon knew not what next to do. He had racked his invention to render himself agreeable and necessary—not only in the ways above enumerated—but by being always observing, and ready to perform any little personal service that might be requisite, such as handing a glass of lemonade, fetching a fan, picking up a stray glove, or placing a chair in a more desirable situation. He had actually labored hard, and had not advanced one step; and the only gratification that attended his exertions, was the obvious uneasiness of Alice, who pined under the loss of his attentions. A half suppressed sigh often struck on his ear; and a tear, as he thought, filled her eye, as she witnessed his marked devotion to Margarette. But for this sweet incense to his vanity, and his own boasting to Montague, that he was resolved not to be defeated, he would have relinquished so hopeless a pursuit. But pride and vanity impelled him onward; and although he could devise no new mode of attack, he determined to watch opportunities, and avail himself of any circumstance that might occur in favor of his design. As the heart of Mr. Gordon was a thing entirely out of the question, except as it occasionally fluttered with gratified vanity, or was momentarily depressed with mortification at want of success, his head was entirely free to devise plans in the best manner his abilities would allow, and watch opportunities with the most perfect coolness.

Mr. Montague had by degrees become interested in watching the result of Gordon's various modes of attack; and notwithstanding he had been rather displeased with the apparent coldness of Margarette's character, he felt gratified that she did not yield to the arts of Gordon. Not that he was in the least jealous of his friend's general success with women; nor that he had any personal wishes relative to Margarette; but he did wish to see one woman who was not to be won by mere external graces and accomplishments, and the little arts and blandishments that are usually so successful. His interest in Gordon's progress, led him to notice Margarette more particularly than he would, perhaps, otherwise have done. Gradually, and unconsciously, he was taking her up as a study; and the more he observed her, the more interesting did the study become. "She is a perfect enigma!" thought he. "I can never decide whether the variations in her countenance have their origin in the head or the heart. Her smile is the brightest—the most joyous—the most beautiful I ever beheld! and yet there is something in it that leads me to fear that it is like the brilliancy of the diamond—cold, while it dazzles! She seems not easily moved; and yet, while silently engaged in her work, I have seen her color fluctuate, while others have been discussing an interesting subject. She knows, at least, how to appreciate true greatness, for I have seen her eyes speak volumes when a magnanimous action has been mentioned before her. And, at any rate, I admire the firmness with which she repels that small artillery that is so generally successful, when levelled against her sex!"

One evening quite a circle of friends collected at Mr. Claremont's, among whom were both Montague and Gordon. Gordon secured a seat between Alice and Margarette, while Montague stood apart from them, listening to the general conversation, but now and then casting a glance at the trio, in which he took so much interest. The conversation at length fell on reading. Some expressed a preference for one class of reading, some for another; but a large majority of the company decided that biography was the most instructive, interesting, and entertaining. This resulted in a discussion of whose biography was most valuable, when a gentleman remarked, "that the life of Lord Nelson was the most interesting work he had ever read."

"Is it the book or the man, you so much admire?" asked one of the company.

"O, both—but the man particularly. His heroism charmed me."

"O do not name him," said Mr. Claremont. "I sicken with disgust when I read the fulsome panegyrics bestowed on him; and the numberless monuments raised to his memory in Great Britain."

"He was a most noble creature!" said Gordon, in a rather low tone to Margarette. She cast on him a look of the most withering coldness, not unmingled with contempt, but made no reply, as she listened to learn what further her uncle would say.

"No wonder they are proud of him, and raise monuments to his memory," said the gentleman who had first spoken of Nelson. "He secured more honor to the British navy than any hero from the reign of Elizabeth to the present time."

"Talk not of his heroism, or the glory he acquired for Britain," said Mr. Claremont. "Devoured by ambition, did he fight for the good of his country? or to attain individual honor? Was he not continually whining and complaining that his services were not sufficiently requited? Depend on it, he would not have thought the crown of England an unreasonable reward! And in his character as a hero, lies all the honor he can claim. As a private man, he was despicable. Though he could conquer the enemies of his country, he resigned himself without resistance to the dominion of the basest passions, and was guilty of that, which in unrefined New England, would have caused him to be hooted from society. Perfidious! hypocritical! base!—his character was stained with vices of the deepest dye,—and my astonishment can only be exceeded by my indignation, when in English publications I see him spoken of, and that by pious persons—Madam More, for one—as the "immortal Nelson!"—a being to be looked up to with admiration!"

"You are warm, Mr. Claremont," observed one of his friends.

"Perhaps I am, sir; and on this subject I wish others were as warm as myself. To eulogize such men as Lord Nelson, and hold them up to youth as fit objects for admiration and imitation, is laying the axe at the root of all morality. It is not, indeed, going softly to work, like a Rousseau, or Voltaire, to undermine the foundation of their virtue, but demolishes the whole fabric at once, by telling them, that if capable of performing a few brilliant actions, such a halo will shine around them, as will entirely conceal from the eyes of every beholder their want of sincerity, truth, fidelity, or moral honor. Wo to my country, when the public sentiment shall be so far corrupted, as to think that heroism, and what is known by the name of glory, can compensate for the want of true, consistent, undying virtue!"

Montague chanced to be looking at Margarette when Mr. Claremont began to speak, and the look she gave Mr. Gordon fixed his attention upon her, though he heard not the remark that called it forth. He watched her countenance with deep interest, as it gradually lighted up to a glow of admiring approbation, strangely intermingled with a shade of sadness. "I will have her opinion on this subject from her own lips," thought he; and placing himself near her, he said—

"What is your opinion of Lord Nelson, Miss Claremont?"

"O, exactly the same as my uncle's," said Margarette. "And how could it be otherwise? when I have so often heard my dear father express sentiments exactly similar. He very carefully taught me, never to let any external glory, any meretricious glare, blind me to real defects, or to the want of intrinsic and solid excellence." Her eye, as she finished speaking, sparkled through a tear, which was not unobserved by either Montague or Gordon.

"There is, then, a fountain of feeling within," thought Montague, as he still looked upon her—"A fountain of deep, pure, noble feeling!"

"By Jupiter, there is a tear!" thought Gordon—"and Montague has had the good fortune to call it forth. Who would have thought, that to talk of Lord Nelson, was the way to touch her heart? I would have given a thousand dollars, rather than he should have had this triumph!"

One morning Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, but found that both the young ladies were out. Mr. Claremont, however, was in the parlor, and he and Montague had passed a very pleasant half hour, ere Alice and Margarette came in. Margarette bade Montague 'good morning'—but Alice just nodded at him, and hastened to her uncle, and seating herself on his knee, exclaimed—

"Dear uncle, I am so glad you are in! I want to ask a great favor of you."

"What is that, my dear?" said Mr. Claremont.

"I am half afraid to tell," said Alice, "you will think me so extravagant. But, dear uncle, Margarette and I have seen the two most beautiful pearl necklaces at Wendall's, you ever beheld!"

"And you want them?"

"O, I do, most sadly," said Alice.

"And do you, Margarette?"

"I think not, sir," said Margarette—while Alice at the same moment cried—

"O, Margarette can have whatever she wants, she is so rich!—not a poor beggar like your own Alice, dependent on the bounty of another for every thing"—and bursting into tears, she hid her face on her uncle's shoulder.

"Sweet sensibility, O, la!
I heard a little lamb cry, bah!"

said Mr. Claremont. "Come, Alice, don't cry about it, but tell me the price of the necklaces."

"How can I," said the sobbing Alice, "when you make such cruel sport of my feelings? Indeed, uncle, it is cruel!"

"I never make sport of your feelings, my dear, when there is any thing that ought to awaken them," said Mr. Claremont. "But come, tell me the price of the pearl necklaces."

"They are fifty dollars apiece."

"Whew!" said Mr. Claremont. "And so I must spend a hundred dollars to adorn the necks of my nieces?"

"O, Margarette can buy her own, you know uncle, and so you will have to give away but fifty."

"I hold Miss Claremont's purse-strings, you know," said Mr. Claremont, "and I shall serve you both alike. Margarette's, as well as yours, must be the gift of her uncle."

"I do not wish for one, my dear sir," said Margarette, but Mr. Claremont heeded her not, and opening his pocket book, gave them fifty dollars each. Alice loaded her uncle with kisses and thanks, while it was with evident reluctance that Margarette took hers in her hand. But as some ladies at that instant entered the room, without saying more, she put it in her purse. As soon as the visiters had withdrawn Alice went to her chamber, and Margarette seized the opportunity of being alone with Mr. Claremont, to restore to him the fifty dollars.

"My dear sir," said she, "I cannot accept this money, and should have declined it at the moment, only I could not explain before strangers. You will relieve me greatly by taking it again."

"By no means, my dear—I should be much pleased that you and Alice should have necklaces alike."

"But I do not want a necklace, sir, and should feel very badly to spend fifty dollars on a useless ornament."

"Then purchase something else with it, Margarette."

"I am in want of nothing, sir, and had much rather restore it to you."

"Can you find no use for it, my dear?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"O yes, sir—I could find enough to do with this, and ten times more. But perhaps you would think it injudiciously expended."

"What should you do with it, Margarette?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"Give every cent of it away, sir," Margarette replied.

"Very well," said Mr. Claremont. "It is yours, my dear, to throw at the birds, if you please. I can depend on your judgment and principles, that it will not go to indulge idleness or vice."

"O, I thank you most sincerely, my dear uncle," said Margarette with warmth—"in behalf of those who are suffering from want. It will give me great delight to be your almoner."

There was a very narrow lane ran past the foot of Mr. Claremont's garden, in which stood a little hut, occupied by a poor, but pious old man, who earned a scanty livelihood by gardening. He was known all ever the town by the title of Commodore, merely because in his youth he had commanded a fishing-smack. Montague had one evening walked some way out of town; and on his return, intending to pass an hour at Mr. Claremont's, he passed through this lane as the shortest way to his house. In passing the Commodore's domicil, which stood on the lower side of the lane, he cast his eyes in at the window, which had neither shutter nor curtain, and by a glimmering fire-light saw the old man sitting in his arm chair by the fire, while a female sat on a low stool beside him, who seemed to be doing something to his foot, which lay across her lap. Montague halted an instant, for there was something about the female figure, although enveloped in a large shawl and hood, that reminded him of Margarette. But her back was toward him, and the fire-light was so dim, that he remained in doubt whether or not it was she. "If it is her," thought he, as he walked on—"If it is her, performing such an office for the poor old Commodore, it may, after all, be her who visits the Delantys." As he came out of the lane, he met an acquaintance, with whom he conversed a minute or two, and then proceeded to Mr. Claremont's.

On entering the parlor, he found the little domestic circle complete. Mr. Claremont was engaged in a volume of Brewster's Encyclopedia; Alice with Malvina, over which she was shedding a torrent of tears,—and Margarette with her knitting work. "It was not her, after all," thought Montague; "but who could it be? she had not the air of a rustic!" After receiving Mr. Claremont's cordial welcome, he advanced toward his cousin, and closing her book with gentle violence, said—

"If you sustain no other injury, my dear Alice, you will inevitably ruin your eyes by reading while you weep so profusely. I wish you would relinquish novels as I fear they do you little good. Their general tendency is to enervate rather than strengthen the character." "I wish you could persuade her to relinquish them, Mr. Montague," said Mr. Claremont. "I am satisfied that that class of reading, only increases in Alice that sensitiveness which is already too strong. It will degenerate into weakness, and I know of few things more to be dreaded than a sickly sensibility."

"Why should you suppose that the reading of novels would produce that effect, more than the scenes of real life?" said Alice, "when it is universally conceded, that no genius can ever reach the truth."

"I can tell you why, Alice," said Montague. "In reading works of the imagination, persons of feeling unconsciously identify themselves with the favorite character; and then in a day or two, and sometimes in a few hours, their feelings are taxed with those scenes of sorrow and excitement, which in real life are scattered through months, or perhaps years. The greater part of life is made up of comparative trifles, which make little demand on the feelings, and scenes of sorrow and excitement are 'few and far between,' like the convulsions of the elements—which, though often distressing, and sometimes disastrous, are, on the whole, highly beneficial. But were the elements always at war, nature would soon sink to dissolution; and so if the mind and the heart were constantly raised to a state of high excitement, their energies would soon be exhausted, and the corporeal part would soon sink in the conflict. Do you read novels, Miss Claremont?" inquired Montague.

"Sometimes, but not often," Margarette replied.

"And do they affect you as they do cousin Alice?"

"Affect her?" cried Alice—"no, indeed! I never saw her moved to tears, by reading, but once in my life."

"And pray what was she then reading?" asked Montague, with a smile.

"A little penny tract, called 'Old Sarah, the Indian Woman'"—said Alice. "Over that she actually wept!"

"Did you read the tract, cousin Alice?"

"Yes—from mere curiosity, after witnessing the wonderful effect it produced."

"And did it call forth your tears?"

"No, certainly not!—Sarah was a good old creature, to be sure, but there was nothing in the tract to touch one's sensibility; and I could never conceive what there was in it, that so moved Margarette."

"Pho, pho, Alice," said Mr. Claremont, "Margarette is not the Stoic you represent her. I caught her no longer ago than this very morning, with a tear in her eye, while reading."

"My dear uncle," said Margarette, in a supplicating tone, while the pure blood in her cheeks rushed to her temples.

"What was she reading, uncle?" cried Alice.

"None of your lackadaisical nonsense, you may be certain, Alice," said Mr. Claremont. "She was reading a newspaper."

Alice laughed outright.

"Not so laughable an affair, neither, my dear," said Mr. Claremont, "as she was reading of the bravery and sufferings of the poor unfortunate"——

"Dear uncle!" again ejaculated Margarette.

"Poles," added Mr. Claremont, without noticing the interruption.

"The Poles? O yes," said Alice. "There was 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'—he was a divine creature! Well might one weep at the recital of his sufferings!"

"Doubtless, my dear—but Margarette's sympathies were moved by sufferings of a more recent date than his—by the narrative of bravery and suffering in all their nakedness—unadorned with the romance and poetry that Miss Porter has thrown around her hero. And to tell you the plain truth, Alice—I do like that sensibility better, that sympathizes with the actual miseries of our fellow creatures, even though there be nothing elegant, or poetic about them, than that which has tears only for some high-wrought tale of fictitious woe—the afflictions of some fallen prince, or the sorrows of some love-stricken swain, or lovelorn damsel."

"That, dear uncle, is as much as to say," said Alice, while her voice was choked with rising emotion—"that I can feel for sorrows of no other kind, and that you like Margarette's sensibility better than you do mine! I suppose you love her, too, more than you do your own poor, lone Alice! I feel that she is stealing every one's affection from me, though I love with so much more ardor than she does!" and she burst into tears.

All present felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and Margarette, who was really distressed, resolved to give a new turn to the conversation. Alice had seated herself on Mr. Claremont's knee, and thrown both her arms around his neck—so leaving him to soothe her wounded feelings in his own way, Margarette asked Montague some question, as foreign as possible to their recent conversation. The effort succeeded—the tears of Alice were soon dried, and the remainder of the evening passed very pleasantly.

One evening Montague and Gordon met the Claremont family, with a small select party, at the house of a friend. Gordon, as usual, secured a seat next Margarette, who was also attended by Alice, who had learned that to be near her, was the surest way to be near the idol of her imagination, the Black Prince. Montague likewise stood near them; for he was beginning to find, that there was something extremely attractive, even in Margarette's apparent coldness; or rather, that it was peculiarly interesting to observe marks of deep feeling, under so calm, so placid an exterior. Gordon recollected the conversation concerning Lord Nelson, and the effect produced on Margarette; and resolving in his turn to find a passage to her sensibilities, led the conversation to heroes and great men. He made some very eloquent remarks, as he apprehended, on heroism and greatness, which had previously been arranged with great care.

"Whom do you consider truly great men, Mr. Gordon?" asked Alice.

The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 2, January, 1836

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 2

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

AND PRESENT CONDITION OF TRIPOLI, WITH SOME ACCOUNTS OF THE OTHER BARBARY STATES.