“Well, in, Adolf; and eh? Franz Rudenfranck too? But, in—in with ye
both,” said old Mullerhorn, and the party entered the farm-house.

The room into which they were ushered, was an ample, commodious
apartment, constructed in the true Dutch fashion, with a polished oak
floor, and noble rafters of the same wood. It was hung around with some
few gay colored prints, illustrating Scripture subjects, and some bright
tin sconces; and the furniture was substantial, although homely. A large
mahogany press, whose bright surface and polished brass knobs, might
have compared in brilliancy with the mirror, stood in one corner; an old
fashioned Indian chest, ponderous and highly japanned, ornamented the
opposite niche. Some heavy chairs with long, high backs, and formal arms
and legs; the never failing spinning wheel and Dutch clock; and a pair
of tall, ill-shaped, brass fire-dogs, completed the garniture of the
apartment. The walls were decorated with festoons of evergreen,
tastefully arranged by the fair hands of Barbara herself. Two
ill-looking, dingy paintings, also occupied a couple of recesses; and a
neatly polished cherry table, near a window, displayed an inviting array
of apple brandy, cherry wine, cider, and such refreshments as were
indigenous to the country. The good dame, after welcoming kindly her
guests, bustled off to resume the superintendence of the kitchen; and
the unfortunate Barbara herself, arrayed in bridal trim, and looking
through her tears, as lovely as the violet, freshly bathed in dew,
remained, seated in one of the large chairs, and vainly endeavoring to
conceal her emotion. As Adolf entered, her heart palpitated violently,
and she could with difficulty so far command herself, as to bid him
welcome. Nor did the sight of Barbara in such distress, fail equally to
afflict her lover; a grief which Rudenfranck artfully increased, by
hinting strongly to Adolf, the possibility of changing the entire face
of the scene.

The magistrate having arrived, and matters being so arranged as to bring
the affiance to a conclusion, Rudenfranck took the opportunity to lead
Adolf apart from the rest.

“Thou thrice sodden ass,” said he, “can’st thou call thyself a lover,
and yet allow so much innocence and beauty to be sacrificed to age and
avarice? Say thou the word; promise to obey me, and thou shalt yet
possess her. See, they are about to sign. Hesitate a moment longer—and
look, Barbara implores thee—she is lost. Farewell.”

“Stay,” rejoined Adolf, hurriedly, “this must not—shall not be.
Rudenfranck, I promise.”

“Then, demand of old Mullerhorn that the ceremony be delayed, and leave
the rest to me.”

“Father Philip,” said Adolf, addressing Mullerhorn, who was just about
to affix his name to the deed, “you are aware how long and how truly I
have loved Barbara. To see her thus sacrificed, is more than I can bear,
and I entreat you to consider farther upon this matter, and to defer
this marriage.”

The guests looked utterly confounded. Chriss Mienckel opened wide his
large, gray eyes, and stared upon the bold hunter in profound amazement.
Barbara turned red and pale by turns; and old Mullerhorn crimsoned with
rage.

“Have I not told ye, Adolf Westerbok, that I would never bestow Barbara
upon a beggarly hunter? What devil then, prompts thee to interrupt a
match which thou hast no power to prevent?”

“Dearest father,” said Barbara, clasping the hard hand of the old man,
“hearken to Adolf.”

“Away, idle girl! Adolf, tempt me not to do thee an injury.”

“Nay,” said the hunter, “is it even so? Well, then; gold for gold—ducat
for ducat—nay, double each ducat that old Mienckel can bestow, will I
lay before you, Philip Mullerhorn.”

“Thy morning draught has been somewhat of the strongest, Adolf. Where
should’st thou have met with these sums?” Chriss Mienckel chuckled
portentously, and thrusting each hand into his capacious pockets, a
melodious harmony of jingling coins soon resounded from their precincts.

“Look in thy pouch,” whispered Rudenfranck. Adolf did so, and drew forth
two purses, richly furnished with gold. Astonishment fairly stupified
the guests; and the covetous eyes of old Mullerhorn glistened at the
sight of money. But the recollection of Mienckel’s broad lands and fair
cattle crossed his mind.

“Gold for gold,” said he, musingly. “Well, well, it may be so; and
Adolf, when thou canst certify me concerning these riches, thou shalt,
perhaps, find me not altogether opposed to thee. This ceremony, for the
present, with the consent of Mienckel, shall be postponed.”

Mienckel nodded his assent; for he was a man of but few words. But
Adolf, holding the hand of Barbara, demanded an immediate trial.

“Be it so, then,” replied Mullerhorn. “My neighbor’s property is well
known. Let it be thy task to prove thy fortune equal to his.”

“Yes,” said Mienckel, “house and farm—cattle and gear—broad
lands—rich farming ground—bright ducats——”

“To balance which, I throw, as earnest, these purses,” said Adolf.
“Rudenfranck, can’st thou not aid me now?” whispered he, turning to the
hunter.

“Not now,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “you have the last of my gold.
To-night——”

“To-night!” said Adolf, impatiently, “an age! Father Philip, I pledge
myself that on the morrow I will prove myself worthy your regard in
purse as well as in love.”

“Agreed,” said Mullerhorn, “until to-morrow let the espousal be
deferred. If thou can’st then satisfy my doubts, Barbara shall be thine.
If not, this marriage shall no longer be prevented.”

“Thanks, father, and farewell. Come thou with me, Rudenfranck. Ere
to-morrow night, sweet Barbara, all shall be accomplished.”

Rudenfranck and Adolf left the house, and walked through the forest in
the direction of the hut of Rudenfranck. Few words were exchanged
between them, until, being arrived at the hut, they closed the door
carefully, and Adolf broke silence.

“Now, Rudenfranck,” said he, “I must know the means by which this
treasure may be discovered. Speak then, and quickly. I promise obedience
in all matters, faithfully and truly.”

“Then,” replied Rudenfranck, “it is thus. Meet me to-night, as the moon
casts a straight shadow over the range of the Wolf Hills. You know the
dark cavern by the run, where, it is said, that old Schwearenheim was
carried off bodily, by the Evil One——”

“It is a fearful place, and a fearful hour,” said Adolf.

“Fool, thou hast gone too far to recede. Only hint at doing so, and, by
all the fiends of hell, I withdraw every hope of my assistance from
thee. Wilt thou excite the expectations of Barbara, only to dash them
again to the earth? Wilt thou thus vacillate, until it becomes too late
to save her from Mienckel? If thou dost so, thou art the veriest
driveller that wears man’s attire. Mark me, and answer not. Meet me
there, at the cave, when the midnight hour arrives; and hark thee, thou
must procure a wafer of the consecrated host. Bring thy rifle with thee,
and leave the rest to my care.”

“Be it so,” said Adolf, “it is too late to recede.”

“See that thou fail not,” said Rudenfranck, “and now promise to
Mullerhorn what thou wilt. Keep thou but faith with me, and thou shalt
enjoy all that thou hast ever hoped for. Be not seen with me to-day. Go
to the village. Look cheerily; procure that which I have directed thee,
and fail not at midnight.”

                               Chapter V.

The shades of evening were gradually enveloping the country in darkness,
as Adolf and Barbara sat together, in the mansion of the Mullerhorns.
They spoke of love and happier times, and the bright eyes of the maiden
beamed joyously upon the countenance of the youth. Adolf had learned the
art of dissimulation in a brief space of time. Alas! it is but the first
step in evil that alarms, and he, that has abandoned the paths of
virtue, but for a moment, finds it far more difficult to retrace his
steps, than to continue in the ways of error. To the enquiries of
Barbara, concerning the wealth which he had so lately acquired, he
replied, that the death of a relation, whose property was ample, had
enabled him to compete, in point of riches, even with Christopher
Mienckel. Barbara fully believed him; for true love is ever ready of
faith; and fondly pictured to herself many a scene of happiness and of
domestic felicity. Thus the evening wore on; and the hunter was startled
to hear the hour of ten strike from the clock, as he arose to quit the
society of Barbara, and to join the companion of his unhallowed
undertaking.

“Whither away to-night, and so early, Adolf?” asked Barbara, as the
hunter made ready to depart.

“I have shot a buck in the forest, and must seek aid to bring him in,”
replied Adolf.

“It is full late to seek your game in the broad forest to-night, Adolf,”
said Piet Albrecht, who had been solacing himself with a dish of
discourse with Agatha, in the kitchen, and now came to bid Barbara good
night. “Yet, if you would wish my help, to show you that I have
forgotten our difference, I don’t care if I go with you.”

“I thank thee, Piet,” replied the young man, “but the game lies far off,
and Franz Rudenfranck has promised to go with me.”

“Where have you left it?” asked Barbara.

“Deep in the forest; near the Wolf Hills. At the cave of Schwearenheim.”

“I know not,” said Piet, shuddering, “what could tempt me to go there,
so near midnight. It will be nearly that, Adolf, when you reach there,
and the cave is, the saints be good to us, an unholy spot.”

“Pshaw, Piet, this is mere superstition,” said the hunter; but his cheek
glowed, and his flesh trembled. “Why should the cave be a more unholy
spot than any other part of the forest?”

“You know as well as I do, Adolf, that few of the hunters have the
courage to pass there after dark. My father has told me awful things of
the place, and one of them happened to himself.”

“What was that, pray, Piet?” said Agatha, “did he tumble into the run,
and fancy that the water was Schiedam?”

“Nothing of the sort, Mistress Agatha,” responded Piet. “You must know
that my father was a woodsman, as bold as any man among the hills. He
happened to be late out one evening, after game; and had chased a large
mountain cat to the run, where the cat climbed up an old hollow tree. My
father followed him closely, and mounted after him; but his hold gave
way, as he was looking down the hollow, and he slipped clear through the
hole, good forty feet down the inside of the tree. Well, he thought that
his hour was come, and that he should starve to death there; for the
inside of the tree was so smooth that he could get no hold for either
hand or foot; and so he had lost all hope of ever escaping, when he saw
something black come sliding down the tree. He recommended himself to
God, and when the thing, whatever it was, came within reach, he seized
hold of it, and it climbed up again, dragging my father after it. It had
no sooner reached the top of the tree; but a loud clap of thunder was
heard, and the thing sailed away in a flame of fire, far away over the
tree tops. My father clung fast to the trunk of the tree, and slid down
the outside, after he had clambered out of the hollow; then thanking
Providence for his deliverance, he went home as fast as his legs could
carry him.”

“A wonderful tale, indeed, Piet,” said Agatha, laughing.

“Wonderful enough,” said Piet.

“Well, Piet,” said Adolf, “was this truth?”

“Truth!” replied Piet, “I should like to have heard any man tell my
father that it was otherwise.”

“Do not go to-night, dearest Adolf,” said Barbara, turning pale.

“This is mere folly, sweet Barbara. If I failed to bring home my buck,
all the hunters would cry shame upon me.”

The clock struck the half hour, and Adolf, snatching up his rifle, bade
Barbara good night, and leaving the house, struck into the path which
led to the Wolf Hills.

“Aye, aye,” said Piet, looking after him, “he doesn’t believe in any
such matters; but I fear it is no good that he is bent upon. So much
gold, too, and so lately. But it’s no affair of mine. Did you mark the
wildness of his eye, though, Agatha?”

                              Chapter VI.

The moon shone brightly and calmly over the still woods, and the gentle
breath of the night wind sighed mournfully over the ear, as it kissed
the forest branches, and swept through the tops of the pines. The murmur
of the stream, as it flowed smoothly onward between the high mountain
passes, added to the soft influence of the scene. All nature was lulled
into repose. A small charcoal fire, burning on a rocky ledge, beneath a
tall cliff, disclosed the mouth of a dark cavern, at the entrance of
which sat Rudenfranck, the hunter, wrapped in a cloak, to protect his
person from the heavy damps of the night. He rose from his seat, and
moved restlessly about, making some arrangements in the mouth of the
cavern, and occasionally casting an anxious glance over the surrounding
hills, as if impatiently expecting his victim.

“I think that he will hardly fail me,” muttered he. “No, he has too much
at stake to abandon this enterprise. How still the night is! Strange,
that he comes not, and yet the hour approaches rapidly. All is
prosperous thus far. O, star of my destiny, triumph in this hour, which
is doomed to complete the anxious toil of years! Rejoice in the
anticipated majesty of high dominion! But why do I feel so sad? What
small voice is that, which whispers me to desist from my undertaking?
Repentance—repentance! My spirit is too dark, and I could not, if I
would, repent. How quickly my heart beats as the time speeds on! Yet one
more victim! Why, I shall be a king? that word is too weak, to express
the glorious extent of wisdom and power which I shall enjoy. But
happiness—no, no!—that feeling I shall never more experience! These
thoughts—the recollection of past crime. Why should I think of crime,
who am beyond the hope of salvation? Ha! he comes! ’Twas but the plash
of an otter. No! he is here!”

“Rudenfranck, is it thou?” said Adolf, “lend me thy hand. So. I have met
with strange warnings in my path toward thee. I fear to go on. Can
nothing be devised save this dread trial?”

“I have already told thee, nothing. Come up. The air is damp, and my
fire burns brightly. Have you procured that which I desired of thee?”

“I have it; but, Rudenfranck, sacrilege was the price of it.”

“Never regard the price, so as thou hast it. This is right,” said the
hunter, as he received the consecrated wafer. “Help me to build this
pile, which must be raised before we commence our solemn work.”

Adolf assisted Rudenfranck to build a small pile of stones, upon which
were deposited the box containing the pentagon, the consecrated wafer,
and a small cruse, in which was a dark red liquid. Rudenfranck also
placed a brazier on the pile, into which he deposited some slips of
parchment, inscribed with talismanic characters. As they finished their
task, the moon cast a straight and gigantic shadow across the Wolf
Hills, and the pines seemed to dilate, in the white glare, to an
unearthly size.

“It is the hour,” said Rudenfranck. “Be firm. Shrink not; and expect the
full reward of thy bravery. Help me to don these vestments.” He threw
across his shoulders a furred robe, which he bound tightly round his
body with a broad, red girdle. He then placed on his head a conical cap,
and taking in his hand a sword, inscribed with characters, and without a
guard, he described on the earth, the form of a pentagon, the centre of
the figure being occupied by the altar stones, at the side of which
Rudenfranck placed his companion.

“Lay thine hand on the altar,” said Rudenfranck, “and pour from this
cruse into the brazier, the liquid which it contains. Stay not to look
around thee, but feed the fire steadily, while I perform our magic
ceremonies.”

Rudenfranck lit a fire in the brazier as he spoke, and drawing a dagger
from his girdle, plunged it violently into his arm. The blood flowed
freely. He allowed it to run upon the five angles, reciting in a strange
language, mysterious charms. He then placed the linen pentagon in front
of his breast, and commanded Adolf to feed the flame as he had
instructed him. Adolf poured the liquid from the cruse into the burning
brazier; and Rudenfranck, gradually raising his voice, until from a
measured chaunt, he broke into furious vehemence, suddenly pronounced
the charm of the opal. The moon, which had till now shone brightly,
changed its color to a deep red; thunder rolled, and the forked
lightning flashed frequently and fearfully. The stars shot wildly across
the face of heaven. The wind whistled and groaned through the trees. The
earth quaked; and the whole frame of nature seemed to shudder at the
incantation. A furious crash resounded through the cavern; brilliant
lights danced through the gloom; the magic words engraved on the opal
gave out a dense and aromatic smoke, and the entire body of rock,
seeming to split asunder, with a tremendous crash, disclosed a
magnificent brazen gate, ornamented with characters similar to those on
the opal, at the sides of which two gigantic skeletons, crowned with
diadems, and bearing strange weapons in their bony grasp, stood, the
grisly warders of the charmed treasure.

Rudenfranck paused from his incantations, and, turning to Adolf, said in
a hoarse whisper,

“This is the portal which encloses the treasures of Bructorix; but the
phantom of the sage must now be invoked. Take thou this holy wafer, and
affix it to yon brazen gate. Do this speedily, and fear not.”

Adolf, highly excited and bewildered by the scene, obeyed without
hesitation. Once, as he was about to affix the consecrated element to
the gate, he fancied that some invisible arm endeavored to restrain his
hand; but he performed the commands of Rudenfranck, and returned to the
altar.

“Now,” said Rudenfranck, “but one more thing remains for thee to
perform. Raise thy rifle; take good aim, and shoot at the wafer of the
host. Shoot bravely!”

The wretched and abandoned Adolf followed the instructions of
Rudenfranck. He raised his rifle, took deliberate aim at the holy
emblem, and fired. A demoniac shout rang through the cave. The angles of
the pentagon shot forth vivid lightnings. The skeleton guardians of the
gate threw down their weapons, while red light flamed from their eyeless
skulls. The massive leaves of the gate flew wide open, and displayed an
immense vault, filled with huge vases of gold and jewels, which shone
with ineffable brilliance. The arched and fretted roof was sustained by
bronze pillars, representing strange and hideous animals, contorted into
the most grotesque attitudes. Thousands of gnomes, swarmed through the
vault, of misshapen forms, whose fierce and raging eyes dwelt upon the
hunters, with anger and contempt. Thrice did Rudenfranck, bowing himself
to the earth, call upon the name of Bructorix. Thrice hollow thunder
pealed throughout the cavern, and, at the third appeal, a gigantic
figure rose slowly through the earth, and stood before them. The figure
was enveloped in an imperial robe of purple, embroidered with jewels,
precious beyond description. A girdle of living fire encircled his
waist, and a crown of various and brilliant gems bound his white and
flowing locks. In his hand he carried an ivory sceptre. His countenance,
scathed by flames, looked like that of some ghastly denizen of the tomb,
newly raised to-day; and its expression was lofty, haughty and
commanding.

“Who calls upon the name of Bructorix?” asked the spectre, in a
sepulchral voice.

“The seeker of his power, mighty spirit,” answered Rudenfranck. “I bring
to thee the promised victim, and expect the reward of my services. Once
more prolong the date of my life, and execute those promises made me;
when by mighty spells, I had raised thee from the abode of the dead, in
Germany. That term expired, I bring unto thee another soul, or else
resign my own.”

“Would this youth enjoy my treasures,” asked the phantom, “and knows he
the nature of the obligation I demand of him?”

“He asks wealth of thee, and, in return, will accede to thy demands.”

“Let him sign the deed, which gives over to my master his soul and body,
and his wishes shall be gratified.”

Rudenfranck drew from his breast a parchment scroll, and the infatuated
Adolf, with his own blood, subscribed to his eternal ruin.

“Take of my treasures,” said the sceptre, “what thou would’st have, and
use it as thou wilt. In exchange for the gift of thy soul, contained in
this writing, thou shalt have full access to my treasure. But, mark me.
Seven years are granted unto thee, at the close of which time, thou must
return, and pay thy homage to the lord of these realms.”

“And myself?” asked Rudenfranck, “shall I not reap the harvest for which
I have labored? Recollect thy promises made me in Germany.”

“They are thine,” said the spirit. “This sceptre controls the fiercest
demons. Take it. Return to thy native land, and revel in the possession
of all earthly wisdom, riches, and power. But when thy date of life has
again expired, seek not to renew it. It is enough. Dismiss me.”

“Depart to thy place, accursed spirit,” said the hunter. The spirit of
Bructorix descended, and the phantoms hastened to pile the vases of gold
and jewels outside of the brazen gate, until the first grey light of the
dawn began to glimmer through the clouds. Instantly, the gorgeous scene
disappeared, and the cavern resumed its original appearance. Adolf and
Rudenfranck, loading themselves with gold, carefully filled up the mouth
of the cavern with rocks and brushwood, and returned warily, homeward.

                              Chapter VII.

The guests of the preceding day were assembled in the farm house of
Philip Mullerhorn, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Adolf. Old Mullerhorn
went frequently to the door, and looked out, with anxiety, down the road
which Adolf usually took when he visited the farm.

“I fear all is not right with him,” said he. “Adolf is late in coming
this morning. He should have been here a full hour before this.”

“Peradventure,” snuffled Chriss, “the young man has fled, doubting
whether he could make good his boasts of yesterday.”

“Not so fast, my good friend,” said the voice of Adolf himself, who then
entered, bearing in his hand a valise, evidently containing articles of
weight. “We shall soon prove whose boasts shall be first accomplished.”
As he spoke, he threw the valise upon the table, before Mullerhorn, “I
am come,” said he, “Father Philip, to receive my bride.”

“Heavens!” said Barbara, earnestly regarding the countenance of Adolf,
“what has thus blanched thy brow, and changed thy visage? Thy cheek is
ghastly, and thy look unearthly! Why glares thine eye so wildly? What
hast thou done? The light of thine eye is not from heaven! Holy Virgin!
the cave! the cave!” cried she, fainting.

“Adolf, what ails thee?” asked Mullerhorn. “Thy brow is indeed pale, and
thine eye fierce and blood-shot. Thou comest from no holy work this
morning. Hadst thou the whole treasure of earth, no daughter of mine,
Adolf Westerbok, should’st thou wed, until the secret of thy conduct is
explained.”

“It is nothing,” said Adolf, stammering as he spoke, “a weariness—a
sickness—it will soon be over.”

“I fear the mark on thy brow is of no earthly malady. Remain here no
longer. Depart from us, for thy society is not for that of Christian
men.”

“I come to claim my bride!” cried Adolf, hoarsely, “and to pay the
dower. No man shall prevent me from this. Why gaze ye thus on me? Stand
back; the man who interferes in this shall rue his intrusion. Barbara,
dear Barbara, you cannot, do not thus repulse me?”

“Adolf,” said Barbara, gaining courage, and her voice before faltering,
becoming firm and steady, “depart from me. All is now explained. Thy
anxiety of last evening; thy expedition to the cave of Schwearenheim;
all is explained. Barbara Mullerhorn may have loved thee, and she did
so; but she will never consent to be the bride of a forsaken wretch like
thee.”

A sudden exclamation from Piet Albrecht attracted the attention of all
present, and aroused Adolf from the stupor into which the words of
Barbara had thrown him. The room was filled with a rich, purple light,
in which the figure of Rudenfranck, arrayed in his magical vestures, and
holding the ivory sceptre of Bructorix, appeared to the terrified
spectators. Well might they be terrified; for upon the brow of the
hunter a brilliant star gleamed brightly with a sulphurous light, and
his tall figure seemed to dilate to superhuman size.

“Why dost thou stare at me?” sneered Rudenfranck to Adolf, who gazed
upon him with a bewildered look; “why dost thou stare at me? Produce thy
treasure and claim thy bride.”

“No! no bride of hell!” shouted Mullerhorn. “I doubted this yesterday.
Away from us, Adolf Westerbok; and thou, mysterious being, whether thou
be phantom or devil, in the name of God I defy thee.”

“And see,” cried Mienckel, tearing open the valise, “what is here?”

“Old chips of iron and leather, as I live,” said Albrecht. “It is the
Evil One. Let us fly from here, else we die!”

Adolf gazed wildly at the valise, and with a loud cry of despair, seized
his rifle, and vainly endeavored to destroy himself.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rudenfranck, “thou hast yet seven years to enjoy thy
gold. These are the treasures for which thou hast forfeited thy soul.
Miserable fool! Did’st thou think it mattered to me whether thy fate was
prosperous or not! Into the snare thou did’st enter of thine own accord,
and thou must pay the penalty. Farewell! My ends are accomplished! For
the prescribed space of my life, wealth, wisdom, and power in the
fullest are mine! That space expired, I will mock at thee in the halls
of the fiend. This sacrifice of thy soul hath ensured my success, and I
thank thee for it. Farewell, Adolf Westerbok. Fool! idiot! driveller!
Thou hast thy hire, and I triumph over the world of spirits.”

As he spoke, he waved his magic sceptre. The cloud enveloped him in its
folds, and he disappeared, with a laugh of malicious scorn.

Barbara Mullerhorn survived the misfortunes which had attended her early
love, and lived to marry a wealthy farmer of the neighborhood, who
proved himself every way worthy of her choice.

Piet and Agatha also entered upon the matrimonial engagement, and their
descendants may still be found among the hills.

For some years after, a wan, gaunt, and ragged wretch might have been
seen toiling and digging incessantly along the range of the Wolf Hills.
The fire of lunacy burned in his eye, he spoke to no one, and never
uttered language, save in his insane self-communings. The neighbors
universally shunned him, and no charitable voice soothed his misery. He
dwelt in the gloomy cave by the run, where the unholy rites of
Rudenfranck had been celebrated. His sole occupation consisted in a
continual search after hidden treasure.

Seven years had elapsed since the occurrences above narrated, were
reported to have taken place, when a hunter, pursuing his game among the
Wolf Hills, accidentally discovered the dead body of a man, shockingly
torn and mangled, at the entrance of the cavern of the recluse. It was
the corpse of Adolf Westerbok, the Silver Digger of the Wolf Hills.

                                 NOTE.

    This legendary tale, we learn, is founded upon a superstitious
    tradition, still current among the backwoodsmen of Pennsylvania.
    The outline of the tale is preserved as far as the nature of the
    legend would permit. The cavern is yet to be seen, where the
    hidden treasures are supposed to have been concealed; and the
    hardy hunter of the mountains still regards it with fear, and
    prefers taking a long circuit through the woods, to passing the
    cavern after nightfall. The whole country, indeed, is full of
    such traditions, which only require the pen of a Scott to be
    perpetuated, alike for the amusement and wonder of posterity.
    Let no man say that America is without legendary lore, let no
    one deny that she affords materials for poetry! Every hill;
    every stream; every valley; every plain has its own wild story
    of border troubles, or Indian traditions. When shall _our_
    minstrel arise to hallow them in undying song?—Eds.

    Mt. Savage, Md. January, 1841.

                                SKATING.

            “The winter has come, and the skaters are here.”

                            BY GEORGE LUNT.

    The earth is white with gleaming snow,
      The lake one sheet of silver lies,
    Beneath the morning’s ruddy glow,
      The steaming vapors gently rise.

    Keen is the cool and frosty air,
      That waves the pine trees on the hill,
    And voiceless as a whispered prayer,
      Breathes down the valley clear and still.

    Come, ’tis an hour to stir the blood
      To glowing life in every vein!
    Up,—for the sport is keen and good
      Across the bright and icy plain.

    On each impatient foot to-day,
      The ringing steel again we’ll bind,
    And o’er the crystal plain away,
      We’ll leave the world and care behind.

    And, oh! what joy is ours to play,
      In rapid, round, and swift career,
    And snatch beneath the wintry day,
      One moment’s rest, and hasty cheer.

    Then, when the brief, sweet day is done,
      And stars above begin to blink,
    As home the swift lake bears us on,
      Our sweethearts meet us on the brink.

    Then gather’d round the cheerful blaze,
      While gusts without are blowing shrill,
    With laugh, and jest, and merry lays,
      We pass the jocund evening still.

    Around the board our feats all told,
      Comes nature’s welcome hour of rest,
    And slumbers never bought with gold,
      Sit light on each untroubled breast.

    No lagging pulse impedes our sleep,
      No startling dreams our couch annoy,
    But health and peace, in quiet deep,
      Smile hovering round the country boy.

    Then, when the morning bright and clear,
      Springs gayly o’er the glistening hill,
    With hardy sports we hail it near,
      Or hardy labors bless it still.

    Newburyport, Massachusetts, January, 1841.

                          THE SYRIAN LETTERS.

 WRITTEN PROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS
 KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.

                                                             Damascus.

  Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:

Your reply to my last epistle, my dear Cornelius, was the more pleasing,
because so unexpected.

The speed of its transmission shows the great measure of our obligation
to the sagacity and enterprise of Constantine. For who, until our
emperor bent to it the considerations of his active mind, ever knew of
such rapidity of communication?

In the fair lines before me, I again greet the face of a friend, and
hold cheering communion with one divided by long distance. I promised in
my last to give you some description of the curious ceremonies of those
worshippers, and I find you are urgent that I should fulfil it, since I
was so fortunate as to witness some of the hidden mysteries.

You esteem it strange that I, a foreigner, and but a few hours in
Baalbec, should have stood at once upon such good terms with Mobilius,
as to have induced him to conduct me to one of the most secret recesses
of the temple—with all the perils of exposure through my carelessness.
I have nothing to offer in answer to your surmise but conjecture.
Mobilius was certainly upon some familiar footing with the priests, and
perhaps being partly moved by the hope that the imposing magnificence of
the ceremonial would win a convert to his creed, he ventured to
introduce me. If such was his anticipation, how signally in error! how
vain to fancy that the sense can blind the judgment! that the splendor
of the cloud that curtains some yawning chasm in the mountain side, can
be mistaken for the solid pathway.

The sun had long gone down beneath the dizzy peaks of Lebanon, indeed
night had far advanced, when Lactantius, Mobilius, and myself, properly
arrayed in dark vestments, sallied toward the temple of the sun. Hurried
along at a rapid pace, for he feared we had tarried too long, we soon
came in view of the temple’s towering portico, which may still be seen
by the curious stranger, even in the absence of the moon; for
ever-burning lamps, filled, as they say, by never-failing oil, hang
beneath the architrave. Entering at the great door, we were stopped by
the porter, but recognising Mobilius, he permitted us to pass, without
farther scrutiny, though he was evidently displeased; for although I
could not clearly distinguish what he spoke, I heard him mutter angrily
in the Syrian tongue.

We did not cross the grand courts, which, like the portico, were filled
with perpetual lamps, but hastened through low corridors, vaults, and
crooked passages, which might defy the skill of man to retrace, but
Mobilius seemed well accustomed to them, so that I inferred he had acted
as a guide on more than one occasion. After endless windings, we came
into an archway, faintly lighted from without, and proceeding farther,
entered a dark room. Here we were obliged to grope our way, and were
commanded by Mobilius to tread with the utmost caution. We speedily,
however, came to a spot, from which we beheld the great floor of the
temple, through a narrow opening, artfully concealed in one of the
ornaments of the entablature. All was still.

“Earlier than I expected,” whispered Mobilius, “the ceremonies have not
yet begun.”

This leisure enabled me to examine the exquisite architecture of the
edifice.

The temple was the loftiest of all those that surrounded it, and which
had their position and style of architecture in strict reference to
this, as their great centre. The roof was of marble, and I could clearly
distinguish, by the lamps around, the delicacy and lightness of its
mouldings, pannels, and compartments. In the centre was a sun, carved in
the full glory of his rays: marshalled at equal distances, surrounded by
its sculptured edge, and sunk deeply into the marble, like a picture in
its frame, were the heads of Venus, or as this people designate her, the
“Syrian Goddess,” and also of Jupiter and other deities; and if I do not
err, I could discern, constellated like the rest, the heads of
Antoninus, and of other Roman emperors.

The marble walls were carved with niches and tabernacles disposed in two
rows, which were filled with statues, between the floor and the roof,
and supporting the latter, stood pilasters and columns of the same order
as those which sustain the architrave.

Upon the tesselated pavement in the centre of the temple was erected a
gorgeous altar, composed in part of precious metals, and of rare and
various marbles, tastefully inlaid, and yet all designed in conformity
with the strict rules of the architect. The fires upon it threw a
reddened glow upon the walls and pillars, and a representation of the
sun seemingly illumined from within, by a mildly burning light, whether
real or unsubstantial, I cannot say, hovered above the altar, resembling
the undulating brightness which the agitated waters in the vase cast
upon the tapestry, or the flickering pale reflection of the moonbeams on
the ground, as they struggle through the trembling leaves. My thoughts
now reverted to the ceremonies we had come to witness, and some
perplexing fancies, in spite of resolution, stole upon me. First, the
brief acquaintance of Mobilius; the knowledge that Lactantius was a
Christian, and his increased apparent dislike of that form of worship,
since Constantine had threatened to close the temples of his faith; and
Lactantius had expressed a hope it might be so, and the fact that there
was, unquestionably, a connection between Mobilius and some of the
priests. But again I thought could he be so base as to delude and betray
those who had reposed such confidence, and would not his fears prevent,
if he even would, because of the certainty of detection? While these
reflections were flashing through my mind, the soft mingling of many
voices swelling into the full pitch of harmony, and then sinking and
dying as if wafted away upon the wings of the wind, broke the spell, and
aroused my attention. Such clear, rich, enrapturing melody, I never
heard, even surpassing that which floated from the shores of Cyprus; and
a thrill of pain ran through my veins as it suddenly ceased, just as if
you were to dash a harp into pieces in the midst of its sweetest
outpourings.

“What means this?” I whispered, but a low murmur from Mobilius brought
me to instant silence. Directly I heard a silvery ringing voice swell
forth a chaunting note, and all the voices fell in one by one, with
sweet and heavenly accord, until the lofty temple echoed and re-echoed
with the sounds.

The great door then sprang asunder—without the jarring of a hinge—by
some imperceptible agency, revealing in magnificent array, numerous
ranks of priests, clothed in vestments of the costliest dyes, and
walking to the sound of instruments, with measured tread, in glittering
procession. Some bore many of the symbols of their faith—such as the
heifer’s head—the crescent, the golden bull—some ears of corn, others
silver torches, when ascending the altar steps, they lit them at its
fires, which threw into still brighter effulgence, the dazzling
ornaments of the priests, and all the solemn pageants. This was, as
Mobilius whispered, the splendid ceremonial which precedes the great
sacrifice. Now came a bewildering and elaborate observance of the usual
ceremonies, but so numerous and complicated, that it were tedious to
recount them, if I even could.

After a little the music was again heard, both of instruments and
voices, swelling, blending, and pouring forth the same entrancing
harmonies. The priests, in three rows, circling round the altar, sent up
a swelling chaunt, and in a moment, as it were, with the quickness of
lightning, three bright fires sprang from the different portions of the
altar-top, so brilliant, as that for many seconds, I was not able to
discern a vestige of what I had just seen. At this, Mobilius, taking us
by the hand, said, “we must depart,” and led us by a different route
from that through which we entered. At one place, in suddenly opening
the gate, at the end of a long passage, I was startled by a flood of
light, illuminating a colonnade, which seemed to lead into a
subterraneous passage, plainly connected with another temple. We shortly
reached the great door itself, and glided through the portico, seemingly
unobserved, though I doubt not it was guarded by some unseen janitor. We
now emerged into the open air, and hurried rapidly on. Upon turning to
take a parting glance at the temple, my eye was riveted in deep and
reverential admiration. The moon was at a towering height, and shone
down clear and silvery. Not a cloud spotted the heavens, nor the
bright-eyed stars, that like watch-lights, palely burnt around her. No
sound disturbed the silence of the night, except the faintly dying note
of a trumpet, as it softly echoed from some far, far distant battlement,
or the rattling of some chariot wheels in its progress homeward, from
the banquet of the wealthy Heliopolitan, which lingered for a moment on
the ear, then was lost forever.

The lights upon the temple paled away in the eternal brightness of the
queen of night, throwing the portico in bold relief, as if it were
covered with a mantle of snow, and casting its deep recesses into the
shades of midnight. Beside the temple rose a grove, bathed in a silvery
flood of light, and the tall obelisks, which being but faintly visible
among the foliage, stood like spectres, and upon steady contemplation,
appeared to stir from the place of their foundation, such is the power
of fancy.

I turned; my companions were gone. They had passed on unheeded, and I
wandered as I best could toward the mansion of Septimus.

The gorgeous streets of this great city, lined, as they were, with
marble palaces and temples, and thronged but a few hours since with the
gay, the beautiful maiden of Heliopolis, or the busy wayfarer, were now
as silent as the place of tombs. The cold beams of the pale moon shone
still undimmed and uninterrupted, save here and there by a projecting
shade or darkling grove, whose loftiest boughs closely interweaving,
reared a verdant arch, revealing now and then through the thick foliage,
the night’s illumined heaven, and its cold azure depths. So I wandered,
cheered at intervals by the soft murmur of the fountains among the
trees, whose waters sparkled in the moonbeams.

This grove was ornamented with statues, and verily, I believe, of all
the Gods in the Pantheon, among which was Mars, whose highly polished
shield shone like another moon.

Now completely lost, I found myself near one of the city gates, and
hearing an approaching footstep, I recognised a citizen, some gay
Heliopolitan, I supposed, returning from a midnight banquet.

“Can you tell me,” I enquired, “in what direction lies the house of
Septimus?”

“Oh! readily,” he answered, “I will go with you, for it stands nearly in
my path. I perceive, my friend, you are a stranger, and we dare not
break our ancient rule of friendship.” Thanking him for his kindness, we
proceeded forward, and I found him a communicative and entertaining
companion.

“Pray,” said I, “what noble edifice is that immediately before us, now
silvered by the moon?”

“That is the temple of fortune, erected many years ago, after some
signal benefit had fallen on the city, through the beneficence of the
Gods. It is the work of the lamented Epamenides, his first, his last
design,” and he appeared much affected by the reflection. He continued,
“behold the proportions.”

I no longer doubted but that my friend was some young architect,
enthusiastic in his profession, and not being able to understand his
learned phrases, endeavored to divert the conversation.

“In what you say I cordially concur, but what is fame and fortune since
but a few lustres must snatch us from their enjoyment, though they be
the highest and the brightest which the generosity and admiration of our
countrymen can award? Man toils much ere he reaps, so that if the
harvest is not scanty it is ours for the enjoyment of but a brief
space.”

“You do not draw your conclusion,” said he, “after the manner of the
model of all that is great in reason and philosophy. Were the votary to
hold such doctrines as these, he would never reach the fires, however
ardently he might fix his gaze upon them; he would never attain the
consummation of his burning wishes. But he would reason after this
manner—toil would be well were the goal worth the reaching. So mark the
inconsistency.”

Although not convinced, I was compelled, forsaking my former conjecture,
to conclude that the stranger was some eminent philosopher of
Heliopolis, so ingeniously did he argue. Though I thought it could not
be of so severe a school as some sternly avow.

Walking a little, we met a man in the agonies of a strange sickness.
Here I fancied will be afforded an opportunity of testing the truth of
my conjecture—for philosophers, especially those of the present day,
are ever ready to prescribe both for afflictions of body and of mind
precepts which they are most rarely in the habit of practising
themselves. But I was again mistaken, for, taking the sick man by the
hand, he examined his pulse, and closely scrutinised his features, upon
this abstracting a small casket, containing medicines, from his robes,
he administered a portion, and its good effects were wonderful. All
conjecture was now put to flight; for I at once decided that my new
friend was a disciple of Hippocrates.

How fruitless is all surmise, for he afterward informed me he was a
member of the forum, and held an office under the emperor. This brought
me to the widely spreading portal of Septimus—which almost seemed to
welcome me after my absence. I met Lactantius pacing to and fro the hall
with Mobilius, as if theirs had been an intimacy of months. “Ah!” said
the latter, “we were about sallying out for you—but yet knew it would
prove of no avail in such a city as this.”

“Welcome,” exclaimed Lactantius, “I was anxious on your account. How
came you to leave us?”

“I did not leave you—it was you who left me—doubtless in the heat of
controversy upon the Chaldean mysteries.”

“I understand your meaning, Servilius,” said he, smiling, “but how came
you here at all; you are not acquainted with the streets of Baalbec,
especially by moonlight?”

“Through the kindness,” I replied, “of Apicius.”

“You are fortunate,” ejaculated Mobilius, “and should deposite your
offering to-morrow in the temple of fortune, as is the custom here. He
is the first of statesmen and advocates; an accomplished orator, and a
very generous and learned citizen. If he pressed you to visit him at his
palace, you are still more fortunate.”

“And so he did,” I rejoined.

It proved as Mobilius predicted, for I did not meet a kinder or more
noble-hearted friend than this same Heliopolitan.

“As it is late,” observed Lactantius, “we will seek our couches, and
to-morrow,” archly glancing at Mobilius, “we may examine the Egyptian
mysteries.”

But I must draw to a conclusion, least I should sketch this epistle to a
tedious length. I bid you an affectionate

                                                             Farewell.

                             *     *     *

                          THE SOUL’S DESTINY.

                         BY MRS. M. S. B. DANA.

    And oh! the soul! she saw in visions bright,
    The veil withdrawn which hides the world of light,
    With eye of faith she gazed in tearful joy,
    And they were there! her husband and her boy!
    Sweet hope of Heaven! thou art a healing balm—
    If storms arise thy deep rich holy calm
    Comes with a spirit influence to the breast,
    And to the weary mourner whispers “rest!”
    Rest—for the fondly loved, the early dead!
    Rest—for the longing spirit Heavenward fled!
    Rest—from a tiresome path in weakness trod!
    Rest—in the bosom of the Saviour, God!

                     THE SACCHARINEOUS PHILOSOPHY.

“Her ‘prentice han’ she try’d on man, and then she made the _Lasses_ O.”

Gentle reader—art thou fond of molasses? Not only molasses in its
simple state, but in its various compounds? If thou art not I pity thee.
Thy taste relishes not that which would otherwise be a source of
inexpressible pleasure. Eatables may be divided into the two great
classes of the sweet and the sour. From the full enjoyment of at least
one-half then of the good things of life (and that the better half) art
thou deprived. Again I pity thee.

But some may say, that although not lovers of molasses or sugar, (as I
shall consider them the same in this essay,) yet they are really very
fond of many sweet things. They like a portion of the saccharine, though
not fond of the gross and clogged sweetness of molasses. Let such,
however, think not of escaping in this manner. What! like a thing in
part and not in fulness—like the rose-bud and not the open rose—like
an amiable and not a perfectly angelic being—like five dollars and not
five hundred—like middling and not good health—like imperfect and not
perfect happiness—like strawberries and cream, and not sugar or
molasses—I tell thee, man, woman, or child—Caucasian, African, or
Malay, thou art crazy, bewitched, or tasteless.

How shall I describe the delicious sensations which the saccharine
matter imparts to the outward man? Alike in fruit, and flower, and
honey-comb most gratefully apparent. And thou, ice-cream! who has so
often diffused throughout the body of this “me,” a most delicious
coolness, what wouldst thou be without that essence, whose merits I am
exalting? Insipid and unmeaning, like unto a flower without color or
fragrance.

Oh! how well can I remember the time, when, released from school, I
hastened home, and, sitting on the kitchen door-sill, enjoyed my bread
and molasses. I never felt more thankful than when, plate in hand, and a
huge slice of the wheat loaf in reserve, the preparatory pause was made
“according to the good order used among friends.” And then, also the
“switchel,” that nutritious and cooling drink, (molasses and water, with
a _little_ vinegar,) with which our revolutionary fathers quenched their
thirst, when rooting up their ditch on old Bunker. Even the horrid tales
told me in childhood by the pestered servants, of thumbs, and fingers,
and bloody streaks, the evidence of cruel treatment in the Indian isles,
turned not the edge of my keen desire.

But I shall no longer occupy paper with the advocacy of the merely
sensual claims of molasses. It has other and higher demands upon your
notice. The author of this lately perused, with pleasure, that most
important work upon “The Philosophy of Clothes,” by Thomas Carlyle. It
suggested an interesting train of thoughts upon the subject before us.
Molasses, and its kindred sweets are the well fitting garments of the
spirit of love and purity. Here then we have an unfailing index by which
to judge of the characters of our fellow men. Herein is contained the
germ of our new and spiritual philosophy.

Charles Lamb in his “Elia,” quotes and endorses the sentiment of one of
his friends: “that no man be entirely reprobate who is fond of
apple-dumplings.” This I grant to be true. He did not, however, remember
that both the apples and the dumplings contain a portion of saccharine
matter; and this accounts _partly_ for the dislike felt toward them by a
reprobate spirit. And again—who ever heard of eating apple-dumplings
without sugar or molasses? I therefore bring Charles Lamb, who, although
he did not perceive the great _principle_ coiled up in this succulent
eatable, has taken notice of the above interesting _fact_, as a witness
to the truth of my theory.

When do we find that the love of all sweet things most commonly
prevails? In youth undoubtedly. When the mind is pure, free from worldly
guile, innocent, and _lamb_-like. When the fresh and untainted spirit
drinks eagerly and deeply at the fount of truth, and its type or
representative on earth (according to Swedenborg) pure water. Then,
sugar-plumes are a delight—ginger-bread a blessing—molasses candy,
especially when rolled and pulled out into sticks, _bright_ or _dull_
yellow, according to the cleanliness of the maker’s hands, “the staff of
life.”

The child becomes a man. He grows selfish and proud. He loses his relish
for innocent enjoyments, and with it his taste for molasses. The spirit
of love becomes impregnated with impure desires, and his outward man
changes accordingly. The saccharine matter no longer suits him in its
natural state—it must be fermented, and gases added, and gases
deducted, to correspond with the altered soul. What a beautiful emblem
is this change of saccharine substance to the poisonous liquor, of the
transition state of the immortal in man. First the spirit as in
childhood, pure and gentle, like the sweet juice of the grape. Then
youth, with its noble and generous bearing, comparable to the result of
the first fermentation. Manhood comes on, and with it the fermentation
proceeds. Soon the soul is agitated with innumerable gases—and from
their bubblings, and combinations, and effervescence, it comes forth a
new creature. Well satisfied are most if they go no farther than this,
but succeed in calming the troubled elements at this second
fermentation. While some, unable to arrest their progress, plunge into
the third and woful state; from which, if they succeed in coming out,
they appear all soured, and be-vinegared, your universal fault-finders
and found-fault-with. Too many, alas! emerge not even at this third
gate, but dash recklessly into the fourth, the last and worst, and
hope-decaying state—and when dragged through it, are cast out with the
blessed feelings of childhood putrified—the flesh rotted off, and
exposing the then loathsome skeleton of the soul, the never to be
destroyed framework of an eternal nature.

How beautiful also the resemblance in another sense. Wherever you meet
the poison fire, under whatever name it may assume, whether brandy, gin,
whiskey, wine, cider, or beer, as you are confident that the innocent
sugar must have been its basis; so in whatever form you meet vice in the
human heart, you may be also assured, that there was, and perhaps is
yet, in that heart a stronger or weaker basis of God-like love.

Although the good, spiritually, is to be considered the cause of the
liking for the saccharineous, yet they are to some extent mutually
creative. The outward may appeal so strongly as even to produce the
inward. “Hang up a coat in the highway, and will it not soon find a body
to fill it?” Who has not often observed the child when requested by its
parents to swallow the bitter dose of (so called) medicine? What a
struggle between duty and disgust! What measures are then taken by the
wise parent in order that the right may conquer? How is the virtuous
appealed to and strengthened? One single lump of sugar, perhaps not
larger than a hickory nut decides the question. Duty prevails. How shall
we account for such things without adopting a similar doctrine to that
which I have thus partly illustrated?

Reader, thou wilt believe or not, as thou choosest. But before this is
dismissed as unworthy, for thy own sake, examine facts. Find among thy
acquaintances, that man, sullen, and morose, and cruel, who loves
molasses. Understand me—_loves_ molasses—not who sometimes eats it,
but who clings to it with a passionate devotion—who prefers it to the
best pie ever baked, apple, mince, peach, or cranberry,—as I do. If
thou canst find such a being—thou thinkest I’ll recant? Not I. Such a
man is an anomaly, a monster, deserves not to live—and if he knows what
a beautiful theory he is practically marring, and has the least spark of
generosity within him, is willing to die. If he wont die I care
not,—he’s only an exception, and “proves the truth of the general
rule,” as all metaphysicians will tell thee.

If it were needful I could skip from individuals to nations—could prove
the truth of my doctrines by referring to the Irish with their potatoes,
buttermilk, and whiskey—the Hindoo and his rice—the West Indian slave
with his patient endurance, the result of his frequent sucking at the
juicy cane.

But why multiply proof? Why refer to the bee with his industrious
habits, caused by living entirely upon honey—the bear with his good
nature, hugging you, even when in anger, to his bosom, how he also likes
sweet things—the humming-bird, with its love for the sweets of
flowers—the—but why instance more?

Oh! ye wise, give ear while I call your attention to this new
philosophy, which I name saccharine, and not transcendental. Parents,
guardians, physicians, nurses,—“they that have ears to hear let them
hear.”

                                                                Ella.

                                WINTER.

                            BY J. W. FORNEY.

                The leaf hath fallen!
    E’en the withered leaf; and from the trees
      Hath faded Nature’s robe of living green;
    While, thro’ their naked boughs the wintry breeze,
      Makes mournful music o’er the vanished scene—
    The funeral requiem of those blushing flowers,
      That bloomed and flaunted in the sunny air,
    When the coy spring-time and her laughing hours,
      The graceful monarchs of the season were.

                The song is hushed!
    And gone those warblers for a softer clime,
      Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymn
    Made the gay summer but a trysting time,
      And prayerful music poured aloft to Him!

    No more they usher, with their mellow song,
      The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud—
    Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng,
      Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud.

                The brook is frozen!
    The babbling streamlet sparkles now no more
      In the full glory of the sun’s warm beam;
    The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er,
      And sleep is brooding on the modest stream.
    There are no flowers on its frozen side—
      The sun shines only with a cheerless glance:
    Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride,
      Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance.

    Lancaster, Pa. January, 1841.

                      THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.

                           BY J. ROSS BROWNE.

                                Part I.

    One who dothe hymself professe to be the teller of a hystorye,
    must often be contente to doe that whych in annye other
    character he would be ashamed to owne to. He must unryddle
    thoughts, telle tales, spake of factes done pryrilye and not for
    worldlye showe.

                           _A Legende of the Monasterye of Lylis._

When life ceases to afford us gratification, we not unfrequently take a
strange delight in reviewing and pondering over the misdeeds of the
past, and in anticipating the weird and desolate future. This revelling
in the consequences of our own depravity; this spirit of darkness and
recklessness; this tendency to a defiance of all moral and religious
consolation—when morality and religion no longer dwell within us—may
be termed the wreck of hope, and life, and salvation; for as the
mariner, engulphed by the tempest, faces death in boisterous revelry, so
we seek to riot in our own wickedness, and plunge into perdition,
rejoicing in the sin, and reckless of its consequences.

Even while I write, the recollection of deeds which might well cause the
blood to curdle and the flesh to crawl, thrills me with an awful and
savage delight. The open gates of hell are ready to receive me, but I
rejoice in anticipating the hour of eternal ruin!

I am a native of Italy—a Venitian by birth; a wanderer by choice.
During the political disturbances under the doge, Paolo Reniers, I
obtained an office of considerable value; by which I was enabled to
enjoy a handsome annuity. For some time the French forces, commanded by
Bonaparte, had been endeavoring to take possession of Verona; and had
already made some attempts on Venice; but these eruptions were if any
thing the means of my promotion. Before the downfall of my patron, I
acquired a fortune which placed me on a footing with the patricians of
the day. Had heaven so ordained it, I might then have retired to my
villa, and in peace and seclusion enjoyed the fruits of my industry; but
the seeds of avarice were sown—I was destined to reap their harvest.
The intrigues of political life were not sufficiently disgusting to
deter me from applying for employment under the government, to the
successor of Reniers. That wary craft which had rendered me so
indispensable to this corrupt and imbecile monarch, was not overlooked
by Lugi Manini; for in a country where duplicity is the chief point, in
the education of individuals, to whom the official authority is
entrusted; and where art and cunning are so universal as to render every
man a match for his fellow, superiority of this kind is regarded with
peculiar veneration.

The satellites who swarmed about the court of Manini, were not slow in
betraying their jealousy at the preference with which he regarded me;
but where jealousy exists there is dissention; and even among my enemies
I had my partisans. The rancor of political strife rendered me fierce
and haughty; and few dared to avow their hostility in my presence.
Hardened in dissimulation, I could at once assume the gentlest tones of
friendship, or the most cutting sarcasm, and the coldest frown of
dignity. Increase of influence gradually compelled those who at first
resorted to the basest methods for my overthrow, to relinquish their
attempts, and acquiesce in my measures.

Power, however, was not my chimera. I had contracted an undying thirst
for riches. I longed to regard myself as the master of millions. The
very clink of gold was sweeter to me than the applause of an enraptured
populace. Daily—hourly—my thoughts were concentrated on the darling
object of my ambition. That cold and stern temperament, which, in my
political schemes, had been fostered by every act of diplomacy, and
every duty of my office, rendered me callous to all worldly allurements,
save the desire of personal emolument.

Constantly moving in the gaudy circles of the court, I was at once
disgusted with the prodigal splendor of every thing around me, and
incited to aspire for the most exalted degree of opulence. Those whose
power was greater than mine, I merely looked upon as instruments by
which the great object of my life was to be effected. Even Manini
himself I did not consider in any other light than as one ultimately to
be the means of my success. Deceit in the service of others had made me
too wary a courtier not to cloak my designs in professions of the most
disinterested friendship toward him who was already the tool of my
machinations.

The schemes were too well concerted to fail. A few years of untiring
zeal found the doge still nominally my patron, but in reality my minion.
Wealth had poured in upon me. No longer was the desire of riches a
chimera; no longer had I to live in feverish and dreamy suspense; no
longer was I fortune’s votary.

Though in the prime of life, I too, passionately loved the possession of
my gold, to violate in my enjoyment the strictest rules of economy. I
gambled—but that was my business. I drank—but the excitement was
necessary to sustain my vital principle.

Having adhered to my victim till he was weak and worthless, I abandoned
him for more lucrative game. I sought out the haunts of the young and
inexperienced. I became a kind of polite sharper; for though I generally
gambled for the riches of my victims, I so managed as to secure the
spoils in defiance of ill-fortune.

We all know that the peculiar vices of a man’s character increase in
extent as his evil course of life is persisted in; even when that course
is not more intrinsically depraved by continuance. It was the case with
me. I did not actually rob; I did not murder; I committed no more
heinous crime than that of swindling or gambling; and yet every day I
became a worse and worse black-hearted man.

Before this epoch in my career had drawn to a close, I became acquainted
with the daughter of a Venitian banker. She was not beautiful; she was
not accomplished; she was not amiable—but she was rich. At this time, I
too, was rich. Both fortunes united would make a brilliant coalescence.
I pressed my suit, and succeeded. The foolish girl did not discover till
too late, that I despised herself, though I adored her fortune. My
wealth was now immense; and it might be supposed that I was satisfied;
but my thirst for accumulation was only excited by what I had already
acquired. Had I been possessed of the world’s wealth, I am pursuaded I
would have wept, like Alexander, because there was nothing left to
satisfy my desires.

That fortunate tissue of events which had hitherto marked my career, was
destined to be speedily reversed. In Venice there lived at this time an
individual, who, if he had not my boldness of purpose and capacity for
scheming, was at least my equal in shrewdness and avarice. This person
was called Carlo Dolci—a nomenclature which he boasted as certain
evidence that he was descended from the great painter of that name.
Dolci met me at my accustomed resort—one of those hells with which
Venice then abounded. His appearance was peculiarly forbidding; but I
fancied I had seen too much of the world to be prejudiced by mere
outward show. We were introduced by a mutual friend. I found that my new
acquaintance was a man of some knowledge, and of polished and persuasive
manners. His characteristic trait was extreme cunning; nor did his grey,
twinkling eye and piercing glance contradict what his manners and
language bespoke.

One topic led to another. We spoke of games. Dolci with his infernal
art, flattered me out of all prudence, by declaring he had heard so much
of my skill at play that he was determined to avoid strife in such an
accomplished quarter. Fired with a desire to verify his words, I
immediately challenged him. We began with moderate stakes, and I won. We
doubled, and I still won. We continued to increase the stakes till they
amounted to an immense sum. Both were equally excited; but my good
fortune did not yet leave me. Dolci, I knew, was rich; and I was
determined to fleece him. I doubled the largest stakes we had yet
contended for. Dolci was the winner. Maddened at such an unusual
reverse, I dared him to contend—fortune against fortune! Each now
staked his entire wealth. It was to be riches or poverty to me. The
swollen veins stood out on my forehead. A cold perspiration teemed from
the brow of Carlo Dolci. His teeth were clenched; his hair wild and
matted—his eye unusually haggard. The dice were thrown. I gasped for
breath. A dimness came over my eyes. With a dreadful effort I strained
them to catch a glimpse of my fate. Merciful God! I had lost—I was a
beggar!

With a grim smile, Dolci grasped the stakes. I rushed from the hell, a
frenzied wretch. A mocking laugh was borne after me; and I knew no more.
For several days I was a raving maniac. When I recovered my reason, I
found myself stretched on a pallet in my own house. My wife stood by,
with disgust and hatred pictured in her countenance. Her first words
were those of contumely and reproach. She did not make any allowance for
my situation; she reflected not that it was the province of the female
to forgive error, and to administer consolation. I married her for her
money; that was gone, and I now was to feel all the miseries of my
choice.

The only solace to my afflictions, was a little daughter about eight
years old, but uncommonly mature both mentally and physically. She
attended me with untiring assiduity; she lifted the cup to my lips; she
soothed with her silvery tones the agony of my mind; she sang for me her
plaintive airs; she bathed my burning temples; she prayed for me—she
wept for me—she was every way the beau ideal of innocence and
affection.

“Father,” she would say, “why do you clench your hands—why do you rave
of ruin and beggary? We shall all go to work when you recover; and we
shall earn more money and be very happy.”

Alas poor Valeria! she little knew the loss I had sustained. It was not
the loss of luxury for that I never enjoyed; it was not the loss of
domestic peace—for I was a stranger to it; it was not the loss of
reputation, for I cared nothing about it; but it was the loss of
MONEY—of that which gave the only zest and pleasure to my life.

One mortification was spared us in our beggary. No splendid edifice was
to be abandoned—no luxurious equipage to be sold—no servants to be
dismissed—no fine costumes to be sacrificed—no sensitive feelings to
be wounded by a change from affluence to penury and want; our condition
remained unaltered. While blessed with riches I was too careful of them
to be guilty of extravagance. My avarice, not my prodigality, was my
ruin. I did not gamble for the pleasure of the game, but from sheer
desire to accumulate immense sums of money. I then conducted my affairs
on a grand scale. Wealth poured in on me not by degrees, but in floods.
Now, however, the time arrived when I was doomed to begin a new career
under new auspices. I had no Reniero or Manini to plunder by a few acts
of political sagacity. I had no immense states to retrieve my want of
luck with Carlo Dolci. To toil up the rugged path—to exert my humble
acquirement—to trade—to barter—to beg—were now the only means in my
power to make amends for want of prudence.

Having settled my wife and daughter in a small house, I procured, partly
on credit and partly with what little was left, a meagre stock of
jewelry, with which I sallied out as a travelling pedlar. By adopting
this course of life I sacrificed no fine feelings; I never was proud of
any thing except of my riches. I considered not that because I had
wielded an intriguing pen in the great contest between Bonaparte and
Lugi Manini, my dignity would in any degree be lessened by honest
exertions for the retrieval of my fortune.

The succeeding epoch in my career may be passed over. To detail the
vicissitudes of my wandering life—to dwell upon the manifold reverses
of fortune—to trace succinctly the gradual and disheartening manner in
which I acquired money—and to portray the eagerness—the infantile
delight with which I grasped it and hoarded it to my bosom—would be
alike futile and uninteresting.

In struggling between penury and avarice, the autumn of my life passed
away. The misery of connubial contention, I am persuaded, whitened the
hair of my head, even before my winter had blasted it with its frosts;
but heaven ordained it that my declining age should not be harassed by
the persecutions of her with whom I had never known an hour of true
happiness. She died in a fit of madness—a malady to which her
passionate and ungovernable temper had frequently subjected her. It
would be adding hypocrisy to my manifold sins to say that I regretted
this instance of divine dispensation. I still had a
companion—differently, but no less intimately dependent on me for her
support and protection. This was my daughter, who had attained her
eighteenth year.

Valeria was beautiful—extremely beautiful. I had roamed in the
Florentine and Venitian Vatican; I had studied, if not with the eye of
an artist, at least with the eye of an ardent admirer, the most
exquisite productions of Georgione, Titian, Correggio, and Veronese; I
had dwelt in ecstacy on the master-works of every school from the
Appellean and Protogenean, to the Lombard, the Bolognese, the Carraci,
and the Rasain; but I had never seen any thing either ideal or
substantial, so exquisitely symmetrical—so etherially chiselled in
every feature—so thoroughly the impersonation of angelic beauty and
sweetness, as Valeria. I speak it with a father’s pride; I may be
partial, but I believe I am sincere. The dark, luxuriant hair—the
languishing eye—the finely rounded arm—the faultless figure bespoke
Italian blood; and that too of a gentle quality; for though I claim no
distinction, I am myself of noble descent.

In Valeria, then, I saw my future fortune. I had sufficient to support
life; but I desired wealth. To sell my daughter to the best advantage
was now the sole and engrossing subject of my thoughts. I cared not
whether I gained her an honorable alliance or not; money, not titular
distinction, was the object for which I determined she should be
sacrificed.

There lived in Venice, at this time, a Neapolitan nobleman, of agreeable
and accomplished manners, and fine fortune, named Don Ferdinand Razzina,
upon whom I had long looked as the instrument by which my schemes were
to be consummated. Razzina was young and volatile. His imprudence
rendered him easily subservient to my machinations. By the most
consummate art I managed that he should get a glimpse at Valeria. This
proved sufficient stimulus to an ardent imagination, to fire him with
the most extravagant notions of her beauty. He had barely seen her as a
flitting shadow: that shadow surpassed to him in loveliness the beau
ideal of his airiest dreams. I knew too much of the human heart not to
concert my measures on the fact that mystery is the food of love; and in
a very short time Don Ferdinand was supplicating at my feet for
information concerning the fairy vision he had seen.

“Nothing,” said he, “shall be spared in remuneration for your services.
I love her. I shall never love another. My peace and happiness for ever
more depend on her. If you respect the passions common to humanity; if
you are not devoid of every feeling of sympathy; if you value your own
welfare, and my peace of mind—procure me an interview!”

Schooled in cunning, I treated the matter with indifference; I dwelt on
other themes—but finding Don Ferdinand deaf to aught, save the
engrossing object of his thoughts, I consented to introduce him, on an
enormous advance, to my daughter. He seemed much surprised at this
declaration; for he had fancied—from what cause I know not—that
Valeria was my protege, and the unfortunate pledge of some noble amour.
In a moment the truth of my schemes burst upon him. He was
young—ardent—impetuous—but he neither wanted penetration nor
humanity.

“Wretch!” he cried, with all the indignant fervor of one unaccustomed to
such unnatural cupidity—“you would sell your daughter’s honor!—you
would ruin her for your own emolument!” He paused in agitation for some
moments, during which I maintained a grim and stony smile—then
continued, “but your villainy is nothing to me. I shall not upbraid you
for what turns to my own advantage. Here is the sum. Recollect, however,
_we perfectly understand each other as to the terms_.” I answered merely
by a leering nod of the head. Razzina departed—promising to call on the
ensuing evening.

That short but active interview had laid bare the character of the noble
prodigal. He was evidently gifted with no common intellect. He had seen
little of the world; so that whatever sagacity he had was inherent. Much
good was mixed with the evil which formed his prominent traits. He was
young and passionate; but he had no small share of the milk and honey of
human kindness. His opinions respecting my course I regarded with
contempt. I had studied too deeply the mysteries of human nature to be
baulked in my designs by a beardless and soft-hearted youth. I knew that
the bait was too well administered to be rejected.

Returning to a miserable garret in which I always slept to avoid the
expense of furnishing the lower part of the house, and also to enjoy the
solitude, I flung myself on a pallet, and spread the gold on the floor.

A filthy lamp threw a sickly and flickering light on every thing around.
The wretched place was strewn with rubbish and dirt; here and there lay
a broken stool, or the remains of a chair; in the centre stood a greasy
and ricketty table, and hung up in confusion, on the walls, were
battered tin-cups—a few platters—a spoutless coffee-pot—and sundry
tattered habiliments.

I glanced around me with a smile of sinister meaning. I piled up the
gold—threw it down again—and scattered it about, and grasped it once
more with childish eagerness. Then, as if fearful of detection, I hid
it, fervently praying that the Almighty would watch over, and preserve
it.

It was now necessary that my daughter should become acquainted with part
of my designs; and I summoned her. In a moment she was at my feet.

“Valeria—” and as I addressed her, I endeavored to modulate my voice
into tones as affectionate and as soothing as possible—“Valeria, we are
very poor—God knows we are.”

“Yes; but father why speak of it now? We are as well off as most people,
and I am sure we need no luxuries.”

“My child, you know not our poverty. You see me now a decrepid and
palsied old man. I am unable to make a living; and henceforth on you I
must depend.”

“I shall cheerfully do what I am able, father.”

“I know it my child—I know it; but your utmost exertions cannot save us
from starvation, unless properly directed. Valeria, listen to me. I ask
you as a father will you obey my commands?”

“As long as they are bounded by reason and virtue, I shall. I have
always obeyed you—I am not disobedient, I sincerely believe.”

“Valeria, can you love?”

“I can. I _do_ love.”

“Ha! whom do you love?”

“I love you, my father—and—”

“Speak!”

“I love Marco da Vinci—I never intended to deny it.”

In a frenzy of rage and astonishment, I started to my feet, and stood
for some moments like one transfixed. My lips were white; my mouth
foamed; my cheek was blanched; my eye fiery and distorted; and my whole
frame convulsed with passion.

“God’s curse be on you!” I shrieked, shaking my clenched hand in the
face of the terrified girl—“God’s curse be on you, for the declaration.
_You_ _love Marco da Vinci?_ May a father’s ban fall like the flames of
perdition on you! May the heart that you so foolishly bestowed, be
blighted and withered in its bloom! May the avenging hosts gather round
you at your death-bed; and taunt you, and riot in your agony!”

“Father! Father! O, cease those horrible words! you will drive me mad!”

“No,” I replied, in a stern but more softened tone, “I shall not drive
you mad, Valeria; but I have news that will make you feel as if madness
would be a blessing. _You are sold._ Here is the money”—and I drew
forth the gold I had received from Don Ferdinand. “Yes, to-morrow you
will be the mistress of Don Ferdinand Razzina.”

“Never!—so help me God!” cried Valeria, in a voice so calm and
determined, that I feared for the success of my schemes; “death—aye, a
thousand deaths before dishonor!”

“We shall see,” I replied, with a grim smile.

“_We shall!_” said Valeria, retiring; and in tones so deep and ominous
that I shuddered. She repeated, “_we shall!_”

Hitherto I have devoted my pen almost exclusively to the narrative of my
own confessions. I must now diverge a little to introduce the reader to
a character, of whom nothing has yet been mentioned except his name.

Marco da Vinci was a young painter, of extraordinary talents, and great
mental accomplishments. He was descended from a noble house; and might
have enjoyed the height of affluence had not misfortune set her seal
upon him at an early age. Favored in an unusual degree as to his mental
and physical capacities, he received all the care and cultivation that a
fond father could bestow; and on attaining his eighteenth year few could
boast a more vigorous mind—a more profound education, or a more chaste
and amiable character. Thus far was Marco successful.

Smitten with an undying thirst for distinction, he resolved henceforth
to abandon the quiet enjoyments of leisure and affluence, and dedicated
himself altogether to the nobler calls of ambition. Alas! he knew not
that he had yielded the substantial enjoyments of life for a misnomer—a
chimera!

It was the ardent hope of Da Vinci’s father, that the youth should, at
no remote period, occupy an exalted station in the affairs of the
government; but the rancor and bitterness of political life had no
charms for the young enthusiast. Enraged and disappointed at the
unexpected determination of his son, Don Ignatius da Vinci, abjured him
in the zenith of his passion—disowned him, and left him an outcast and
a beggar.

The ambitious Marco wended his way to Venice, where his talents soon
attracted the attention of a distinguished painter. Under this
individual, Da Vinci studied with all the devotion of an enthusiast, and
an unfeigned lover of the art. A very short time was requisite to make
him a finished painter. That pruning to rule—that softening and
chastening, which can only be attained by painful and almost hopeless
perseverance in most cases, were soon mastered by the ardent disciple.

In the course of time, Marco da Vinci accumulated, by his industry,
sufficient capital to begin business on a small scale. At first he
succeeded beyond his expectations; but soon he found that novelty is the
spice of patronage, and that before him he had every probability of
sinking into oblivion, and of eking out his days in starvation. Too
proud to apply for assistance to those by whom he had been so basely
injured, he determined to submit to his fate with manliness and
fortitude, and to merit, if possible, sufficient patronage to support
him, while he should by an extraordinary effort of his pencil retrieve
his past misfortunes.

A premium had been offered by the Academy of Arts, for the best portrait
of a female that could be placed in the gallery in time for the annual
exhibition. Da Vinci resolved to take his model from nature. The fame of
Valeria’s beauty was proverbial throughout the city; and the candidate
for the palm of excellence, sought out our miserable tenement, and
implored permission to have a sitting. Too proud of the opportunity to
extend her reputation, I consented to the proposition. Fool! fool! that
I was! Why could I not see the danger of placing this young and ardent
soul in such a temptation? Da Vinci was young—handsome—and
intellectual: Valeria was innocent—amiable—and beautiful—could they
but love? Fool, I say, fool that I was!

    Louisville, Kentucky, January, 1841.

                           THE FAIRY’S HOME.

    Our home is far ’mid the greenwood trees,
    Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden’d breeze,
    Where the moon’s beams glance on the sleeping tide,
    And the lily grows in its stainless pride.

    There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell,
    In the cavern’d shades of the fairy’s cell,
    Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song,
    Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng.

    There calm as the blue of the “bending skies,”
    Whose beauty may bless e’en fairy’s eyes;
    We will pass those hours of careless glee,
    Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody.

    Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly’s light
    That shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night,
    And led by its star-like rays we’ll roam
    ’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home.

    The notes of the song-bird echo there,
    And are warbled again by our sisters fair;
    And the tones of each pure and gentle thing,
    Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing.

    Away from the cares and toils of life,
    No part have we in its scenes of strife,
    But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea,
    Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be.
                                        S. H.

    Philadelphia, January, 1841.

                       NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

                        BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.

    The dead but sleep—they do not die,
      They live in mem’ry’s holy cell—
    The woodland green, the summer sky
      Of them in gentle language tell.

    Each scene that knew them daily speaks
      Of all their love so fond and true,
    And tears that tremble on our cheeks,
      But nerve our sadness to renew.

    The grief that rent our hearts when first
      Death broke our early bond in twain,
    Within our souls, by memory nurst,
      Will oft times freshly burst again.

    Yet why indulge unfading grief,
      For those we loved and now deplore?
    Theirs is a slumber calm and brief—
      They are “not lost, but gone before.”

    January, 1841.

                        NOT FOR ME! NOT FOR ME!

                     A popular Air in the Opera of

                            CATHERINE GRAY,

                        _AS SUNG BY MRS. WOOD_.

                   THE MUSIC COMPOSED BY M. W. BALFE.

       Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration: musical score]

    Not for me, not for me,
      Regal halls and courtly life,
    Oh! more

[Illustration: musical score continued]

    blest, my lot would be,
      Far from ev’ry scene of strife,
    From the world from all retiring,
      Gladly would this heart remove,
    One dear boon alone desiring
      Still to be with thee I love:
        Still to be with thee I love.

                  2

    Let me seek that tranquil home,
      Once I knew in happier hours,
    Free to wander, free to roam,
      Thro’ my own lov’d peaceful bow’rs.
    Not for me the world’s false pleasures,
      Not for me where splendour moves,
    More than these my bosom treasures,
      More than these my heart now loves,
        More than these my heart now loves.

                          SPORTS AND PASTIMES.
                               SHOOTING.

We open this month with the first of a series of excellent papers on
Shooting, from the pen of the author of the paper on Angling, given in
our last. It contains some valuable hints to young sportsmen, on the art
of Taking Aim.

The pursuit and destruction of wild animals for security, food,
clothing, or pastime, have been among the occupations of men in all
ages, since the primeval _bruere_ overspread the earth,

    And wild in woods the noble savage ran!

Before the more refined arts are introduced into any country, the chase
is a necessity, and the chief business of life. The stronger and more
noxious animals are destroyed for individual safety; the weaker for
food. It is not until civilisation and her handmaid luxury have seated
themselves, that the chase becomes a pastime. Nor does it appear when
the sportsman first sprang into existence. There is no corresponding
word in any ancient language, since that could not be called a sport
which was a necessity. It is probable that in the earliest ages of
society, the dog was the sole agent employed by the hunter. Afterward
various weapons, manual, missile, and projectile—as the club, the dart,
the arrow, were used by the hunter and fowler. Then would follow
springs, traps, nets, and all that class of devices for the capture of
beasts and birds _feræ naturæ_, comprehended in the term toils. As dogs
were employed to hunt quadrupeds, so, in process of time, hawks were
trained to bring down birds for the service of their master. The
arbalest or cross-brow, preceded the matchlock, which, however, could
scarcely be called an implement of the chase, but which, in the order of
succession, brings us down to the rifle, and original fowling-piece with
its long, heavy barrel, and flint and steel lock; and lastly, we arrive
at the double barrels and detant locks of the modern shooter.

                              TAKING AIM.

When the dog points, or when birds rise near to the shooter, he should
immediately draw back one hammer with the right thumb; experienced
sportsmen disapprove of the practice of cocking both barrels at the same
time. They think that it ought to be a rule never to cock either barrel,
until the game be upon the wing, then that the left barrel should be
cocked and fired, and thereafter taken from the shoulder. The right
barrel should then be cocked and fired if necessary; if not discharged,
it should be put back to the half-cock, and the left re-loaded. He
should never be in haste. It is more prudent to let the bird escape than
to fire hastily. If on open ground, he should not fire until the bird is
more than twenty yards distant. He should be deliberate in bringing up
the piece to his shoulder, and in making it to bear on the object, but
the moment he has brought it to bear, the finger should act in
co-operation with the eye, the eye being kept open the while, so that
the shooter may see whether the bird falls, or feathers fall from it,
for if he does not see it distinctly at the moment of firing, there is
something defective in his system of taking aim.

The shooter, when learning, should never aim directly at the body of a
rabbit on foot, or of a bird on the wing. This precaution is scarcely
necessary when the motion of the object is slow, but by habituating
himself to it on all occasions, he will the sooner become an adept. His
mark should be the head, the legs, or a wing, if within twenty yards.
When farther off, he should make some allowance, according to the
distance and speed of the object moving. His aim should be at the head
of a bird rising or crossing—the legs of a bird flushed on an eminence
and moving downward from him—the wing of a bird flying from him in an
oblique direction. His aim should be at the head of a rabbit, in
whatever way it may be moving. The same rules apply when the object is
more than twenty paces distant from the shooter, making allowance for
the speed. Thus, for a partridge crossing, the allowance of aim before
it with a detonator, at twenty paces, will be one inch—at thirty paces
two inches—at fifty paces five inches—at fifty-five paces seven
inches. Half this allowance will be proper when the bird moves in an
oblique direction. When an object moves directly from the shooter, at
more than twenty paces distance, he should fire a little above it. When
a bird or rabbit approaches the shooter directly, he should not aim at
it until it has passed him, or has turned aside. The moment it has
altered its course the gun should be brought up, and no time should be
lost in firing.

It is not easy at all times to form a correct idea of the distance of a
bird from the gun. The nature of the situation, and the state of the
weather often deceive the eye. Thus, on a bright day birds appear to be
near, and on a dull day distant. It is much easier to estimate the
distance of a bird in small enclosures, where hedges or trees serve as
guides, than on open ground. The hedges, indeed, tend to deceive the
unpractised eye; the object is supposed to be much farther off, while on
open ground it is supposed to be nearer, than it really is. It is often
very difficult to determine whether a grouse is within range; and
sometimes the mist increases the difficulty, for then the bird is either
scarcely seen, or else magnified, by the sun’s rays gleaming through the
mist, to an unnatural size. In general, grouse are farther off than they
are supposed to be. The shooter, however, has a peculiar sight: every
bird he brings down, in good style, is at sixty yards distance. It is
amusing sometimes to hear persons talk, after they have been _watched_,
of the distances at which they have effected their shots; they ever
think the game so much farther off than it really was. The sportsman who
has not convinced himself by actual measurement, often seems to be
laboring under a species of hallucination when speaking of his
distances, and, if he bets on them, to a certainty loses. Birds killed
at fifteen paces are thought to be at twenty-five, and those at
twenty-five are estimated at thirty-five or forty, and so on to the end
of the story!

When a covey or brood rises, the shooter should fix his eye on one bird,
and shoot at that bird only. He should not be diverted from it by other
birds rising nearer to him while he is bringing up his gun, unless the
bird he first set his eye upon be decidedly out of all reasonable
distance, so as to render the chance of killing exceedingly remote. By
observing this rule, he is not only more certain of bringing down his
game, but he will more frequently kill the old birds—a desideratum, for
two reasons; first, because he will, in all probability, disperse the
covey, which being done, any sportsman may generally, without
difficulty, bag a few brace; and secondly, because the old birds make a
better show in the game-bag.

We think that all shooters, except the veriest bunglers, use a gun
properly as regards throwing the end of it upon the object aimed at, and
drawing the trigger, and that any inaccuracy of aim must be attributed
to the eye not being in the proper place when the aim is taken.

The habit of missing arises not from inability to throw the end of the
gun upon the bird, but from the eye not being directly behind the
breech, which it necessarily must be for good shooting.

If there were a sight at each end of the barrel, it would be requisite,
when taking aim, to keep shifting the gun until both sights were in a
line between the eye and the mark; that, however, with a gun not well
mounted to the eye and shoulder, would be too complex an operation, for
before it could be performed, a swift bird would be out of reach; it
follows, then, that the shooter’s attention should be directed only to
the sight at the top of the barrel; and the breech end should come up
mechanically to the proper level.

When a person is nervous, or afraid of the recoil, he naturally raises
his head, and consequently shoots above the mark; on firing, he
unconsciously throws his head back, and then seeing the bird above the
end of the gun, he fancies he shot under it, when the reverse is the
fact. We may also observe that if the shooter does not keep his head
down to the stock, he will probably draw it aside, so that his aim will
be as if taken from one of the hammers, which would, of course, throw
the charge as much on one side of the mark, as raising the head would
above it.

The main point, then, in taking aim, is _to keep the head down to the
stock, and the eye low behind the breach_. The sportsman who, from habit
or practice, can invariably bring his eye down to the same place, and
keep it steadily there, so that he may always take aim from the same
starting point, will distance all competitors.

                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

    _“The Antediluvians, or the World Destroyed.” A narrative poem,
    in ten books. By James McHenry, M. D. Author of the “Pleasures
    of Friendship,” &c. 1 vol. J. B. Lippincott & Co.: Philada._

There are two species of poetry known to mankind; that which the gods
love, and that which men abhor. The poetry of the Dr. belongs to the
latter class, though he seems lamentably ignorant of this, from the long
essay on taste which he has given to the world in the shape of a preface
to the work before us, and in which his own peculiar merits and demerits
are discussed at sufficient length. He tells us that he has long been
tormented with an itching after immortality, and that, being convinced
not only that the writing of a poem was the surest passport to it, but
that the choice of a subject was the greatest difficulty in the way of
such a work, he has spent some years of his life in selecting the
present theme. He has also the modesty to acquaint the public that his
subject is inferior to Milton’s alone, leaving us, by a parity of
reasoning, to conclude that Dr. McHenry is next in glory to the heavenly
bard. We congratulate the Dr. on his finesse. There is nothing like
connecting one’s name with that of a genius, for if the world is not
deceived by it, you persuade yourself, like Major Longbow, by a constant
repetition of your story, of its truth. You become a great man in your
own conceit, fancy that the world does injustice to your talents, and go
down to posterity, if not as the falcon’s mate, at least as

    “A tom-tit twittering on an eagle’s back.”

Having thus associated himself with Milton, the Dr. proceeds to inform
us that, in the Deluge, he at length found a theme “exalted and
extensive enough for the exercise of poetic talents of the highest
order,” leaving us, a second time, to infer, what he is too modest
except to insinuate, that his own genius is unequalled. He then calls
our attention to the plot, asserting that the general “plan and scope”
of a poem are second only to its theme—that is, that diction, style,
and imagination, in short every requisite of a true poet, are but
“flimsy stuff.” The Dr. seems to know his own weak points, and when the
“galled jade winces;” but even his elaborated plot is worse than nine
men out of ten would construct. We have gleaned little from it except a
few facts, which would be strange, were they not ridiculous. There is a
description of a harem in the second book, from which we learn that
velvets, and embroidery were as much in vogue among the antediluvians as
now; an account of a siege in the eighth book, which settles the
disputed question, whether Greek fire, melted lead, and catapults, were
used then or not; and a detail of a battle in the same book, which gives
the divisions and manœuvres of the contending armies, and puts at rest
the assertions of military men, who trace our present tactics back no
farther than the invention of gunpowder. Besides this, there are two
marriages—a rescued maiden—one or more heroes, and as many heroines,
with an innumerable catalogue of minor incidents, in short, the
materials of a half a dozen bad novels, woven into a worse poem.

We are told in the outset that the “versification is not particularly
modelled after that of any preceding author,” and that our classic poets
afford no style “exactly suitable for this work,” and, consequently, we
are but little astonished when we meet with such passages as the
following:

      “Subservient to the foul, malignant fiends,
    The abandoned race of Cain their God forsook,
    And to the infernal agents gave their hearts.
    Oh! preference worse than foolish, choice insane!
    Which drove celestial spirits from their charge
    Of guardianship o’er human feebleness,
    And left the hapless Cainites in the power
    Of hellish tyrants, whom they blindly served,
    Lured by the sensual pleasures amply given
    In transient, poisonous recompense for guilt.”
                                   _Page 14._

Or this:

      “Here reigned the fierce Shalmazar, giant king,
    _Sprung from a mixture of infernal strain_,
    His sire, the power of lewdness, Belial named,
    Who, amorous of an earth-born beauty, won
    Astoreth, princess of Gal-Cainah’s realm,
    To his unhallowed love.”
                                   _Page 16._

What the meaning of the author is in the line above italicised, we
challenge all Christendom to discover. But even no sense at all, is
better than mere verbiage, or coarse or improbable metaphor, as thus:

      “Repose at last, where it is ever found
    By weary mortals, in the peaceful grave,
    _In which his heir, that moralising youth,_
    _The melancholy Lameth, had before_
    _Laid down the o’erpowering burden of his woes._”
                                   _Page 12._

And again:

    “The _harnessed-spirits_ spreading forth their wings.”
                                   _Page 11._

And thus:

    “Then was the hour of vengeance; then the stern
    _Hell-generated_ tyrant felt dismay,
    And in his chariot fled—”
                                 _Page 262._

But we must bring a still heavier charge against the Dr., that of a
total want of originality. The whole plan and conception of the
Antediluvians is copied, but “longo intervallo,” after Paradise Lost.
Had Milton never written poetry, Dr. McHenry would never have published
bombast. Yet the one is only the shadow of the other’s shade. This
imitation is perceptible, not only in various attempts to copy the
versification, but oftentimes in more glaring and less defensible
plagiarisms. Would it, for instance, be believed that the second book of
the Antediluvians begins with a passage so nearly resembling the opening
of the second book in Paradise Lost, as to make, as Dogberry has it,
“flat burglary?” Thus:

    “High on a throne of royal state, which far
    Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
    Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand,
    Showers on her kings barbaric, pearls and gold,
    Satan exalted sat.”
                       _Paradise Lost, Book II._

    “In royal robes, magnificently bright,
    On his imperial throne of burnished gold,
    And polished ivory, which sparkling shone,
    With gems innumerable, of various hues,
    That shed a blaze of streaming radiance round
    The gorgeous hall, the haughty monarch sat.”
                     _Antediluvians, page 29._

And so on diluting the idea of Milton into a dozen more lines, and
shewing, at once, the grandeur of the model, and the feebleness of the
imitation. Yet Dr. McHenry calls himself a poet, and pretends to the
divine afflatus. But again:

            “Such scenes of cruelty and blood,
    Exhibited before appalled Heaven,
    _To make the angels weep_, to look on earth!”
                        _Antediluvians, page 202._

                “But man, frail man,
    Drest in a little brief authority,
    Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
    As make the angels weep.”
                              _Shakspeare._

We might multiply such instances;—but enough. Has the Dr. forgotten the
celebrated verse of Virgil?

    “Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.”

The Dr. appears fond of the use of epithets, especially such ones as
“infernal, fiendish, hellish,” and other coarse adjectives. We do not
object to the use of the two former, provided they appear sparingly and
in place, but really the work before us is seasoned rather highly with
such epithets for our taste. The Dr. however, appears to be of the
Tompsonian school in literature, and not only spices strongly, but
swashes away right and left at the accredited school. We advise him,
once for all, to give up poetry, which he disgraces, for physic, which
he may adorn. God never intended him for an immortal fame. We are
satisfied that, if he should be arraigned for writing poetry, no sane
jury would ever convict him; and if, as most likely, he should plead
guilty at once, it would be as quickly disallowed, on that rule of law,
which forbids the judges to decide against the plain evidence of their
senses.

    _“The Dream, and other Poems.” By the Hon. Mrs. Norton. Carey
    and Hart, Philadelphia: 1841._

Hemans, Baillie, Landon, and loveliest of all, Norton!—what a glorious
constellation for one language. France with her gaiety: Italy with her
splendid genius: even Greece with her passionate enthusiasm, cannot
rival such a galaxy. And this glory too, belongs wholly to the present
century, for though the harp of England has often been struck by female
hands, it has heretofore only given forth a rare and fitful cadence,
instead of the rich, deep, prolonged harmony which now rolls from its
chords.

Mrs. Norton is unquestionably,—since the death of Mrs. Hemans, the
queen of English song. In many respects she resembles that gifted
poetess: in some she is strikingly dissimilar. The same pathos, the same
sweetness, the same fancy characterize both; but in all that
distinguishes the practised author, rather than the poetess, Mrs. Hemans
has the advantage of her successor. Thus, the one is sometimes faulty in
the rhythm: the other never. Mrs. Norton will now and then be betrayed
into a carelessness of diction; Mrs. Hemans was rarely, if ever, guilty
of such solecisms. Such expressions, for instance, as the “harboring”
land, the “guiding” hand, the “pausing” heart, the “haunting” shade, and
others of like character, taken at random from the volume before us,
though not strictly improper, yet, as they are plainly expletive, and
weaken, instead of strengthening a sentence, are never to be found in
the poems of Mrs. Hemans, or of any one “learned in the craft.”

But, if Mrs. Norton is less correct than Mrs. Hemans, she is, on the
other hand, more nervous, more passionate, and at times more lofty. No
one can read “The Dream” without being struck by the truth of the
remark, that Mrs. Norton is the Byron of our female poets. There are
passages in some of her poems of greater power than any passages of like
length in Mrs. Hemans’ writings, though at the same time, there are a
far greater number of inferior lines in the poetry of Mrs. Norton, than
in that of her gifted sister. In short, the one is the more equal, the
other is the more daring. One is the more skilful writer: the other
shows glimpses of a bolder genius. There is less prettiness, and not so
much sameness in Mrs. Norton as in Mrs. Hemans. The former is not yet,
perhaps, the equal of the latter, but she possesses the power to be so,
if her rich fancy and deep feeling, now scarcely known to herself,
should ever be brought so completely under her control as were the
talents of Mrs. Hemans.

If Mrs. Norton had written nothing before, this volume would have
established her claim to be the first of living poetesses; but who that
is familiar with the world of song can forget the many gems—rich, and
beautiful, and rare—with which she has spangled beforetime her starry
crown? The world has taken more care of her glory than she has herself,
and the random pieces she has poured forth so divinely at intervals, and
which hitherto she has made no effort to preserve, have found their way
into the hearts of all who can be touched by the mournful or the
beautiful, until her name is cherished alike in the humble cottage and
the princely hall. And now she has come forth in more stately guise, not
as a new author among strangers, but as one long tried and known, one
endeared to us by old association, one whose melancholy music is, as it
were, a part of our very being.

“The Dream” is the longest poem in the volume before us, but, as it
makes no pretension to be considered a story, and has really no plot, we
shall not judge it by the ordinary rule of criticism. We shall consider
it only as a string of pearls, loosely joined together by the simplest
contrivance, the idea of a dream, narrated by a daughter to her
mother,—and, judging it in this way, we give it unqualified praise.
That its merit is unequal, is, in our eyes, no objection to its
beauty,—for have not all poets skimmed the ground as well as soared to
heaven? Yes! “The Dream” is unequal, but so is Lallah Rookh, so is
Marmion, so are all the tales of Byron, and so—to ascend a step
higher—is Comus, or Hamlet, or even the Iliad.

But Mrs. Norton, like her gifted sister, possesses one quality which
distinguishes her above all other writers, in this or in any tongue—we
mean in giving utterance to, what is emphatically, _the poetry of
woman_. In this they resemble no cotemporary, unless it is Miss Landon.
Women have written poetry before, but if it had been shewn to a
stranger, he could not have told from which sex it sprung. It is not so
with the poetry of these two gifted females. Every line betrays the
woman—each verse breathes the tender, the melting, the peculiar
eloquence of the sex.

Scarcely a page, moreover, occurs in the writings of either, which does
not bear testimony to woman’s suffering and worth. Yes! while it is the
fashion to sneer at the purity of woman’s heart, and while a pack of
literary debauchees are libelling our mothers and our sisters unopposed,
from the ranks of that insulted sex have risen up defenders of its
innocence, to shame the heartless slanderers to silence. Hear in what
eloquent numbers Mrs. Norton vindicates her sex:

    “Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,
      And what they do or suffer men record;
    But the long sacrifice of woman’s days
      Passes without a thought—without a word;
    And many a holy struggle for the sake
      Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill’d—
    _For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,_
      _And the strong feelings of the heart be still’d_,—
    Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,
    And leaves no memory and no trace behind!
    Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells
      In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate,
    Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells,
      Warmed by the fight, or cheer’d through high debate:
    The soldier dies surrounded;—_could he live_
    _Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?_

    Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom
    Shows deeper honor than a common tomb!
    _Who sleep within?_

Aye! who? Not woman, we can answer for it. God bless her who has written
thus. The wretches who would rob the sex of their purity of heart, and
their uncomplaining endurance of suffering, deserve to die, uncheered by
woman’s nurture, unwept by woman’s tenderness. Such beings are not men:
they are scarcely even brutes: they are _aliquid monstri_, monsters in
part. But again:

      “In many a village churchyard’s simple grave,
    Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave;
    In many a vault, where Death could only claim
    The brief inscription of a woman’s name;
    Of different ranks, and different degrees,
    From daily labor to a life of ease,
    (_From the rich wife, who through the weary day_
    _Wept in her jewels_, grief’s unceasing prey,
    To the poor soul who trudg’d o’er marsh and moor,
    And with her baby begg’d from door to door,—)
    Lie hearts which, ere they found that last release,
    Had lost all memory of the blessing, “Peace;”
    Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years,
    None saw but Him who marks the mourner’s tears;
    _The obscurely noble!_ who evaded not
    The woe which he had will’d should be their lot,
    But nerved themselves to bear!”

“The Dream,” as a whole, is the finest piece in the volume before us. It
abounds with glorious passages, of which we can only give two more
examples—the one, impassioned, nervous, and stirring as a trumpet—the
other sweet, and low, and musical as the rustle of an angel’s wing. Few
authors can boast such a varied power.

      “Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death,
    Each varied ill that waits on human breath,
    Rather than bid thee linger out thy life,
    In the long toil of such unnatural strife.
    To wander through the world unreconciled,
    Heart-weary as a spirit-broken child,
    _And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven,_
    _If thou couldst_ DIE—_forgiving and forgiven_,—
    Or with a feverish hope of anguish born,
    (Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn
    Of all the cruel foes that twixt ye stand,
    Holding thy heart-strings with a reckless hand,)
    Steal to his presence, now unseen so long,
    And claim _his_ mercy who hath dealt the wrong!
    Into the aching depths of thy poor heart,
      Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain,
    And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart,
      And burn like fire through thy bewildered brain.
    Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal,
    To teach thy fellow creatures how to feel,—
    Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,—
    Recall the hopes, the influences of years,—
    Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground,
    Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound,—
    Invoke the Heaven that knows thy sorrow’s truth,
    By all the softening memories of youth—
    By every hope that cheered thine early day—
    By every tear that washes wrath away—
    By every old remembrance long gone by—
    By every pang that makes thee yearn to die;
    And learn at length how deep and stern a blow
    Man’s hand can strike, and yet no pity show!”

What force! what passion! Never has Mrs. Hemans written thus,—few
indeed have done so except Byron.

We must pass “The Dream” with a single other quotation. It is on the
evening hour, and is sweet as a moonlit landscape, or a child’s dream of
heaven.

      “_That_ hour, once sacred to God’s presence, still
    Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill,
    The holiest hour of earth. _Then_ toil doth cease,
    Then from the yoke, the oxen find release—
    Then man rests, pausing from his many cares,
    _And the world teems with children’s sunset prayers!_
    Then innocent things seek out their natural rest,
    The babe sinks slumbering on its mother’s breast,
    The birds beneath their leafy covering creep,
    Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep;
    And angels, floating by on radiant wings,
    Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings,
    Catch the sweet incense as it floats along,
    The infant’s prayer, the mother’s cradle-song,
    And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar,
    As things too sacred for this fallen star.”

There is, in reading these poems, an abiding sense of the desolation
that has fallen on the heart of the writer, a desolation which only adds
to the mournful music of her lyre, like the approach of death, is
fabled, to give music to the swan. We have studiously avoided,
heretofore, touching upon this subject, as we would not, by awakening
pity, blind the judgment of the public, but we cannot avoid the remark,
that every page of this volume bears evidence that the heart of the
authoress, like that of Rachel, will not be comforted. The arrow has
entered deep into her soul. Like Mrs. Hemans, unfortunate in her
domestic life—for the miscreant who would still believe her guilty is
an insult to humanity—she “seeks, as the stricken deer, to weep in
silence and loneliness.” Hers is a hard lot; deserted by the one who has
sworn to love her, and maligned by the unfeeling world, she has not even
the consolation of weeping with her children, and finding some relief in
their caresses for her broken heart. Hear her once more—we have almost
wept as we read—hear her, when gazing in the twilight at the pictures
of her absent children.

    “Where are ye? Are ye playing
      By the stranger’s blazing hearth;
    Forgetting, in your gladness,
      Your old home’s former mirth?
    _Are ye dancing? Are ye singing?_
      _Are ye full of childish glee?_
    _Or do your light hearts sadden_
      _With the memory of me?_
    Round whom, oh! gentle darlings,
      Do your young arms fondly twine,
    Does she press you to _her_ bosom
      Who hath taken you from mine?
    _Oh! boys, the twilight hour_
      _Such a heavy time hath grown_,—
    It recalls with such deep anguish
      All I used to call my own,—
    That the harshest word that ever
      Was spoken to me there,
    Would be trivial—would be _welcome_—
      In this depth of my despair!
    Yet no! Despair shall sink not.
      While life and love remain,—
    Tho’ the weary struggle haunt me,
      And my prayer be made in vain:
    Tho’ at times my spirit fail me
      And the bitter tear-drops fall,
    _Tho’ my lot be hard and lonely,_
      _Yet I hope—I hope thro’ all._”

And then, with what a burst of eloquence, she carries out the idea!

    “By the living smile which greeted
      The lonely one of Nain,
    When her long last watch was over,
      And her hope seemed wild and vain;
    By all the tender mercy
      God hath shown to human grief,
    When fate or man’s perverseness
      Denied and barr’d relief,—
    By the hopeless woe which taught me
      To look to him alone,
    From the vain appeals for justice,
      And wild efforts of my own,—
    By thy light—thou unseen future,
      And thy tears—thou bitter past,
    _I will hope—tho’ all forsake me_,
      _In His mercy to the last!_”
                      Twilight.

But we must close this article. There are many exquisite shorter pieces
in the volume, besides The Dream and Twilight. The Creole Girl; The
Child of Earth; I cannot Love Thee; The Visionary Portrait; The Banner
of the Covenanters; Weep not for him that Dieth; and several of the
Sonnets may be instanced as among the finest. Let us, in conclusion,
commend the poems of Mrs. Norton to our fair countrywomen as those of a
mind of a high order. Less egotism, a more extended scope of feeling,
and greater attention to the rules of her art, will place her foremost
among the female poets of England.

    _“Bancroft’s History of the United Slates.” Vol. 3._

The first two volumes of this history have now been some years before
the public, and criticism has long since given them its _fiat_. The
characteristics of Mr. Bancroft are a rigid scrutiny of facts, a general
impartiality, and a style, usually nervous, but sometimes savoring of
transcendental obscurity. The style of the second volume, however, is an
improvement on that of the first, and the volume before us surpasses, in
our opinion, either of the former two. There is a philosophy in Bancroft
which other historians might well emulate. No man has traced so clearly
the causes of the American Revolution. It was the stern, hard,
independence of the Pilgrims, handed down to their posterity, and united
with the gallant and chivalric freedom of the South, which brought about
the greatest revolution of modern times.

The pictures which Mr. Bancroft draws in pursuing the thread of his
narrative, are often highly graphic. The early adventures of Soto and
others; the colony of Raleigh at Roanoke; the landing of the Pilgrims;
the Indian wars of New England, are all described with force if not with
beauty. The gradual dissemination of the Democratic principle is also
faithfully depicted; and it is clearly shown that the Puritans, the
Swedes, and the Quakers, alike formed pure democracies in their
settlements. In short, the history is something more than a mere
chronicle: it is a continuous essay on the philosophy of the American
Revolution.

The third volume brings the subject down to the period of the old French
war, an epoch which may be considered at the threshold of the struggle
for independence. Here, for the present, he drops the curtain. A fitter
point, for such a pause could not have been chosen. Behind, is the long
succession of trials, and dangers, through which the infant colonies had
just passed: before is the wild, shadowy future, soon to become vivid
with its startling panorama. Such a reflection might well fill the mind
of the historian with a kind of solemn awe; and it is while such
feelings overpower his readers, that he introduces Washington, the
future hero of the scene.

The work is beautifully printed, in a style highly creditable to the
American press.

We leave Mr. Bancroft with the hope that his historic labors will be
pursued with redoubled zeal, satisfied that in him America possesses a
philosophic annalist of the highest order.

    _“Bryant’s American Poets.” 1 vol. Harper & Brothers._

This work does credit to the editor, although he has admitted some, and
left out others, of our poetical writers, whom we think he ought not so
to have treated. However, a compilation like this can never be made to
suit all. The true question is, who can do better?

    _“Travels to the City of the Caliphs.” By Lieutenant Wellsted. 2
    vols. Lea & Blanchard._

This is a light, entertaining work. The adventures of the hero (Lieut.
Ormsby) are highly pleasing; and he evinces a laudable desire to fall in
love, as well for his own as for the convenience of the reader. On the
whole, the book is well written, and quite amusing.

                      FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY, 1841.

                            CARRIAGE DRESS.

Fig. 1.—Robe of one of the new figured silks; the skirt trimmed with
two _bias_ flounces; half-high _corsage_, and bishop’s sleeve. Cambric
_collerette-fichû_, trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Violet satin
_mantelet_, lined with _gros de Naples_, and bordered with a broad band
of violet velvet; it is of the scarf form, but made long and ample, and
with a small pointed hood. Green satin _chapeau_, a round brim,
something deeper than they are in general; the interior is trimmed on
each side with a half wreath of blush-roses; the exterior with bands and
knots of green ribbon, and a white and green shaded _marabout_ plume.

                             EVENING DRESS.

Fig. 2.—Lemon-colored satin robe, trimmed with a deep flounce of
antique point lace, surmounted by roses placed singly at regular
distances above the flounce; low tight _corsage_ and sleeve, both
trimmed with point. Head-dress of hair, disposed in thick masses of
ringlets at the sides, and a low open bow behind; it is decorated with
flowers, and a gold cross, _Châle bournouss_ of white cashmere, lined
with white satin, and bordered with a band of black and plaid velvet.

Fig. 3.—India muslin robe; the skirt is trimmed with a closely plaited
_volan_, which encircles the bottom of the border, mounts in the drapery
style on one side, and is terminated by a _nœud_ of muslin, similarly
finished at the ends; a _chef d’or_ head the _volan_. _Corsage en gerbe_
and short full sleeve, both ornamented with _chefs d’or_. The head dress
gives a front view of the one just described. Opera cloak of brown _rep_
velvet, lined with blue satin: it is made shorter than the dress, of
moderate width, and trimmed with three blue satin _rouleaus_, each
placed at some distance from the other, and a light embroidery
surmounting the upper one. A small hood, and a very deep lappel complete
the ornaments.

                              OPERA DRESS.

Fig. 4.—_Douilette_ of white cashmere, wadded, and lined with pink
_gros de Naples_; the lining quilted in a lozenge pattern; the _corsage_
is made tight to the shape, and half-high. Demi-large sleeve; the front
of the skirt is finished on each side by fancy silk trimming. _Mantelet_
of a large size, and of the same materials, bordered with a rich white
and pink _chenille_ fringe. Black velvet _chapeau à la Louis XIII_,
trimmed with white and pink feathers.

[Illustration: FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY 1841 FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.]

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 2, February 1841_, George R.
Graham, Editor]