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INTERNATIONAL WEEKLY MISCELLANY

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. I. NEW YORK, AUGUST 5, 1850. No. 6.

GERMAN CRITICISM ON ENGLISH FEMALE ROMANCE WRITERS.

We translate the following for the _International_ from a letter dated
London, June 15, to the _Cologne Gazette_.

"Among the most remarkable writers of romances in England, three women
are entitled to be reckoned in the first rank, namely, Miss Jewsbury,
Miss Bronte, and Mrs. Gaskell. Miss Jewsbury issued her first work
about four years since, a novel, in three volumes, under the title of
'Zoe,' and since then she has published the 'Half Sisters.' Both these
works are excellent in manner as well as ideas, and show that their
author is a woman of profound thought and deep feeling. Both are
drawn from country life and the middle class, a sphere in which Miss
Jewsbury is at home. The tendency of the first is speculative, and
is based on religion; that of the second is social, relating to the
position of woman.

"Miss Jewsbury is still young, for an authoress. She counts only some
thirty years, and many productions may be confidently expected from
her hand, though perhaps none will excel those already published,
for, after gaining a certain climax, no one excels himself. Her
usual residence is Manchester; it is but seldom that she visits the
metropolis; she is now here. She has lively and pleasing manners, a
slight person, fine features, a beautiful, dreamy, light brown eye.
She is attractive without being beautiful, retiring, altogether
without pretensions, and in conversation is neither brilliant nor very
intellectual,--a still, thoughtful, modest character.

"Miss Bronte was long involved in a mysterious obscurity, from which
she first emerged into the light as an actually existing being, at her
present visit to London. Two years ago there appeared a romance, 'Jane
Eyre,' by 'Currer Bell,' which threw all England into astonishment.
Everybody was tormenting himself to discover the real author, for
there was no such person as Currer Bell, and no one could tell
whether the book was written by a man or woman, because the hues of
the romance now indicated a male and now female hand, without any
possibility of supposing that the whole originated with a single
pencil. The public attributed it now to one, now to another, and the
book passed to a second edition without the solution of the riddle.
At last there came out a second romance, 'Shirley,' by the same
author, which was devoured with equal avidity, although it could
not be compared to the former in value; and still the incognito was
preserved. Finally, late in the autumn of last year the report was
spread about that the image of Jane Eyre had been discovered in London
in the person of a pale young lady, with gray eyes, who had been
recognized as the long-sought authoress. Still she remained invisible.
And again, in June 1850, it is said that Currer Bell, Jane Eyre, Miss
Bronte,--for all three names mean the same person,--is in London,
though to all inquiries concerning the where and how a satisfactory
answer is still wanting. She is now indeed here, but not for the
curious public; she will not serve society as a lioness, will not be
gazed and gaped at. She is a simple child of the country, brought up
in the little parsonage of her father, in the North of England, and
must first accustom her eye to the gleaming diadem with which fame
seeks to deck her brow, before she can feel herself at home in her own
sunshine.

"Our third lady, Mrs. Gaskell, belongs also to the country, and is
the wife of a Unitarian clergyman. In this capacity she has probably
had occasion to know a great deal of the poorer classes, to her honor
be it said. Her book, 'Mary Barton,' conducts us into the factory
workman's narrow dwelling, and depicts his joys and sorrows, his
aims and efforts, his wants and his misery, with a power of truth
that irresistibly lays hold upon the heart. The scene of the story
alternates from there to the city mansion of the factory owner,
where, along with luxury and splendor we find little love and little
happiness, and where sympathy with the condition of the workman is
wanting only because it is not known, and because no one understands
why or how the workman suffers. The book, is at once very beautiful,
very instructive, and written, in a spirit of conciliation."

MARGARET FULLER, MARCHESA D'OSSOLI.

Sarah Margaret Fuller, by marriage Marchioness of Ossoli, was born
in Cambridge, Massachusetts, about the year 1807. Her father, Mr.
Timothy Fuller, was a lawyer, and from 1817 to 1825 he represented
the Middlesex district in Congress. At the close of his last term as
a legislator he purchased a farm near Cambridge, and determined to
abandon his profession for the more congenial one of agriculture; but
he died soon after, leaving a widow and six children, of whom Margaret
was the eldest.

At a very early age she exhibited unusual abilities, and was
particularly distinguished for an extraordinary facility in acquiring
languages. Her father, proud of the displays of her intelligence,
prematurely stimulated it to a degree that was ultimately injurious to
her physical constitution. At eight years of age he was accustomed to
require of her the composition of a number of Latin verses every day,
while her studies in philosophy, history, general science and current
literature were pressed to the limit of her capacities. When he first
went to Washington he was accustomed to speak of her as one "better
skilled in Greek and Latin than half of the professors;" and alluding
in one of her essays, to her attachment to foreign literature, she
herself observes that in childhood she had well-nigh forgotten her
English while constantly reading in other tongues.

Soon after the death of her father, she applied herself to teaching
as a vocation, first in Boston, then in Providence, and afterward
in Boston again, while her "Conversations" were for several seasons
attended by classes of women, some of them married, and many of them
of the most eminent positions in society. These conversations are
described by Dr. Orestes A. Brownson, as "in the highest degree
brilliant, instructive, and inspiring," and our own recollections of
them confirm to us the justice of the applause with which they are
now referred to. She made her first appearance as an author, in a
translation of Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe, published in
Boston in 1839. When Mr. Emerson, in the following year, established
_The Dial_, she became one of the principal contributors to that
remarkable periodical, in which she wrote many of the most striking
papers on literature, art, and society. In the summer of 1843 she made
a journey to the Sault St. Marie, and in the next spring published
in Boston reminiscences of her tour, under the title of Summer on the
Lakes. _The Dial_ having been discontinued, she came to reside in New
York, where she had charge of the literary department of the New York
_Tribune_, which acquired a great accession of reputation from her
critical essays. Here in 1845 she published Woman in the Nineteenth
Century; and in 1846, Papers on Literature and Art, in two volumes,
consisting of essays and reviews, reprinted, with one exception, from
periodicals.

In the summer of 1845, she accompanied the family of a friend to
Europe, visiting England, Scotland, and France, and passing through
Italy to Rome, where they spent the ensuing winter. The next spring
she proceeded with her friends to the north of Italy, and there
stopped, spending most of the summer at Florence, and returning at
the approach of winter to Rome, where she was soon after married to
Giovanni, Marquis d'Ossoli, who made her acquaintance during her first
winter in that city. They resided in the Roman States until the last
summer, after the surrender of Rome to the French army, when they
deemed it expedient to go to Florence, both having taken an active
part in the Republican movement. They left Florence in June, and
at Leghorn embarked in the ship Elizabeth for New York. The passage
commenced auspiciously, but at Gibraltar the master of the ship died
of smallpox, and they were detained at the quarantine there some time
in consequence of this misfortune, but finally set sail again on the
8th of June, and arrived on our coast during the terrible storm of
the 18th and 19th ult., when, in the midst of darkness, rain, and a
terrific gale, the ship was hurled on the breakers of Fire Island,
near Long Island, and in a few hours was broken in pieces. Margaret
Fuller d'Ossoli, the Marquis d'Ossoli, and their son, two years of
age, with an Italian girl, and Mr. Horace Sumner of Boston, besides
several of the crew, lost their lives. We reprint a sketch of the
works and genius of Margaret Fuller, written several years ago by the
late Edgar A. Poe.

"Miss Fuller was at one time editor, or one of the editors of the
'The Dial,' to which she contributed many of the most forcible and
certainly some of the most peculiar papers. She is known, too, by
'Summer on the Lakes,' a remarkable assemblage of sketches, issued
in 1844, by Little & Brown, of Boston. More lately she published
'Woman in the Nineteenth Century,' a work which has occasioned much
discussion, having had the good fortune to be warmly abused and
chivalrously defended. For '_The New York Tribune_,' she has furnished
a great variety of matter, chiefly notices of new books, etc., etc.,
her articles being designated by an asterisk. Two of the best of them
were a review of Professor Longfellow's late magnificent edition
of his own works, (with a portrait,) and an appeal to the public
in behalf of her friend Harro Harring. The review did her infinite
credit; it was frank, candid, independent--in even ludicrous contrast
to the usual mere glorifications of the day, giving honor _only_ where
honor was due, yet evincing the most thorough capacity to appreciate
and the most sincere intention to place in the fairest light the real
and idiosyncratic merits of the poet. In my opinion it is one of the
very few reviews of Longfellow's poems, ever published in America,
of which the critics have not had abundant reason to be ashamed. Mr.
Longfellow is entitled to a certain and very distinguished rank among
the poets of his country, but that country is disgraced by the evident
toadyism which would award to his social position and influence, to
his fine paper and large type, to his morocco binding and gilt edges,
to his flattering portrait of himself, and to the illustrations of his
poems by Huntingdon, that amount of indiscriminate approbation which
neither could nor would have been given to the poems themselves. The
defense of Harro Harring, or rather the philippic against those who
were doing him wrong, was one of the most eloquent and well-_put_
articles I have ever yet seen in a newspaper.

"'Woman in the Nineteenth Century' is a book which few women in the
country could have written, and no woman in the country would
have published, with the exception of Miss Fuller. In the way of
independence, of unmitigated radicalism, it is one of the 'Curiosities
of American Literature,' and Doctor Griswold should include it in
his book. I need scarcely say that the essay is nervous, forcible,
suggestive, brilliant, and to a certain extent scholar-like--for
all that Miss Fuller produces is entitled to these epithets--but I
must say that the conclusions reached are only in part my own. Not
that they are bold, by any means--too novel, too startling or too
dangerous in their consequences, but that in their attainment too many
premises have been distorted, and too many analogical inferences left
altogether out of sight. I mean to say that the intention of the Deity
as regards sexual differences--an intention which can be distinctly
comprehended only by throwing the exterior (more sensitive) portions
of the mental retina _casually_ over the wide field of universal
_analogy_--I mean to say that this _intention_ has not been
sufficiently considered. Miss Fuller has erred, too, through her own
excessive objectiveness. She judges _woman_ by the heart and intellect
of Miss Fuller, but there are not more than one or two dozen Miss
Fullers on the whole face of the earth. Holding these opinions in
regard to 'Woman in the Nineteenth Century,' I still feel myself
called upon to disavow the silly, condemnatory criticism of the
work which appeared in one of the earlier numbers of "_The Broadway
Journal_." That article was _not_ written by myself, and _was_ written
by my associate, Mr. Briggs.

"The most favorable estimate of Miss Fuller's genius (for high genius
she unquestionably possesses) is to be obtained, perhaps, from her
contributions to 'The Dial,' and from her 'Summer on the Lakes.' Many
of the _descriptions_ in this volume are unrivaled for _graphicality_,
(why is there not such a word?) for the force with which they convey
the true by the novel or unexpected, by the introduction of touches
which other artists would be sure to omit as irrelevant to the
subject. This faculty, too, springs from her subjectiveness, which
leads her to paint a scene less by its features than by its effects.

"Here, for example, is a portion of her account of Niagara:--

    "'Daily these proportions widened and towered more and more
    upon my sight, and I got at last a proper foreground for these
    sublime distances. Before coming away, I think I really saw
    the full wonder of the scene. After a while it _so drew me
    into itself as to inspire an undefined dread, such as I never
    knew before, such as may be felt when death is about to usher
    us into a new existence_. The perpetual trampling of the
    waters seized my senses. _I felt that no other sound, however
    near, could be heard, and would start and look behind me for a
    foe_. I realised the identity of that mood of nature in which
    these waters were poured down with such absorbing force, with
    that in which the Indian was shaped on the same soil. For
    continually upon my mind came, unsought and unwelcome, _images
    such as had never haunted it before, of naked savages stealing
    behind me with uplifted tomahawks_. Again and again this
    illusion recurred, and even _after I had thought it over, and
    tried to shake it off, I could not help starting and looking
    behind me_. What I liked best was to sit on Table Rock close
    to the great fall; _there all power of observing details, all
    separate consciousness was quite lost_.'

"The truthfulness of the passages italicized will be felt by all; the
feelings described are, perhaps, experienced by every (imaginative)
person who visits the fall; but most persons, through predominant
subjectiveness, would scarcely be conscious of the feelings, or, at
best, would never think of employing them in an attempt to convey to
others an impression of the scene. Hence so many desperate failures to
convey it on the part of ordinary tourists. Mr. William W. Lord, to be
sure, in his poem 'Niagara,' is sufficiently objective; he describes
not the fall, but very properly, the effect of the fall upon _him_.
He says that it made him think of his _own_ greatness, of his _own_
superiority, and so forth, and so forth; and it is only when we
come to think that the thought of Mr. Lord's greatness is quite
idiosyncratic confined exclusively to Mr. Lord, that we are in
condition to understand how, in spite of his objectiveness he has
failed to convey an idea of anything beyond one Mr. William W. Lord.

"From the essay entitled 'Philip Van Artevelde, I copy a paragraph
which will serve at once to exemplify Miss Fuller's more earnest
(declamatory) style, and to show the tenor of her prospective
speculations:--

    "'At Chicago I read again 'Philip Van Artevelde,' and certain
    passages in it will always be in my mind associated with the
    deep sound of the lake, as heard in the night. I used to read
    a short time at night, and then open the blind to look out.
    The moon would be full upon the lake, and the calm breath,
    pure light, and the deep voice, harmonized well with the
    thought of the Flemish hero. When will this country have
    such a man? It is what she needs--no thin Idealist, no coarse
    Realist, but a man whose eye reads the heavens while his
    feet step firmly on the ground, and his hands are strong and
    dexterous in the use of human instruments. A man, religious,
    virtuous, and--sagacious; a man of universal sympathies, but
    self-possessed; a man who knows the region of emotion, though
    he is not its slave; a man to whom this world is no mere
    spectacle or fleeting shadow, but a great, solemn game, to be
    played with good heed, for its stakes are of eternal value,
    yet who, if his own play be true, heeds not what he loses by
    the falsehood of others. A man who lives from the past, yet
    knows that its honey can but moderately avail him; whose
    comprehensive eye scans the present, neither infatuated by its
    golden lures nor chilled by its many ventures; who possesses
    prescience, as the wise man must, but not so far as to be
    driven mad to-day by the gift which discerns to-morrow. When
    there is such a man for America, the thought which urges her
    on will be expressed."

"From what I have quoted, a _general_ conception of the prose style
of the authoress may be gathered. Her manner, however, is infinitely
varied. It is always forcible--but I am not sure that it is always
anything else, unless I say picturesque. It rather indicates than
evinces scholarship. Perhaps only the scholastic, or, more properly,
those accustomed to look narrowly at the structure of phrases, would
be willing to acquit her of ignorance of grammar--would be willing
to attribute her slovenliness to disregard of the shell in anxiety
for the kernel; or to waywardness, or to affectation, or to blind
reverence to Carlyle--would be able to detect, in her strange and
continual inaccuracies, a capacity for the accurate.

    "'I cannot sympathize with such an apprehension; the spectacle
    is _capable to_ swallow _up_ all such objects."

    "It is fearful, too, to know, as you look, that whatever has
    been swallowed by the cataract, is _like_ to rise suddenly to
    light."

    "I took our _mutual_ friends to see her."

    "It was always obvious that they had nothing in common
    _between them_."

    "The Indian cannot be looked at truly _except_ by a poetic
    eye."

    "McKenny's Tour to the Lakes gives some facts not to be met
    _with_ elsewhere."

    "There is that mixture of culture and rudeness in the aspect
    of things _as_ gives a feeling of freedom," etc., etc.

"These are merely a few, a very few instances, taken at random from
among a multitude of _willful_ murders committed by Miss Fuller on
the American of President Polk. She uses, too, the word 'ignore,' a
vulgarity adopted only of late days (and to no good purpose, since
there is no necessity for it) from the barbarisms of the law, and
makes no scruple of giving the Yankee interpretation to the verbs
'witness' and 'realize,' to say nothing of 'use,' as in the sentence,
'I used to read a short time at night.' It will not do to say in
defense of such words, that in such senses they may be found in
certain dictionaries--in that of Bolles', for instance;--_some_ kind
of 'authority' may be found for _any_ kind of vulgarity under the sun.

"In spite of these things, however and of her frequent unjustifiable
Carlyleisms, (such as that of writing sentences which are no
sentences, since, to be parsed, reference must be had to sentences
preceding,) the style of Miss Fuller is one of the very best with
which I am acquainted. In general effect, I know no style which
surpasses it. It is singularly piquant, vivid, terse, bold,
luminous--leaving details out of sight, it is everything that a style
need be.

"I believe that Miss Fuller has written much poetry, although she has
published little. That little is tainted with the affectation of the
_transcendentalists_, (I used this term, of course, in the sense which
the public of late days seem resolved to give it,) but is brimful of
the poetic _sentiment_. Here, for example, is something in Coleridge's
manner, of which the author of 'Genevieve' might have had no reason to
be ashamed:--

  A maiden sat beneath a tree;
  Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,
  And she sighed heavily.

  From forth the wood into the _light_
  A hunter strides with carol _light_
  And a glance so bold and bright.

  He careless stopped and eyed the maid;
  'Why weepest thou?' he gently said;
  'I love thee well, be not afraid.'

  He takes her hand and leads her on--
  She should have waited there alone,
  For he was not her chosen one.

  He _leans_ her head upon his breast--
  She knew 'twas not her home of rest,
  But, ah! she had been sore distrest.

  The sacred stars looked sadly down;
  The parting moon appeared to frown,
  To see thus dimmed the diamond crown.

  Then from the thicket starts a deer--
  The huntsman seizing _on_ his spear
  Cries, 'Maiden, wait thou for me here.'

  She sees him vanish into night--
  She starts from sleep in deep affright,
  For it was not her own true knight.

  Though but in dream Gunhilda failed--
  Though but a fancied ill assailed--
  Though she but fancied fault bewailed--

  Yet thought of day makes dream of night;
  She is not worthy of the knight;
  The inmost altar burns not bright.

  If loneliness thou canst not bear--
  Cannot the dragon's venom dare--
  Of the pure meed thou shouldst despair.

  Now sadder that lone maiden sighs;
  Far bitterer tears profane her eyes;
  Crushed in the dust her heart's flower lies.'

"To show the evident carelessness with which this poem was
constructed, I have italicized an identical rhyme (of about the same
force in versification as an identical proposition in logic) and two
grammatical improprieties. _To lean_ is a neuter verb, and 'seizing
_on_' is not properly to be called a pleonasm, merely because it
is--nothing at all. The concluding line is difficult of pronunciation
through excess of consonants. I should have preferred, indeed, the
ante-penultimate tristich as the _finale_ of the poem.

"The supposition that the book of an author is a thing apart from the
author's self, is, I think, ill-founded. The soul is a cipher, in the
sense of a cryptograph; and the shorter a cryptograph is, the more
difficulty there is in its comprehension--at a certain point of
brevity it would bid defiance to an army of Champollions. And thus
he who has written very little, may in that little either conceal his
spirit or convey quite an erroneous idea of it--of his acquirements,
talents, temper, manner, tenor and depth (or shallowness) of
thought--in a word of his character, of himself. But this is
impossible with him who has written much. Of such a person we get,
from his books, not merely a just, but the most just representation.
Bulwer, the individual, personal man, in a green velvet waistcoat and
amber gloves, is not by any means the veritable Sir Edward Lytton,
who is discoverable only in 'Ernest Maltravers,' where his soul is
deliberately and nakedly set forth. And who would ever know Dickens by
looking at him or talking with him, or doing anything with him except
reading his 'Curiosity Shop?' What poet, in especial, but must feel
at least the better portion of himself more fairly represented in even
his commonest sonnet, (earnestly written,) than in his most elaborate
or most intimate personalities?

"I put all this as a general proposition, to which Miss Fuller affords
a marked exception--to this extent, that her personal character and
her printed book are merely one and the same thing. We get access
to her soul _as_ directly from the one as from the other--no _more_
readily from this than from that--easily from either. Her acts are
bookish, and her books are less thoughts than acts. Her literary and
her conversational manner are identical. Here is a passage from her
'Summer on the Lakes:'--

    "'The rapids enchanted me far beyond what I expected; they
    are so swift that they cease to _seem_ so--you can think
    only of their _beauty_. The fountain beyond the Moss Islands
    I discovered for myself, and thought it for some time an
    _accidental_ beauty which it would not do to _leave_, lest
    I might never see it again. After I found it _permanent_, I
    returned many times to watch the play of its crest. In the
    little waterfall, beyond, Nature seems, as she often does, to
    have made a _study_ for some larger design. She delights in
    this--a sketch within a sketch--a dream within _a dream_.
    Wherever we see it, the lines of the great buttress in the
    fragment of stone, the hues of the waterfall, copied in the
    flowers that _star_ its bordering mosses, we are _delighted_;
    for all the lineaments become _fluent_, and we mould the scene
    in congenial thought with its _genius_.'

"Now all this is precisely as Miss Fuller would _speak_ it. She is
perpetually saying just such things in just such words. To get the
_conversational_ woman in the mind's eye, all that is needed is to
imagine her reciting the paragraph just quoted: but first let us have
the _personal_ woman. She is of the medium height; nothing remarkable
about the figure; a profusion of lustrous light hair; eyes a bluish
gray, full of fire; capacious forehead; the mouth when in repose
indicates profound sensibility, capacity for affection, for love--when
moved by a slight smile, it becomes even beautiful in the intensity
of this expression; but the upper lip, as if impelled by the action
of involuntary muscles, habitually uplifts itself, conveying the
impression of a sneer. Imagine, now, a person of this description
looking at you one moment earnestly in the face, at the next seeming
to look only within her own spirit or at the wall; moving nervously
every now and then in her chair; speaking in a high key, but
musically, deliberately, (not hurriedly or loudly,) with a delicious
distinctness of enunciation--speaking, I say, the paragraph in
question, and emphasizing the words which I have italicized, not by
impulsion of the breath, (as is usual) but by drawing them out as long
as possible, nearly closing her eyes, the while--imagine all this, and
we have both the woman and the authoress before us."

[FROM THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE.]

ON THE DEATH OF S. MARGARET FULLER.

BY G.F.R. JAMES

  High hopes and bright thine early path bedecked,
    And aspirations beautiful, though wild,
  A heart too strong, a powerful will unchecked,
    A dream that earth-things could be undefiled.

  But soon, around thee, grew a golden chain,
    That bound the woman to more human things,
  And taught with joy--and, it may be, with pain--
    That there are limits e'en to Spirits' wings.

  Husband and child--the loving and beloved--
    Won, from the vast of thought, a mortal part,
  The empassioned wife and mother, yielding, proved
    Mind has, itself, a master--in the heart.

  In distant lands enhaloed by old fame
    Thou found'st the only chain the spirit knew,
  But, captive, led'st thy captors from the shame
    Of ancient freedom, to the pride of new.

  And loved hearts clung around thee on the deck,
    Welling with sunny hopes 'neath sunny skies;
  The wide horizon round thee had no speck;
    E'en Doubt herself could see no cloud arise.

  The loved ones clung around thee, when the sail,
    O'er wide Atlantic billows, onward bore
  Thy freight of joys, and the expanding gale
    Pressed the glad bark toward thy native shore.

  The loved ones clung around thee still, when all
    Was darkness, tempest, terror, and dismay--
  More closely clung around thee, when the pall
    Of fate was falling o'er the mortal clay.

  With them to live--with them, with them to die--
    Sublime of human love intense and fine!
  Was thy last prayer unto the Deity,
    And it was granted thee by love divine.

  In the same billow--in the same dark grave--
    Mother, and child, and husband find their rest.
  The dream is ended; and the solemn wave
    Gives back the gifted to her country's breast.

An Illustration of the high prices paid to fortunate artists in these
times may be found in the fact that Alboni, the famous contralto
singer, has been engaged to sing at Madrid, at the enormous rate of
$400 dollars per day, while Roger, the tenor, who used to sing at the
Comic Opera at Paris, and who was transplanted to the Grand Opera to
assist in the production of Meyerbeer's "Prophet," has been engaged
to sing with her at the more moderate salary of $8000 a month. This
is almost equal to the extravagant sum guaranteed to Jenny Lind for
performing in this country. It would be a curious inquiry why singers
and dancers are always paid so much more exorbitantly than painters,
sculptors or musical composers, especially as the pleasure they
confer is of a merely evanescent character, while the works of the
latter remain a perpetual source of delight and refinement to all
generations.

FRASER'S MAGAZINE UPON THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA.

The last number of _Fraser's Magazine_ has a long article upon THE
POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA, in which the subject is treated with more
than the customary civility of English criticism upon this subject. We
are half inclined, indeed, to believe the article was written "above
Bleecker," or by an inhabitant of that quarter now in London. Omitting
the illustrative extracts, we copy the greater portion of the review,
in which most of those who are admitted to be poets are characterized.

"When Halleck said of New York--

            Our fourteen wards
  Contain some seven-and-thirty-bards,

he rather understated than exaggerated the fact. Mr. Griswold, besides
the ninety regular poets in his collection, gives an appendix of about
seventy fugitive pieces by as many authors; and bitter complaints
have been made against him in various quarters for not including
some seventy, or a hundred and seventy more, 'who,' it is said, and
probably with truth, 'have as good a right to be there as many of
those admitted.' Still it is possible to pick out a few of general
reputation, whom literati from all parts of the Union would agree
in sustaining as specimens of distinguished American poets, though
they would differ in assigning their relative position. Thus, if the
Republic had to choose a laureate, Boston would probably deposit a
nearly unanimous vote for Longfellow; the suffrages of New York might
he divided between Bryant and Halleck; and the southern cities would
doubtless give a large majority for Poe. But these gentlemen, and
some three or four more, would be acknowledged by all as occupying
the first rank. Perhaps, on the whole, the preponderance of native
authority justifies us in heading the list with Bryant, who, at any
rate, has the additional title of seniority in authorship, if not in
actual years.

"William Cullen Bryant is, as we learn from Mr. Griswold, about
fifty-five years old, and was born in Massachusetts, though his
literary career is chiefly associated with New York, of which he is
a resident. With a precocity extraordinary, even in a country where
precocity is the rule instead of the exception, he began to write _and
publish_ at the age of thirteen, and has, therefore, been full forty
years before the American public, and that not in the capacity of
poet alone--having for more than half that period edited the _Evening
Post_, one of the ablest and most respectable papers in the United
States, and the oldest organ, we believe, of the Democratic party in
New York. He has been called, and with justice, a poet of nature.
The prairie solitude, the summer evening landscape, the night wind of
autumn, the water-bird flitting homeward through the twilight--such
are the favorite subjects of inspiration. _Thanatopsis_, one of
his most admired pieces, was written at the age of _eighteen_, and
exhibits a finish of style, no less than a maturity of thought, very
remarkable for so youthful a production. Mr. Bryant's poems have
been for some years pretty well known on this side the water,--better
known, at any rate, than any other transatlantic verses; on which
account, being somewhat limited for space, we forbear to make any
extracts from them.

"FITZ-GREENE HALLECK is also a New-Englander by birth and a New Yorker
by adoption. He is Bryant's contemporary and friend, but the spirit
and style of his versification are very different; and so, it is
said, are his political affinities. While Bryant is a bulwark of
the Democracy, Halleck is reported to be not only an admirer of the
obsolete Federalists, but an avowed Monarchist. To be sure, this is
only his private reputation: no trace of such a feeling is observable
in his writings, which show throughout a sturdy vein of republicanism,
social and political. In truth, the party classification of American
literary men is apt to puzzle the uninitiated. Thus Washington Irving
is said to belong to the Democrats; but it would be hard to find in
his writings anything countenancing their claim upon him. His sketches
of English society are a panegyric of old institutions; and the fourth
book of his _Knickerbocker_ is throughout a palpable satire on the
administration of Thomas Jefferson, the great apostle of Democracy.
Perhaps, however, he may since have changed his views. Willis, too,
the 'Free Penciler,' who has been half his life prating about lords
and ladies, and great people, and has become a sort of Jenkins to
the fashionable life of New York; he also is one of the Democratic
party. Peradventure he may vote the 'Locofoco ticket' in the hope
of propitiating _the boys_ (as the _canaille_ of American cities are
properly called), and saving his printing-office from the fate of the
Italian Opera House in Astor Place. But what shall we say of Cooper,
who, by his anti-democratic opinions, has made himself one of the most
unpopular men in his country, and whose recent political novels rival
the writings of Judge Haliburton in the virulence as well as the
cleverness of their satire upon Republican institutions? He, too, is
a Democrat. To us, who are not behind the curtain, these things are
a mystery incapable of explanation. To return to our present subject.
Halleck made his _début_ in the poetical world by some satirical
pieces called _The Croakers_, which created as much sensation at their
appearance as the anonymous _Salmagundi_ which commenced Irving's
literary career. These were succeeded by _Fanny_, a poem in the
_Don Juan_ metre. _Fanny_ has no particular plot or story, but is a
satirical review of all the celebrities, literary, fashionable, and
political, of New York at that day (1821). And the satire was probably
very good at the time and in the place; but, unfortunately for the
extent and permanence of its reputation, most of these celebrities are
utterly unknown, not merely beyond the limits of the Union, but beyond
those of New York. Among all the personages enumerated we can find
but two names that an European reader would be likely to know anything
about,--Clinton and Van Buren. Nay, more, in the rapid growth and
change of things American, the present generation of New Yorkers are
likely to lose sight of the lions of their immediate progenitors; and
unless some Manhattanese scholiast should write a commentary on the
poem in time, its allusions, and with them most of its wit, will be
in danger of perishing entirely. What we _can_ judge of in _Fanny_ are
one or two graceful lyrics interspersed in it, though even these are
marred by untimely comicality and local allusions. The nominal hero,
while wandering about at night after the wreck of his fortunes, hears
a band playing outside a public place of entertainment. It must have
been a better band than that which now, from the Museum opposite the
Astor House, drives to frenzy the hapless stranger.... In Halleck's
subsequent productions the influence of Campbell is more perceptible
than that of Byron, and with manifest advantage. It may be said of his
compositions, as it can be affirmed of few American verses, that they
have a real innate harmony, something not dependent on the number of
syllables in each line, or capable of being dissected out into feet,
but growing in them, as it were, and created by the fine ear of the
writer. Their sentiments, too, are exalted and ennobling; eminently
genial and honest, they stamp the author for a good man and
true,--Nature's aristocracy.... For some unexplained reason Halleck
has not written, or at least not published, anything new for several
years, though continually solicited to do so; for he is a great
favorite with his countrymen, especially with the New Yorkers. His
time, however, has been by no means passed in idleness. Fashionable
as writing is in America, it is not considered desirable or, indeed,
altogether reputable, that the poet should be _only_ a poet. Halleck
has been in business most of his life; and was lately head-clerk
of the wealthy merchant, John Jacob Astor, who left him a handsome
annuity. This was increased by Mr. Astor's son and heir, a man of
well-known liberality; so that between the two there is a chance
of the poet's being enabled to 'meditate the tuneful Muse' for the
remainder of his days free from all distractions of business.

"LONGFELLOW, the pet poet of Boston, is a much younger man than either
Bryant or Halleck, and has made his reputation only within the last
twelve years, during which time he has been one of the most noted
lions of American Athens. The city of Boston, as every one knows who
has been there, or who has met with any book or man emanating from
it, claims to be the literary metropolis of the United States, and
assumes the slightly-pretending _soubriquet_ just quoted. The American
Athenians have their thinking and writing done for them by a coterie
whose distinctive characteristics are Socinianism in theology, a
præter-Puritan prudery in ethics, a German tendency in metaphysics,
and throughout all a firm persuasion that Boston is the fountain-head
of art, scholarship, and literature for the western world, and
particularly that New York is a Nazareth in such things, out of which
can come nothing good. For the Bostonians, who certainly cultivate
literature with more general devotion, if not always with more
individual success than the New Yorkers, can never forgive their
commercial neighbors for possessing by birth the two most eminent
prose-writers of the country--Irving and Cooper; and by adoption, two
of the leading poets--Bryant and Halleck. Nor are the good people of
the 'Empire State' slow to resent these exhibitions of small jealousy;
but, on the contrary, as the way of the world is, they are apt to
retort by greater absurdities. So shy are they of appearing to be
guided by the dicta of their eastern friends, that to this day there
is scarcely man or woman on Manhattan Island who will confess a
liking for Tennyson, Mrs. Barrett Browning, or Robert Browning, simply
because these poets were taken up and patronized (metaphorically
speaking, of course,) by the 'Mutual Admiration Society' of Boston.

"The immediate influences of this _camaraderie_ are highly flattering
and apparently beneficial to the subject of them, but its ultimate
effects are most injurious to the proper development of his powers.
When the merest trifles that a man throws off are inordinately
praised, he soon becomes content with producing the merest trifles.
Longfellow has grown unaccustomed to do himself justice. Half his
volumes are filled up with translations; graceful and accurate,
indeed; but translations, and often from originals of very moderate
merit. His last original poem, _Evangeline_, is a sort of pastoral
in hexameters. The resuscitation of this classical metre had a queer
effect upon the American quidnuncs. Some of the _critics_ evidently
believed it to be a bran-new metre invented for the nonce by the
author, a delusion which they of the 'Mutual Admiration' rather winked
at; and the parodists who endeavored to ridicule the new measure were
evidently not quite sure whether seven feet or nine made a hexameter.
It is really to be regretted that Longfellow has been cajoled into
playing these tricks with himself, for his earlier pieces were works
of much promise, and, had they been worthily followed out, might
have entitled him to a high place among the poets of the language....
Longfellow's poetry, whenever he really lays himself out to write
poetry, has a definite idea and purpose in it--no small merit
now-a-days. His versification is generally harmonious, and he displays
a fair command of metre. Sometimes he takes a fancy to an obsolete
or out-of-the-way stanza; one of his longest and best poems, _The
Skeleton in Armor_, is exactly in the measure of Drayton's fine
ballad on Agincourt. His chief fault is an over-fondness for simile
and metaphor. He seems to think indispensable the introduction into
everything he writes of a certain (or sometimes a very uncertain)
number of these figures. Accordingly his poems are crowded with
comparisons, sometimes very pretty and pleasing, at others so
far-fetched that the string of tortured images which lead off Alfred
de Musset's bizarre _Ode to the Moon_ can hardly equal them. This
_making figures_ (whether from any connection with the calculating
habits of the people or not) is a terrible propensity of American
writers, whether of prose or verse. Their orators are especial sinners
in this respect. We have seen speeches stuck as full of metaphors
(more or less mixed) as Burton's _Anatomy_ is of quotations.

"Such persons as know from experience that literary people are not
always in private life what their writings would betoken, that
Miss Bunions do not precisely resemble March violets, and mourners
upon paper may be laughers over mahogany--such persons will not be
surprised to hear that the Longfellow is a very jolly fellow, a lover
of fun and good dinners, and of an amiability and personal popularity
that have aided not a little the popularity of his writings in
verse and prose--for he writes prose too, prettier, quainter, more
figurative, and more poetic if anything, than his poetry. He is also a
professor at Harvard College, near Boston.

"EDGAR A. POE, like Longfellow and most of the other American poets,
wrote prose as well as poetry, having produced a number of wild,
grotesque, and powerfully-imagined tales; unlike most of them he was
a literary man _pur sang_. He depended for support entirely on his
writings, and his career was more like the precarious existence of
an author in the time of Johnson and Savage than the decent life of
an author in our own day. He was a Southerner by birth, acquired a
liberal education, and what the French call 'expansive' tastes, was
adopted by a rich relative, quarreled with him, married 'for love,'
and lived by editing magazines in Richmond, Philadelphia, and New
York; by delivering lectures (the never-failing last resort of the
American literary adventurer); by the occasional subscriptions of
compassionate acquaintances or admiring friends--any way he could--for
eighteen or nineteen years: lost his wife, involved himself in endless
difficulties, and finally died in what should have been the prime of
his life, about six months ago. His enemies attributed his untimely
death to intemperance; his writings would rather lead to the belief
that he was an habitual taker of opium. If it make a man a poet to be

  Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
  The love of love,

Poe was certainly a poet. Virulently and ceaselessly abused by his
enemies (who included a large portion of the press), he was worshiped
to infatuation by his friends. The severity of his editorial
criticisms, and the erratic course of his life, fully account for the
former circumstance; the latter is probably to be attributed, in part
at least, to pity for his mishaps.

"If Longfellow's poetry is best designated as quaint, Poe's may most
properly be characterized as fantastic. The best of it reminds one
of Tennyson, not by any direct imitation of particular passages, but
by its general air and tone. But he was very far from possessing
Tennyson's fine ear for melody. His skill in versification, sometimes
striking enough, was evidently artificial; he overstudied metrical
expression and overrated its value so as sometimes to write, what
were little better than nonsense-verses, for the rhythm. He had an
incurable propensity for refrains, and when he had once caught a
harmonious cadence, appeared to think it could not be too often
repeated. Poe's name is usually mentioned in connection with _The
Raven_, a poem which he published about five years ago. It had an
immense run, and gave rise to innumerable parodies--those tests of
notoriety if not of merit. And certainly it is not without a peculiar
and fantastic excellence in the execution, while the conception is
highly striking and poetic. This much notice seems due to a poem which
created such a sensation in the author's country. To us it seems by
no means the best of Poe's productions; we much prefer, for instance,
this touching allegory, which was originally embodied in one of his
wildest tales, _The Haunted Palace_. In the very same volume with this
are some verses that Poe wrote when a boy, and some that a boy might
be ashamed of writing. Indeed the secret of rejection seems to be
little known to Transatlantic bards. The rigidness of self-criticism
which led Tennyson to ignore and annihilate, so far as in him lay,
full one half of his earlier productions, would hardly be understood
by them. This is particularly unlucky in the case of Poe, whose rhymes
sometimes run fairly away with him, till no purpose or meaning is
traceable amid a jingle of uncommon and fine-sounding words....

"Though Poe was a Southerner, his poetry has nothing in it suggestive
of his peculiar locality. It is somewhat remarkable that the
slave-holding, which has tried almost all other means of excusing or
justifying itself before the world, did not think of 'keeping a poet,'
and engaging the destitute author from its own territory to sing the
praises of 'the patriarchal institution.' And it would have been
a fair provocation that the Abolitionists had their poet already.
Indeed several of the northern poets have touched upon this subject;
Longfellow, in particular, has published a series of spirited
and touching anti-slavery poems; but the man who has made it his
_specialité_ is JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, a Quaker, literary editor of
the _National Era_, an Abolition and ultra-Radical paper, which, in
manful despite of Judge Lynch, is published at Washington, between the
slave-pens and the capitol. His verses are certainly obnoxious to the
jurisdiction of that notorious popular potentate, being unquestionably
'inflammatory, incendiary, and insurrectionary,' as the Southern
formula goes, in a very high degree. He makes passionate appeals to
the Puritan spirit of New England, and calls on her sons to utter
their voice,

  ... From all her wild green mountains,
    From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie,
  From her blue rivers and her welling fountains,
        And clear cold sky--
  From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean
    Gnaws with his surges--from the fisher's skiff,
  With white sails swaying to the billow's motion
        Round rock and cliff--
  From the free fireside of her unbought farmer,
    From her free laborer at his loom and wheel.
  From the brown smithy where, beneath the hammer,
        Rings the red steel--
  From each and all, if God hath not forsaken
    Our land and left us to an evil choice;--

"and protest against the shocking anomaly of slavery in a free
country. At times, when deploring the death of some fellow laborer in
the cause, he falls into a somewhat subdued strain, though even then
there is more of spirit and fire in his verses than one naturally
expects from a follower of George Fox; but on such occasions he
displays a more careful and harmonious versification than is his
wont. There is no scarcity of these elegies in his little volume,
the _Abolitionists_, even when they escape the attentions of the
high legal functionary already alluded to, not being apparently a
long-lived class.

"_Toujours perdrix_ palls in poetry as in cookery; we grow tired after
awhile of invectives against governors of slave-states and mercenary
persons, and dirges for untimely perished Abolitionists. The wish
suggests itself that Whittier would not always

    'Give up to a party what is meant for mankind,'

but sometimes turn his powers in another direction. Accordingly, it is
a great relief to find him occasionally trying his hand on the early
legends of New England and Canada, which do not suffer such ballads as
_St. John_....

"Whittier is less known than several other Western bards to the
English reader, and we think him entitled to stand higher on the
American Parnassus than most of his countrymen would place him. His
faults--harshness and want of polish--are evident; but there is
more life, and spirit, and soul in his verses, than in those of
eight-ninths of Mr. Griswold's immortal ninety.

"From political verse (for the anti-slavery agitation must be
considered quite as much a political as a moral warfare) the
transition is natural to satire and humorous poetry. Here we find no
lack of matter, but a grievous short-coming in quality. The Americans
are no contemptible humorists in prose, but their fun cannot be set
to verse. They are very fond of writing parodies, yet we have scarcely
ever seen a good parody of American origin. And their satire is
generally more distinguished for personality and buffoonery than
wit. Halleck's _Fanny_ looks as if it might be good, did we only know
something of the people satirized in it. The reputed comic poet of the
country at present is OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, a physician. Whether
it was owing to the disappointment caused by hearing too much in his
praise beforehand we will not pretend to say, but it certainly did
seem to us that Dr. Holmes' efforts in this line must originally
have been intended to act upon his patients emetically. After a
conscientious perusal of the doctor, the most readable, and about the
only presentable thing we can find in him, is the bit of seriocomic
entitled _The Last Leaf_.

"But within the last three years there has arisen in the United States
a satirist of genuine excellence, who, however, besides being but
moderately appreciated by his countrymen, seems himself in a great
measure to have mistaken his real forte. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, one of
the Boston coterie, has for some time been publishing verses, which
are by the coterie duly glorified, but which are in no respect
distinguishable from the ordinary level of American poetry, except
that they combine an extraordinary pretension to originality, with a
more than usually palpable imitation of English models. Indeed, the
failure was so manifest, that the American literati seem, in this
one case, to have rebelled against Boston dictation, and there is
sufficient internal evidence that such of them as do duty for critics
handled Mr. Lowell pretty severely. Violently piqued at this, and
simultaneously conceiving a disgust for the Mexican war, he was
impelled by both feelings to take the field as a satirist: to the
former we owe the _Fable for Critics_; to the latter, the _Biglow
Papers_. It was a happy move, for he has the rare faculty of writing
_clever doggerel_. Take out the best of _Ingoldsby_, Campbell's rare
piece of fun _The Friars of Dijon_, and perhaps a little of Walsh's
_Aristophanes_, and there is no contemporary verse of the class with
which Lowell's may not fearlessly stand a comparison; for, observe, we
are not speaking of mock heroics like Bon Gaultier's, which are only
a species of parody, but of real doggerel, the Rabelaisque of poetry.
The _Fable_ is somewhat on the Ingoldsby model,--that is to say, a
good part of its fun consists in queer rhymes, double, treble,
or poly-syllabic; and it has even Barham's fault--an occasional
over-consciousness of effort, and calling on the reader to admire, as
if the _tour de force_ could not speak for itself. But _Ingoldsby's_
rhymes will not give us a just idea of the _Fable_ until we superadd
Hook's puns; for the fabulist has a pleasant knack of making
puns--outrageous and unhesitating ones--exactly of the kind to set
off the general style of his verse. The sternest critic could hardly
help relaxing over such a bundle of them as are contained in Apollo's
lament over the 'treeification' of his Daphne.... The _Fable_ is a
sort of review in verse of American poets. Much of the Boston leaven
runs through it; the wise men of the East are all glorified intensely,
while Bryant and Halleck are studiously depreciated. But though thus
freely exercising his own critical powers in verse, the author is most
bitter against all critics in prose, and gives us a ludicrous picture
of one--

  A terrible fellow to meet in society,
  Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea.

And this gentleman is finely shown up for his condemnatory
predilections and inability to discern or appreciate beauties. The
cream of the joke against him is, that being sent by Apollo to
choose a lily in a flower-garden, he brings back a thistle as all he
could find. The picture is a humorous one, but we are at a loss to
conjecture who can have sat for it in America, where the tendency
is all the other way, reviewers being apt to apply the butter of
adulation with the knife of profusion to every man, woman, or child
who rushes into print. Some of his complaints, too, against the critic
sound very odd; as, for instance, that

  His lore was engraft, something foreign that grew in him.

Surely the very meaning of _learning_ is that it is something which
a man learns--_acquires_ from other sources--does not originate in
himself. But it is a favorite practice with Mr. Lowell's set to rail
against dry learning and pedants, while at the same time there are no
men more fond of showing off cheap learning than themselves: Lowell
himself never loses an opportunity of bringing in a bit of Greek or
Latin. Our readers must have known such persons--for, unfortunately,
the United States has no monopoly of them--men who delight in quoting
Latin before ladies, talking Penny-Magazine science in the hearing of
clodhoppers, and preaching of high art to youths who have never had
the chance of seeing any art at all. _Then_ you will hear them say
nothing about pedantry. But let a man be present who knows more Greek
than they do, or who has a higher standard of poetry or painting or
music, and wo be to him! Him they will persecute to the uttermost.
What is to be done with such men but to treat them _à la_ Shandon,
'Give them Burton's _Anatomy_, and leave them to their own abominable
devices?'

"The _Biglow Papers_ are imaginary epistles from a New England farmer,
and contain some of the best specimens extant of the 'Yankee,' or New
England dialect,--better than Haliburton's, for Sam Slick sometimes
mixes Southern, Western, and even English vulgarities with his Yankee.
Mr. Biglow's remarks treat chiefly of the Mexican war, and subjects
immediately connected with it, such as slavery, truckling of
Northerners to the south, &c. The theme is treated in various ways
with uniform bitterness. Now he sketches a 'Pious Editors Creed,'
almost too daring in its Scriptural allusions, but terribly severe
upon the venal fraternity. At another time he sets one of Calhoun's
pro-slavery speeches to music. The remarks of the great Nullifier form
the air of the song, and the incidental remarks of honorable senators
on the same side make up a rich chorus, their names supplying happy
tags to the rhymes. But best of all are the letters of his friend the
returned volunteer, Mr. Birdofredom Sawin, who draws a sad picture
of the private soldier's life in Mexico. He had gone out with hopes
of making his fortune. But he was sadly disappointed and equally so
in his expectations of glory, which 'never got so low down as the
privates.'

"But it is time to bring this notice to a close not, however, that
we have by any means exhausted the subject. For have we not already
stated that there are, at the lowest calculation, ninety American
poets, spreading all over the alphabet, from Allston, who is
unfortunately dead, to Willis, who is fortunately living, and writing
_Court Journals_ for the 'Upper Ten Thousand,' as he has named the
quasi-aristocracy of New York? And the lady-poets--the poetesses, what
shall we say of them? Truly it would be ungallant to say anything ill
of them, and invidious to single out a few among so many; therefore,
it will be best for us to say--nothing at all about any of them."

ORIGINAL POETRY.

A RETROSPECT.

BY HERMANN.

  On this rustic footbridge sitting,
    I have passed delightful eyes,
  Moonbeams round about me flitting
    Through the overhanging leaves.

  With me often came another,
    When the west wore hues of gold,
  And 'twas neither sister--brother--
    One the heart may dearer hold.

  She was fair and lightly moulded,
    Azure eyed and full of grace;
  Gentler form was never folded
    In a lover's warm embrace.

  Oh those hours of sacred converse,
    Their communion now is o'er
  And our straying feet shall traverse
    Those remembered paths no more.

  Hours they were of love and gladness,
    Fraught with holy vows of truth:
  Not a single thought of sadness
    Shadowing o'er the hopes of youth.

  I am sitting sad and lonely
    Where she often sat with me,
  And the voice I hear is only
    Of the silvery streamlet's glee.

  Where is she, whose gentle fingers,
    Oft were wreathed amidst my hair?
  Still methinks their pressure lingers,
    But, ah no! they are not there.

  They are whiter now than ever,
    In a light I know not of,
  Sweeping o'er the chords of silver
    To a song of joy and love.

  Though so lonely I am sitting,
    This sweet thought of joy may bring,
  That she still is round me flitting,
    On an angel's tireless wing.

THE AUTHOR OF "ION."

"Mr. Talfourd is now a Justice, and we find in the London journals an
account of a visit to his residence by a deputation from his native
town, to present to him a silver candelabrum, subscribed for by a
large number of the inhabitants of the borough, of all parties. The
base of the candelabrum is a tripod, on which stands a group of three
female figures; representing Law, Justice, and Poetry, the two former
modeled from Flaxman's sculpture on Lord Mansfield's monument in
Westminster Abbey, the latter from a drawing of the Greek Antique,
bearing a scroll inscribed with the word "Ion" in Greek characters.
The arms of Mr. Talfourd and of the borough of Reading are engraved on
the base. The testimonial was presented to the Justice in the presence
of his family, including the venerable Mrs. Talfourd, his mother,
and a large circle of private friends. In answer to the gentleman who
presented the testimonial, Mr. Talfourd replied:

"If I felt that the circumstances of this hour, and the eloquent
kindness which has enriched it, appealed for a response only to
personal qualities, I should be too conscious of the poverty of such
materials for an answer to attempt one; but the associations they
suggest expand into wider circles than self impels, and while they
teach me that this occasion is not for the indulgence of vanity,
but for the cultivation of humble thankfulness, they impart a nobler
significance to your splendid gift and to your delightful praise. They
remind me that my intellectual being has, from its first development,
been nurtured by the partiality of those whom, living and dead, you
virtually represent to-day; they concentrate the wide-spread instances
of that peculiar felicity in my lot whereby I have been privileged to
find aid, comfort, inspiration, and allowance in that local community
amidst which my life began; and they invite me, from that position
which once bounded my furthest horizon of personal hope, to live along
the line of past existence; to recognize the same influence everywhere
pervading it: and to perceive how its struggles have been assisted;
its errors softened down or vailed, and its successes enhanced, by the
constant presence of home-born regards. Embracing in a rapid glance
the events of many years, I call to mind how at an early age--earlier
than is generally safe or happy for youths--the incidents of life,
supplying an unusual stimulus to ordinary powers, gave vividness to
those dreams of human excellence and progress which, at some time,
visit all; how by the weakness which precluded them from assuming
those independent shapes which require the plastic force of higher
powers, they became associated with the scenes among which they were
cherished, and clove to them with earnest grasp; and how the fervid
expressions which that combination prompted, were accepted by generous
friends as indicating faculties 'beyond the reaches of my soul,'
and induced them to encourage me by genial prophecies which, with
unwearied purpose, they endeavored to fulfill. I renew that golden
season when such vague aspirations were at once cherished and
directed by the Christian wisdom of the venerated master of Reading
School--who, during his fifty years of authority, made the name of
our town a household word to successive generations of scholars,
who honored him in all parts of the world, and all departments of
society--whose long life was one embodied charity--and who gave
steadiness and object to those impulses in me which else might have
ended, as they began, in dreams. I remember, when pausing on the
slippery threshold of active life, and looking abroad on the desolate
future, how the earnestness of my friends gave me courage, and
emboldened me, with no patrons but themselves, to enter the profession
of my choice by its most dim and laborious avenue, and to brace myself
for four years of arduous pupilage; how they crowded with pleasures
the intervals of holiday I annually enjoyed among them during that
period, and another of equal length passed in a special pleader's
anxieties and toils; how they greeted with praise, sweeter than
the applause of multitudes to him who wins it, the slender literary
effusions by which I supplied the deficiency of professional income;
and how, when I dared the hazard of the bar, they provided for me
opportunities such as riper scholars and other advocates wait long
for, by confiding important matters to my untried hands; how they
encircled my first tremulous efforts by an atmosphere of affectionate
interest, roused my faint heart to exertion, absorbed the fever that
hung upon its beatings, and strengthened my first perceptions of
capacity to make my thoughts and impressions intelligible, on the
instant, to the minds of courts and juries. The impulse thus given to
my professional success at Reading, and in the sessions of Berkshire
during twelve years, gradually extended its influence through my
circuit, until it raised me to a position among its members beyond
my deserts and equal to my wishes. Another opening of fortune
soon dawned on me; in the maturity of life I aspired to a seat
in parliament--rather let me say, to _that_ seat which only I
coveted--and then, almost without solicitation, from many surviving
patrons of my childhood, and from the sons of others who inherited the
kindness of their fathers, I received an honor more precious to me as
the token of concentrated regards than as the means of advancement;
yet greatly heightened in practical importance by the testimony
it implied from the best of all witnesses. That honor, three times
renewed, was attended by passages of excitement which look dizzy even
in the distance--with much on my part requiring allowance, and much
allowance rendered by those to whom my utmost services were due; with
the painful consciousness of wide difference of opinion between some
of my oldest friends and myself, and with painful contests which those
differences rendered inevitable, yet cheered by attachments which
the vivid lights struck out in the conflict of contending passions
exhibited in scatheless strength, until I received that appointment
which dissolved the parliamentary connection, and with it annihilated
all the opposition of feeling which had sometimes saddened it, and
invested the close of my life with the old regard, as unclouded by
controversy as when it illumined its opening. And now the expressions
of your sympathy await me, when, by the gracious providence of God,
I have been permitted to enter on a course of less fervid action, of
serener thought, of plainer duty. For me political animosities are
forever hushed and absorbed in one desire, which I share with you
all, for the happiness and honor of our country, and the peaceful
advancement of our species; and all the feverish excitements and
perils of advocacy, its ardent partisanship with various interests,
anxieties, and passions, are displaced by the office of seeking to
discover truth and to maintain justice. I am no longer incited to
aspire to public favor, even under your auspices: my course is marked
right onward--to be steadily trodden, whether its duties may accord
with the prevalent feeling of the hour, or may oppose the temporary
injustice of its generous errors: but it is not forbidden me to prize
the esteem of those who have known me longest and best, and to indulge
the hope that I may retain it to the last. To encourage me in the
aim still to deserve that esteem, I shall look on this gift of those
numbers of my townsmen whose regards have just found such cordial
expression. I shall cherish it as a memorial of earliest hopes
that gleam out from the depth of years; as a memorial of a thousand
incentives to virtuous endeavor, of sacred trusts, of delighted
solaces; as a memorial of affections which have invested a being,
frail, sensitive, and weak, with strength not its own, and under God,
have insured for it an honorable destiny; as a memorial of this hour,
when, in the presence of those who are nearest and dearest to me on
earth, my course has been pictured in the light of those friendships
which have gladdened it--an hour of which the memory and the influence
will not pass away, but, I fondly trust, will incite those who will
bear my name after me, and to whose charge this gift will be confided
when I shall cease to behold it, better to deserve, though they cannot
more dearly appreciate, such a succession of kindnesses as that to
which the crowning grace is now added, and for which, with my whole
heart, I thank you."

Cultivate and exercise a serene faith, and you shall acquire wonderful
power and insight; its results are sure and illimitable, moulding and
moving to its purposes equally spirit, mind, and matter. It is the
power-endowing essential of all action.

RECENT DEATHS.

Under this head we have rarely to present so many articles as are
demanded by the foreign journals received during the week, and by the
melancholy disaster which caused the death of the MARCHESA D'OSSOLI,
with her husband, and Mr. SUMNER. Of MARGARET FULLER D'OSSOLI a sketch
is given in the preceding pages, and we reserve for our next number
an article upon the history of Sir ROBERT PEEL. The death of this
illustrious person has caused a profound sensation not only in Great
Britain, but throughout Europe. In the House of Lords, most eloquent
and impressive speeches upon the exalted character of the deceased,
and the irreparable loss of the country, were delivered by the Marquis
of Lansdowne, Lord Stanley, Lord Brougham, the Duke of Wellington,
and the Duke of Cleveland, and in the House of Commons, by Lord John
Russell, and Messrs. Hume, Gladstone, Goulburn, Herries, Napier,
Inglis and Somervile. The House, in testimony of its grief, adjourned
without business, an act without precedent, except in case of death
in the royal family. A noble tribute of respect was also paid by the
French Assembly to the memory of Sir Robert Peel. The President, M.
Dupin, pronounced an affecting eulogy upon the deceased, which was
received with the liveliest sympathy by the Chamber, and was ordered
to be recorded in its journal. A compliment like this is totally
unprecedented in France, and the death of no other foreigner in the
world could have elicited it.

BOYER, EX-PRESIDENT OF HAYTI.

Jean Pierre Boyer, a mulatto, distinguished in affairs, and for his
abilities and justice, was born at Port-au-Prince, on the 6th of
February, 1776. His father, by some said to have been of mixed blood,
was a tailor and shopkeeper, of fair reputation and some property, and
his mother a negress from Congo in Africa, who had been a slave in
the neighborhood. He joined the French Commissioners, Santhonax and
Polverel, in whose company, after the arrival of the English, he
withdrew to Jacqemel. Here he attached himself to Rigaud, set out
with him to France, and was captured on his passage by the Americans,
during the war between France and the United States. Being released
at the end of the war, he proceeded to Paris, where he remained until
the organization of Le Clerc's expedition against St. Domingo. This
expedition he with many other persons of color joined; but on the
death of Le Clerc he attached himself to the party of Petion, with
whom he acted during the remainder of that chieftain's life, which
terminated on the 29th of March, 1818. Under Petion he rose from
the post of aid-de-camp and private secretary to be general of
the arrondissement of Port-au-Prince; and Petion named him for
the succession in the Presidency, to which he was inducted without
opposition. When the revolution broke out in the northern part of the
island, in 1820, Boyer was invited by the insurgents to place himself
at their head; and on the death of Christophe, the northern and
southern parts of the island were united under his administration
into one government, under the style of the Republic of Hayti. In
the following year the Spanish inhabitants of the eastern part of the
island voluntarily placed themselves under the government of Boyer,
who thus became, chiefly by the force of character, without much
positive effort, the undisputed master of all St. Domingo.

It is not questionable that the productions and general prosperity of
the island decreased under Boyer's administration. The blacks needed
the stringent policy of some such tyrant as Christophe. And the
popularity of Boyer was greatly lessened by his approval or direct
negotiation of a treaty with France, by which he agreed to pay to
that country an indemnity of 150,000,000 of francs, in five annual
instalments. The French Government recognized the independence of
Hayti, but it was impossible for Boyer to meet his engagements. He
however conducted the administration with industry, discretion, and
repose, for fifteen years, when a long-slumbering opposition, for
his presumed preference of the mulatto to the black population in the
dispensations of government favor, began to exhibit itself openly.
When this feeling was manifested in the second chamber of the
Legislature, in 1843, the promptness and decision with which he
attempted to suppress it, induced an insurrection among the troops,
and he was compelled to fly, with about thirty followers, to Jamaica.
He afterward proceeded to London, and finally to Paris, where he lived
quietly in the Rue de Madeline, enjoying the respect of many eminent
men, and surrounded by attached followers who shared his exile, until
the 10th of July. On the 12th he was buried with appropriate funeral
honors.

THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.

The death of the Duke of Cambridge, brother of the late William IV.,
occurred the 8th of July, and was quite sudden. He was the seventh
son of George III., was born in 1774, received his earliest education
at Kew, and finished his studies at Gottingen. He entered the army,
and experiencing much active service, was promoted, until in 1813 he
attained the distinction of Field Marshal. He soon afterward became
Governor-General of Hanover, and continued to fill that post until
the accession of the Duke of Cumberland, in 1839. His subsequent life
presented few features of much interest. His name was to be found as
a patron and a contributor to many most valuable institutions, and
he took delight in presiding at benevolent festivals and anniversary
dinners, when, though without the slightest pretension to eloquence,
the frankness and _bonhommie_ of his manners, and his simple
straight-forward earnestness of speech, used to make him an universal
favorite. He took but little part in the active strife of parties. He
died in his seventy-seventh year, leaving one son, Prince George of
Cambridge, and two daughters.

GEORGE W. ERVING.

This distinguished public man died in New York, on the 22d ult. A
correspondent of the _Evening Post_ gives the following account of his
history:

"The journals furnish us with a brief notice of the death of the
venerable George W. Erving, who was for so many years, dating from the
foundation of our government, connected with the diplomatic history of
the country, as an able, successful and distinguished negotiator. The
career of this gentleman has been so marked, and is so instructive,
that it becomes not less a labor of love than an act of public duty,
with the press, to make it the occasion of comment. At the breaking
out of our revolution, the father of the subject of this imperfect
sketch was an eminent loyalist of Massachusetts, residing in Boston,
connected by affinity with the Shirleys, the Winslows, the Bowdons,
and Winthrops of that State. Like many other men of wealth, at that
day, he joined the royal cause, forsook his country and went to
England. There his son, George William, who had always been a sickly
delicate child, reared with difficulty, was educated, and finally
graduated at Oxford, where he was a classmate of Copley, now Lord
Lyndhurst. Following this, on the attainment of his majority, and
during the lifetime of his father, notwithstanding the most powerful
and seductive efforts to attach him to the side of Great Britain,
the more persevering from the great wealth, and the intellectual
attainments of the young American--notwithstanding the importunities
of misjudging friends and relatives, the incitements found in ties of
consanguinity with some, and his intimate personal associations with
many of the young nobility at that aristocratic seat of learning, and
notwithstanding the blandishments of fashionable society--the love of
country and the holy inspirations of patriotism, triumphed over all
the arts that power could control, and those allurements usually so
potent where youth is endowed with great wealth. The young patriot
promptly, cheerfully, sacrificed all, for his country--turned his back
upon the unnatural stepmother, and came back, to share the good or
evil fortunes of his native land.

"Such facts as these should not be lost sight of at the present
day--such an example it is well to refer to now, in the day of our
prosperity. And we would ask--in no ill-natured or censorious spirit,
but rather that the lessons of history should not be forgotten--how
many young men of these days under like circumstances, would make
a similar sacrifice upon the altar of their country? The solemn and
impressive event which has produced this notice seems to render this
question not entirely inappropriate; for years should not dim in the
minds of the rising generation the memory of those pure and strong
men, who, in the early trials of their country, rose equal to the
occasion. When, at a later period, political parties began to develop
themselves, Mr. Erving, then a resident of Boston, identified himself
with the great republican party, and became actively instrumental in
securing the election of Thomas Jefferson to the Presidency. From
that time forward until the day of his death, he never faltered in his
political faith.

"Few men have been, for so long a period, so intimately connected with
the diplomatic history of our country. He received his first public
appointment, as Consul and Commissioner of Claims at London, nearly
half a century since. This appointment was conferred upon him without
his solicitation, and was at first declined. Subsequent reflection,
however, induced him to waive all private and personal considerations,
and he accepted the post assigned to him. The manner in which he
discharged the duties of that trust, impressed the government with the
expediency of securing his services in more important negotiations,
and he was sent as Commissioner and Charge d'Affaires to Denmark. His
mission to the court of that country was, at that period, a highly
important one. The negotiations he had to conduct there, required
great tact and ability.

"While at Copenhagen, he secured, in an eminent degree, the esteem
and confidence of the Danish authorities, and brought to a successful
solution the questions then arising out of the interests committed to
him. In consequence, the government was enabled to avail itself of
his experience at the Court of Berlin, where events seemed to require
the exercise of great diplomatic ability. He was afterward appointed
to Madrid, where, by his highly honorable personal character, and
captivating manners, he obtained great influence, even at that most
proud and distrustful court, and conducted, with consummate skill and
marked success, the important and delicate negotiations then pending
between the United States and Spain. He remained at Madrid for many
years, where he attained the reputation of being one of the most able
and accomplished diplomatists that the United States had ever sent
abroad. Upon his final retirement from this post, and, in fact, from
all public employment, the administration of General Jackson sought
to secure his services in the mission to Constantinople, but the
proffered appointment was declined.

"There are many interesting incidents in his public and diplomatic
career, which a more extended notice would enable us to detail.
Indeed, we hope that so instructive a life as that of Mr. Erving
may hereafter find a fit historian. That historian may not have
to chronicle victories won upon the battle field, but the civic
achievement he will have to record, if not so dazzling as the former,
will, at least, be as replete with evidences of public usefulness.

"The latter years of his life were passed in Europe, chiefly in Paris.
The public agitations consequent upon the last French revolution,
need of quiet at his advanced age, and the presentiment of approaching
dissolution, induced him to return home. Indeed it was meet that he
should close his mortal career in that country which he had so long
and faithfully served, and whose welfare and happiness had been the
constant object of his every earthly aspiration."

DR. JOHN BURNS.

Among those who perished in the wreck of the _Orion_, was Dr. John
Burns, Professor of Surgery in the University of Glasgow, aged about
eighty years. Dr. Burns held a distinguished place in the medical
world, for at least half a century, as an author and a teacher. He was
a son of the Rev. Dr. John Burns, for more than sixty years minister
of the Barony parish of Glasgow, who died about fourteen years ago,
at the age of ninety. He was originally intended to be a manufacturer,
and in his time the necessary training for this business included
a practical application to the loom. A disease of the knee-joint
unfitted him for becoming a weaver, and he turned his attention to
the medical profession, winch the neighboring university afforded him
easy and ample means of studying. He early entered into business as
a general practitioner, but his ambition led him very soon to be an
instructor. In 1800, he published _Dissertations on Inflammation_,
which raised his name to a high position in the literature of his
profession. In 1807, he published a kindred volume on Hemorrhage.
In the mean time he had turned his attention to lecturing, and
he continued to give, for many years, lectures on midwifery. His
observations and experience on this subject he offered to the world
in _The Principles of Midwifery_, a work which has run through
twelve editions, and been translated into several of the continental
languages. It is very elaborate and valuable, and as each succeeding
edition presented the result of the author's increasing experience, it
became a standard in every medical library. Its chief defect is a want
of clearness in the arrangement, and sometimes in the language. In
1815, the crown instituted a Professorship of Surgery in the Glasgow
University, and the Duke of Montrose, its chancellor, appointed to
it Mr. Burns, a choice which the voice of the profession generally
approved. The value of the professorship might average 500l. yearly.

As a professor, Dr. Burns was highly popular. He had a cheerful and
attractive manner, and was fond of bringing in anecdotes more or less
applicable, but always enlivening. His language was plain and clear,
but not always correct or elegant. In personal appearance, he was
of the middle size, of an anxious and careworn, but gentlemanly
and intelligent, expression of countenance. In 1830, he published
_Principles of Surgery_, first volume, which was followed by another.
This work is confused, both in style and arrangement, and has been
very little read, but it did credit to his zeal and industry, for he
had now acquired fame and fortune, and had long had at his command
the most extensive practice in the west of Scotland. John Burns,
the younger, had written and published a work on the evidences and
principles of Christianity, which was extensively read, and went
through many editions. His name was not at first on the title-page,
but that it was the production of a medical man was obvious. He gave
a copy to his father, who shortly after said, "Ah, John, I wish _you_
could have written such a book!" Dr. Burns has many friends in the
United States, who were once his pupils. One of the most eminent of
them is Professor Pattison of the Medical Department of the New York
University, in this city.

HORACE SUMNER.

This gentleman, one of the victims of the lamentable wreck of the
Elizabeth, was the youngest son of the late Charles P. Sumner, of
Boston, for many years Sheriff of Suffolk county, and the brother of
George Sumner, Esq., of Boston, who is well known for his legal and
literary eminence throughout the country. He was about twenty-four
years of ago, and has been abroad for nearly a year, traveling in the
south of Europe for the benefit of his health. The past winter was
spent by him chiefly in Florence, where he was on terms of familiar
intimacy with the Marquis and Marchioness d'Ossoli, and was induced
to take passage in the same vessel with them for his return to his
native land. He was a young man of singular modesty of deportment,
of an original turn of mind, and greatly endeared to his friends
by the sweetness of his disposition and the purity of his
character.--_Tribune_.

THE FINE ARTS.

POWERS'S STATUE OF CALHOUN.--An unfortunate fatality appears to wait
upon the works of Hiram Powers. It is but a few weeks since his "Eve"
was lost on the coast of Spain, and it is still uncertain here whether
that exquisite statue is preserved without such injury as materially
to affect its value. And his masterpiece in history--perhaps his
masterpiece in all departments--the statue of Calhoun, which has been
so anxiously looked-for ever since the death of the great senator, was
buried under the waves in which Madame d'Ossoli and Horace Sumner were
lost, on the morning of the 19th, near Fire Island. At the time this
sheet is sent to press we are uncertain as to the recovery of the
statue, but we hope for the sake of art and for the satisfaction of
all the parties interested, that it will still reach its destination.
It is insured in Charleston, and Mr. Kellogg, the friend and agent
of Mr. Powers, has been at the scene of the misfortune, with all
necessary means for its preservation, if that be possible.

HORACE VERNET, the great painter, has returned to Paris from St.
Petersburgh. Offensive reports were current respecting his journey: he
had been paid, it was alleged, in most princely style by the Emperor,
for his masterly efforts in translating to canvas the principal
incidents of the Hungarian and Polish wars. He came back, it was
declared, loaded and content, with a hundred thousand dollars and a
kiss--an actual kiss--from his Imperial Majesty. M. Vernet has deemed
it necessary to publish a letter, correcting what was erroneous in
these reports. He says:--"In repairing to Russia I was actuated by
only one desire, and had but a single object, and that was, to thank
His Majesty, the Emperor, for the honors with which he had already
loaded me, and for the proofs of his munificence which I had
previously received. I intended to bring back, and in fact have
brought back from the journey, nothing but the satisfaction of having
performed an entirely disinterested duty of respectful gratitude." It
is true, however, that he lent his powers to illustrate the triumph of
despotism, and if he brought back no gold the matter is not all helped
by that fact.

AUTHORS AND BOOKS.

THE REV. JAMES H. PERKINS, of Cincinnati, whose suicide during a fit
of madness, several months ago, will be generally recollected for
the many expressions of profound regret which it occasioned, we are
pleased to learn, is to be the subject of a biography by the Rev. W.H.
Channing. Mr. Perkins was a man of the finest capacities, and of large
and genial scholarship. He wrote much, in several departments, and
almost always well. His historical works, relating chiefly to the
western States, have been little read in this part of the Union;
but his contributions to the North American Review and the Christian
Examiner, and his tales, sketches, essays, and poems, printed under
various signatures, have entitled him to a desirable reputation as
a man of letters. These are all to be collected and edited by Mr.
Channing.

Mrs. ESLING, better known as Miss Catherine H. Waterman, under which
name she wrote the popular and beautiful lyric, "Brother, Come Home!"
has in press a collection of her writings, under the title of _The
Broken Bracelet and other Poems_, to be published by Lindsay &
Blackiston of Philadelphia.

M. ROSSEEUW ST. HILAIRE, of Paris, is proceeding with his great work
on the History of Spain with all the rapidity consistent with the
nature of the subject and the elaborate studies it requires. The work
was commenced ten years ago, and has since been the main occupation of
its author. The fifth volume has just been published, and receives the
applause of the most competent critics. It includes the time from 1336
to 1492, which comes down to the very eve of the great discovery of
Columbus, and includes that most brilliant period, in respect of which
the history of Prescott has hitherto stood alone, namely, the reign of
Ferdinand and Isabella. M. St. Hilaire has had access to many sources
of information not accessible to any former writer, and is said
to have availed himself of them with all the success that could be
anticipated from his rare faculty of historical analysis and the
beautiful transparency of his style.

THE REV. ROBERT ARMITAGE, a rector in Shropshire, is the author of
"Dr. Hookwell," and "Dr. Johnson, his Religious Life and his Death."
In this last work, the _Quarterly Review_ observes, "Johnson's name is
made the peg on which to hang up--or rather the line on which to hang
out--much hackneyed sentimentality, and some borrowed learning, with
an awful and overpowering quantity of twaddle and rigmarole." The
writer concludes his reviewal: "We are sorry to have had to make such
an exposure of a man, who, apart from the morbid excess of vanity
which has evidently led him into this scrape, may be, for aught we
know, worthy and amiable. His exposure, however, is on his own
head: he has ostentatiously and pertinaciously forced his ignorance,
conceit, and effrontery on public notice." We quite agree with the
_Quarterly_.

JOHN MILLS--"John St. Hugh Mills," it was written then--was familiarly
known in the printing offices of Ann street in this city a dozen
years ago; he assisted General Morris in editing the Mirror, and wrote
paragraphs of foreign gossip for other journals. A good-natured aunt
died in England, leaving him a few thousand a year, and he returned
to spend his income upon a stud and pack and printing office, sending
from the latter two or three volumes of pleasant-enough mediocrity
every season. His last work, with the imprint of Colburn, is called
"Our Country."

Mr. PRESCOTT, the historian, who is now in England, has received the
degree of Doctor of Civil Law from the University of Oxford. Two or
three years ago he was elected into the Institute of France.

DR. MAGINN's "Homeric Ballads," which gave so much attraction
during several years to _Fraser's Magazine_, have been collected and
republished in a small octavo.

Mr. KENDALL, of the _Picayune_, has sailed once more for Paris, to
superintend there the completion of his great work on the late war
in Mexico upon which he has been engaged for the last two years. The
highest talent has been employed in the embellishment of this book,
and the care and expense incurred may be estimated from the fact that
sixty men, coloring and preparing the plates, can finish only one
hundred and twenty copies in a month. The original sketches were
taken by a German, Carl Nebel, who accompanied Mr. Kendall in Mexico,
and drew his battle scenes at the very time of their occurrence. He
has engaged in the prosecution of the whole enterprise with as much
zeal and interest as Mr. Kendall himself, and has spared no pains to
procure the assistance of the most skillful operatives. The book is
folio in size, and will be published early in the fall. The letter
press has long been finished, and only waiting for the completion of
the plates. These are twelve, and their subjects are Palo Alto, the
Capture of Monterey, Buena Vista: the Landing at Vera Cruz, Cerro
Gordo, Contreras, Cherubusco, Molino del Rey, two views of the
Storming of Chapultepec, and Gen. Scott's entrance into the city of
Mexico. The lithographs are said to be unsurpassed in felicity of
design, perfection of coloring, and in the animation and expression
of all the figures and groups. No such finished specimens of colored
lithography were ever exhibited in this country. The plates will have
unusual value, not only on account of their intrinsic superiority,
but because of their rare historical merit, since they are exact
delineations of the topography of the scenes they represent and
faithful representations in every particular of the military positions
and movements at the moment chosen for illustration.

MRS. TROLLOPPE is as busy as she has ever been since the failure of
her shop at Cincinnati--trading in fiction, with the capital won
by her first adventure in this way, "The Domestic Manners of the
Americans." Her last novel, which is just out, has in its title the
odor of her customary vulgarity; it is called "Petticoat Government."
Her son, Mr. A. Trolloppe, his just given the world a new book also,
"La Vendee" a historical romance which is well spoken of.

THE REV. DR. WILLIAM R. WILLIAMS, it will gratify the friends of
literature and religion to learn, has consented to give to the press
several works upon which he has for some time been engaged. They
will be published by Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, of Boston. In the next
number of _The International_ we shall write more largely of this
subject.

Dr. BUCKLAND, the Dean of Westminster--the eloquent and the learned
writer of the remarkable "Bridgewater Treatise" is bereft of reason,
and is now an inmate of an asylum near Oxford.

Dr. WAYLAND's "Tractate on Education," in which he proposes a thorough
reform in the modes of college instruction, has, we are glad to see,
had its desired effect. The Providence _Journal_ states that the
entire subscription to the fund of Brown University has reached
$110,000, which is within $15,000 of the sum originally proposed.
The subscription having advanced so far, and with good assurances of
further aid, the committee have reported to the President, that the
success of the plan, so far as the money is concerned, may be regarded
as assured, and that consequently it will be safe to go on with the
new organization as rapidly as may he deemed advisable. Of the sum
raised, about $96,000 have come from Providence. A meeting of the
Corporation of the University will soon be called, when the entire
plan will be decided upon, and carried into effect as rapidly as so
important a change can be made with prudence.

SIR JAMES EMERSON TENNANT has in the press of Mr. Murray a work
which will probably be read with much interest in this country,
upon Christianity in Ceylon, its introduction and progress under the
Portuguese, the Dutch, the British, and the American missions, with a
Historical View of the Brahminical and Buddhist superstitions.

CHARLES EAMES, formerly one of the editors of the Washington _Union_,
and more recently United States Commissioner to the Sandwich Islands,
is to be the orator of the societies of Columbia College, at the
commencement, on the evening of the 6th of October. Bayard Taylor will
be the poet for the same occasion.

CHATEAUBRIAND'S MEMOIRS.--The eleventh and last volume has just been
published at Paris in the book form, and will soon be completed in
the _feuilletons_. An additional volume is however to be brought out,
under the title of "Supplement to the Memoirs."

THE THIRD AND FOURTH SERIES of Southey's Common-Place Book are in
preparation, and they will be reprinted by the Harpers. The third
contains Analytical Readings, and the fourth, Original Memoranda.

WASHINGTON IRVING's Life of General Washington, in one octavo volume,
is announced by Murray. It will appear simultaneously from the press
of Putnam.

MRS. JAMESON has in press Legends of the Monastic Orders, as
illustrated in art.

Dr. ACHILLI is the subject of an article in the July number of the
_Dublin Review_--the leading Roman Catholic journal in the English
language. Of course the history of the missionary is not presented in
very flattering colors.

[FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]

THE SERF OF POBEREZE.

The materials for the following tale were furnished to the writer
while traveling last year near the spot on which the events it
narrates took place. It is intended to convey a notion of some of the
phases of Polish, or rather Russian serfdom (for, as truly explained
by one of the characters in a succeeding page, it is Russian), and of
the catastrophes it has occasioned, not only in Catherine's time,
but occasionally at the present. The Polish nobles--themselves in
slavery--earnestly desire the emancipation of their serfs, which
Russian domination forbids.

The small town of Pobereze stands at the foot of a stony mountain,
watered by numerous springs in the district of Podolia, in Poland. It
consists of a mass of miserable Cabins, with a Catholic chapel and two
Greek churches in the midst, the latter distinguished by their gilded
towers. On one side of the market-place stands the only inn, and on
the opposite side are several shops, from whose doors and windows
look out several dirtily dressed Jews. At a little distance, on a hill
covered with vines and fruit-trees, stands the Palace, which does not,
perhaps, exactly merit such an appellation, but who would dare to call
otherwise the dwelling of the lord of the domain?

On the morning when our tale opens, there had issued from this palace
the common enough command to the superintendent of the estate, to
furnish the master with a couple of strong boys, for service in the
stables, and a young girl to be employed in the wardrobe. Accordingly,
a number of the best-looking young peasants of Olgogrod assembled
in the avenue leading to the palace. Some were accompanied by their
sorrowful and weeping parents, in all of whose hearts, however, rose
the faint whispered hope, "Perhaps it will not be _my_ child they will
choose!"

Being brought into the court-yard of the palace, the Count Roszynski,
with the several members of his family, had come out to pass in review
his growing subjects. He was a small and insignificant-looking man,
about fifty years of age, with deep-set eyes and overhanging brows.
His wife, who was nearly of the same age, was immensely stout, with
a vulgar face and a loud, disagreeable voice. She made herself
ridiculous in endeavoring to imitate the manners and bearing of the
aristocracy, into whose sphere she and her husband were determined
to force themselves, in spite of the humbleness of their origin. The
father of the "Right-Honorable" Count Roszynski was a valet, who,
having been a great favorite with his master, amassed sufficient money
to enable his son, who inherited it, to purchase the extensive estate
of Olgogrod, and with it the sole proprietorship of 1600 human beings.
Over them he had complete control; and, when maddened by oppression,
if they dared resent, woe unto them! They could be thrust into a
noisome dungeon, and chained by one hand from the light of day for
years, until their very existence was forgotten by all except the
jailor who brought daily their pitcher of water and morsel of dry
bread.

Some of the old peasants say that Sava, father of the young peasant
girl, who stands by the side of an old woman, at the head of her
companions in the court-yard, is immured in one of these subterranean
jails. Sava was always about the Count, who, it was said, had brought
him from some distant land, with his little motherless child. Sava
placed her under the care of an old man and woman, who had the charge
of the bees in a forest near the palace, where he came occasionally to
visit her. But once, six long months passed, and he did not come! In
vain Anielka wept, in vain she cried, "Where is my father?" No father
appeared. At last it was said that Sava had been sent to a long
distance with a large sum of money, and had been killed by robbers.
In the ninth year of one's life the most poignant grief is quickly
effaced, and after six months Anielka ceased to grieve. The old people
were very kind to her, and loved her as if sue were their own child.
That Anielka might be chosen to serve in the palace never entered
their head, for who would be so barbarous as to take the child away
from an old woman of seventy and her aged husband?

To-day was the first time in her life that she had been so far from
home. She looked curiously on all she saw,--particularly on a young
lady about her own age, beautifully dressed, and a youth of eighteen,
who had apparently just returned from a ride on horse-back, as he held
a whip in his hand, whilst walking up and down examining the boys who
were placed in a row before him. He chose two amongst them, and the
boys were led away to the stables.

"And I choose this young girl," said Constantia Roszynski, indicating
Anielka; "she is the prettiest of them all. I do not like ugly faces
about me."

When Constantia returned to the drawing-room, she gave orders for
Anielka to be taken to her apartments, and placed under the tutelage
of Mademoiselle Dufour, a French maid, recently arrived from the first
milliner's shop in Odessa. Poor girl! when they separated her from her
adopted mother, and began leading her toward the palace, she rushed,
with a shriek of agony, from them, and grasped her old protectress
tightly in her arms! They were torn violently asunder, and the Count
Roszynski quietly asked, "Is it her daughter, or her grand-daughter?"

"Neither, my lord,--only an adopted, child."

"But who will lead the old woman home, as she is blind?"

"I will, my lord," replied one of his servants, bowing to the ground;
"I will let her, walk by the side of my horse, and when she is in
her cabin she will have her old husband,--they must take care of each
other."

So saying, he moved away with the rest of the peasants and domestics.
But the poor old woman had to be dragged along by two men; for in the
midst of her shrieks and tears she had fallen to the ground, almost
without life.

And Anielka? They did not allow her to weep long. She had now to
sit all day in the corner of a room to sew. She was expected to do
everything well from the first; and if she did not, she was kept
without food or cruelly punished. Morning and evening she had to
help Mdlle. Dufour to dress and undress her mistress. But Constantia,
although she looked with hauteur on everybody beneath her, and
expected to be slavishly obeyed, was tolerably kind to the poor
orphan. Her true torment began, when, on laving her young lady's
room, she had to assist Mdlle. Dufour. Notwithstanding that she tried
sincerely to do her best, she was never able to satisfy her, or to
draw from her naught but harsh reproaches.

Thus two months passed.

One day Mdlle. Dufour went very early to confession, and Anielka was
seized with an eager longing to gaze once more in peace and freedom
on the beautiful blue sky and green trees, as she used to do when the
first rays of the rising sun streamed in at the window of the little
forest cabin. She ran into the garden. Enchanted by the sight of so
many beautiful flowers, she went farther and farther along the smooth
and winding walks. till she entered the forest. She who had been, so
long away from her beloved trees, roamed where they were thickest.
Here she gazes boldly around. She sees no one! She is alone! A little
farther on she meets with a rivulet which flows through the forest.
Here she remembers that she has not yet prayed. She kneels down, and
with hands clasped and eyes upturned she begins to sing in a sweet
voice the Hymn to the virgin.

As she went on she sang louder and with increased fervor. Her breast
heaved with emotion, her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy; but when
the hymn was finished she lowered her head, tears began to fall over
her cheeks, until at last she sobbed aloud. She might have remained
long in this condition, had not some one come behind her, saying,
"Do not cry, my poor girl; it is better to sing than to weep." The
intruder raised her head, wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, and
kissed her on the forehead.

It was the Count's son, Leon!

"You must not cry," he continued; "be calm, and when the filipony
(peddlers) come, buy yourself a pretty handkerchief." He then gave
her a ruble and walked away. Anielka, after concealing the coin in her
corset, ran quickly back to the palace.

Fortunately, Mdlle. Dufour had not yet returned, and Anielka seated
herself in her accustomed corner. She often took out the ruble to,
gaze fondly upon it, and set to work to make a little purse, which,
having fastened to a ribbon, she hung round her neck. She did not
dream of spending it, for it would have deeply grieved her to part
with the gift of the only person in the whole house who had looked
kindly on her.

From this time Anielka remained always in her young mistress's room;
she was better dressed, and Mdlle. Dufour ceased to persecute her. To
what did she owe this sudden change? Perhaps to a remonstrance from
Leon. Constantia ordered Anielka to sit beside her whilst taking her
lessons from her music masters, and on her going to the drawing-room,
she was left in her apartments alone. Being thus more kindly treated.
Anielka lost by degrees her timidity; and when her young mistress,
whilst occupied over some embroidery, would tell her to sing, she
did so boldly and with a steady voice. A greater favor awaited her.
Constantia, when unoccupied, began teaching Anielka to read in Polish;
and Mdlle. Dufour thought it politic to follow the example of her
mistress, and began to teach her French.

Meanwhile, a new kind of torment commenced. Having easily learnt the
two languages, Anielka acquired an irresistible passion for reading.
Books had for her the charm of the forbidden fruit, for she could only
read by stealth at night, or when her mistress went visiting in the
neighborhood. The kindness hitherto shown her for a time, began to
relax. Leon had set off on a tour, accompanied by his old tutor, and a
bosom friend, as young, as gay, and as thoughtless as himself.

So passed the two years of Leon's absence. When he returned, Anielka
was seventeen, and had become tall and handsome. No one who had
not seen her during this time, would have recognized her. Of this
number was Leon. In the midst of perpetual gayety and change, it
was not possible he could have remembered a poor peasant girl; but
in Anielka's memory he had remained as a superior being, as her
benefactor, as the only one who had spoken kindly to her, when poor,
neglected, forlorn! When in some French romance she met with a young
man of twenty, of a noble character and handsome appearance, she
bestowed on him the name of Leon. The recollection of the kiss be had
given her ever brought a burning blush to her cheek, and made her sigh
deeply.

One day Leon came to his sister's room. Anielka was there, seated in
a corner at work. Leon himself had considerably changed; from a boy he
had grown into a man. "I suppose, Constantia," he said, "you have
been told what a, good boy I am, and with what docility I shall submit
myself to the matrimonial yoke, which the Count and Countess have
provided for me?" and he began whistling, and danced some steps of the
Mazurka.

"Perhaps you will be refused," said Constantia coldly.

"Refused! Oh, no. The old Prince has already given his consent, and
as for his daughter, she is desperately in love with me. Look at these
moustachios; could anything be more irresistible?" and he glanced in
the glass and twirled them round his fingers; then continuing in a
graver tone, he said, "To tell the sober truth, I cannot say that
I reciprocate. My intended is not at all to my taste. She is nearly
thirty, and so thin, that whenever I look at her, I am reminded of
my old tutor's anatomical sketches. But, thanks to her Parisian
dress-maker, she makes up a tolerably good figure, and looks well in
a Cachemere. Of all things, you know, I wished for a wife with an
imposing appearance, and I don't care about love. I find it's not
fashionable, and only exists in the exalted imagination of poets."

"Surely people are in love with one another sometimes," said the
sister.

"Sometimes," repeated Anielka, inaudibly. The dialogue had painfully
affected her, and she knew not why. Her heart beat quickly, and her
face was flushed, and made her look more lovely than ever.

"Perhaps. Of course we profess to adore every pretty woman," Leon
added abruptly. "But, my dear sister, what a charming ladies' maid you
have!" He approached the corner, where Anielka sat, and bent on her a
coarse familiar smile. Anielka, although a serf, was displeased, and
returned it with a glance full of dignity. But when her eyes rested
on the youth's handsome face, a feeling, which had been gradually and
silently growing in her young and inexperienced heart, predominated
over her pride and displeasure. She wished ardently to recall herself
to Leon's memory, and half unconsciously raised her hand to the little
purse which always hung round her neck. She took from it the rouble he
had given her.

"See!" shouted Leon, "what a droll girl; how proud she is of her
riches! Why, girl, you are a woman of fortune, mistress of a whole
rouble!"

"I hope she came by it honestly," said the old Countess, who at this
moment entered.

At this insinuation, shame and indignation kept Anielka, for a time,
silent. She replaced the money quickly in its purse, with the bitter
thought that the few happy moments which had been so indelibly stamped
upon her memory, had been utterly forgotten by Leon. To clear herself,
she at last stammered out, seeing they all looked at her inquiringly,
"Do you not remember, M. Leon, that you gave me this coin two years
ago in the garden"?"

"How odd!" exclaimed Leon, laughing, "do you expect me to remember
all the pretty girls to whom I have given money? But I suppose you are
right, or you would not have treasured up this unfortunate rouble as
if it were a holy relic. You should not be a miser, child; money is
made to be spent."

"Pray put an end to these jokes," said Constantia impatiently; "I like
this girl, and I will not have her teased. She understands my ways
better than any one, and often puts me in a good humor with her
beautiful voice."

"Sing something for me pretty damsel," said Leon, "and I will give you
another rouble, a new and shining one."

"Sing instantly," said Constantia imperiously.

At this command Anielka could no longer stifle her grief; she covered
her face with her hands, and wept violently.

"Why do you cry?" asked her mistress impatiently; "I cannot bear it; I
desire you to do as you are bid."

It might have been from the constant habit of slavish obedience, or a
strong feeling of pride, but Anielka instantly ceased weeping. There
was a moment's pause, during which the old Countess went grumbling out
of the room. Anielka chose the Hymn to the Virgin she had warbled in
the garden, and as she sung, she prayed fervently;--she prayed for
peace, for deliverance from the acute emotions which had been aroused
within her. Her earnestness gave an intensity of expression to the
melody, which affected her listeners. They were silent for some
moments after its conclusion. Leon walked up and down with his arms
folded on his breast. Was it agitated with pity for the accomplished
young slave? or by any other tender emotion? What followed will show.

"My dear Constantia," he said, suddenly stopping before his sister and
kissing her hand, "will you do me a favor?"

Constantia looked inquiringly in her brother's face without speaking.

"Give me this girl"

"Impossible!"

"I am quite in earnest," continued Leon, "I wish to offer her to my
future wife. In the Prince her father's private chapel they are much
in want of a solo soprano."

"I shall not give her to you," said Constantia."

"Not as a free gift, but in exchange. I will give you instead a
charming young negro--so black. The women in St. Petersburgh and in
Paris raved about him: but I was inexorable: I half refused him to my
princess."

"No, no," replied Constantia; "I shall be lonely without this girl, I
am so used to her."

"Nonsense! you can get peasant girls by the dozen; but a black
page, with teeth whiter than ivory, and purer than pearls; a perfect
original in his way; you surely cannot withstand. You will kill half
the province with envy. A negro servant is the most fashionable thing
going, and yours will be the first imported into the province."

This argument was irresistible. "Well," replied Constantia, "when do
you think of taking her?"

"Immediately; to-day at five o'clock," said Leon; and he went merrily
out of the room.

This then was the result of his cogitation--of Anielka's Hymn to the
Virgin. Constantia ordered Anielka to prepare herself for the journey,
with as little emotion as if she had exchanged away a lap-dog, or
parted with parrot.

She obeyed in silence. Her heart was full. She went into the garden
that she might relieve herself by weeping unseen. With one hand
supporting her burning head, and the other pressed tightly against her
heart, to stifle her sobs, she wandered on mechanically till she found
herself by the side of the river. She felt quickly for her purse,
intending to throw the rouble into the water, but as quickly thrust it
back again, for she could not bear to part with the treasure. She felt
as if without it she would be still more an orphan. Weeping bitterly,
she leaned against the tree which had once before witnessed her tears.

By degrees the stormy passion within her gave place to calm
reflection. This day she was to go away; she was to dwell beneath
another roof, to serve another mistress. Humiliation! always
humiliation! But at least it would be some change in her life. As she
thought of this, she returned hastily to the palace that she might
not, on the last day of her servitude, incur the anger of her young
mistress.

Scarcely was Anielka attired in her prettiest dress, when Constantia
came to her with a little box, from which she took several gay-colored
ribbons, and decked her in them herself, that the serf might do her
credit in the new family. And when Anielka, bending down to her feet,
thanked her, Constantia, with marvelous condescension, kissed her on
her forehead. Even Leon cast an admiring glance upon her. His servant
soon after came to conduct her to the carriage, and showing her where
to seat herself, they rolled off quickly toward Radapol.

For the first time in her life Anielka rode in a carriage. Her head
turned quite giddy, she could not look at the trees and fields as they
flew past her; but by degrees she became more accustomed to it, and
the fresh air enlivening her spirits, she performed the rest of the
journey in a tolerably happy state of mind. At last they arrived in
the spacious court-yard before the Palace of Radapol, the dwelling
of a once rich and powerful Polish family, now partly in ruin. It was
evident, even to Anielka, that the marriage was one for money on the
one side, and for rank on the other.

Among other renovations at the castle, occasioned by the approaching
marriage, the owner of it, Prince Pelazia, had obtained singers
for the chapel, and had engaged Signer Justiniani, an Italian, as
chapel-master. Immediately on Leon's arrival, Anielka was presented
to him. He made her sing a scale, and pronounced her voice to be
excellent.

Anielka found that, in Radapol, she was treated with a little more
consideration than at Olgogrod, although she had often to submit to
the caprices of her new mistress, and she found less time to read. But
to console herself, she gave all her attention to singing, which she
practiced several hours a day. Her naturally great capacity, under
the guidance of the Italian, began to develop itself steadily. Besides
sacred, he taught her operatic music. On one occasion Anielka sung
an aria in so impassioned and masterly style, that the enraptured
Justiniani clapped his hands for joy, skipped about the room, and not
finding words enough to praise her, exclaimed several times, "Prima
Donna! Prima Donna!"

But the lessons were interrupted. The Princess's wedding-day was
fixed upon, after which event she and Leon were to go to Florence, and
Anielka was to accompany them. Alas! feelings which gave her poignant
misery still clung to her. She despised herself for her weakness; but
she loved Leon. The sentiment was too deeply implanted in her bosom to
be eradicated; too strong to be resisted. It was the first love of a
young and guileless heart, and had grown in silence and despair.

Anielka was most anxious to know something of her adopted parents.
Once, after the old prince had heard her singing, he asked her with
great kindness about her home. She replied, that she was an orphan,
and had been taken by force from those who had so kindly supplied the
place of parents, Her apparent attachment to the old bee-keeper and
his wife so pleased the prince, that he said, "You are a good child.
Anielka, and to-morrow I will send you to visit them. You shall take
them some presents."

Anielka, overpowered with gratitude, threw herself at the feet of the
prince. She dreamed all night of the happiness that was in store for
her, and the joy of the poor, forsaken, old people; and when the next
morning she set off, she could scarcely restrain her impatience. At
last they approached the cabin; she saw the forest, with its tall
trees, and the meadows covered with flowers. She leaped from the
carriage, that she might be nearer these trees and flowers, every
one of which she seemed to recognize. The weather was beautiful. She
breathed with avidity the pure air which, in imagination, brought to
her the kisses and caresses of her poor father! Her foster-father was,
doubtless, occupied with his bees; but his wife?

Anielka opened the door of the cabin; all was silent and deserted. The
arm-chair on which the poor old woman used to sit, was overturned in a
corner. Anielka was chilled by a fearful presentiment. She went with a
slow step toward the bee-hives; there she saw a little boy tending the
bees, whilst the old man was stretched on the ground beside him. The
rays of the sun, falling on his pale and sickly face, showed that he
was very ill. Anielka stooped down over him, and said, "It is I, it is
Anielka, your own Anielka, who always loves you."

The old man raised his head, gazed upon her with a ghastly smile, and
took off his cap.

"And my good old mother, where is she?" Anielka asked.

"She is dead!" answered the old man, and falling back he began
laughing idiotically. Anielka wept. She gazed earnestly on the worn
frame, the pale and wrinkled cheeks, it which scarcely a sign of
life could be perceived; it seemed to her that he had suddenly fallen
asleep, and not wishing to disturb him, she went to the carriage for
the presents. When she returned, she took his hand. It was cold. The
poor old bee-keeper had breathed his last!

Anielka was carried almost senseless back to the carriage, which
quickly returned with her to the castle. There she revived a little;
but the recollection that she was now quite alone in the world, almost
drove her to despair.

Her master's wedding and the journey to Florence were a dream to
her. Though the strange sights of a strange city slowly restored her
perceptions, they did not her cheerfulness. She felt as if she could
no longer endure the misery of her life; she prayed to die.

"Why are you so unhappy?" said the Count Leon kindly to her, one day.

To have explained the cause of her wretchedness would have been death
indeed.

"I am going to give you a treat," continued Leon. "A celebrated singer
is to appear to-night in the theater. I will send you to hear her, and
afterward you shall sing to me what you remember of her performances."

Anielka went. It was a new era in her existence. Herself, by this
time, an artist, she could forget her griefs, and enter with her
whole soul into the beauties of the art she now heard practiced in
perfection for the first time. To music a chord responded in her
breast which vibrated powerfully. During the performances she was
at one moment pale and trembling, tears rushing into her eyes; at
another, she was ready to throw herself at the feet of the cantatrice,
in an ecstacy of admiration. "Prima donna,"--by that name the public
called on her to receive their applause, and it was the same, thought
Anielka, that Justiniani had bestowed upon her. Could she also be a
prima donna? What a glorious destiny! To be able to communicate one's
own emotions to masses of entranced listeners; to awaken in them, by
the power of the voice, grief, love, terror.

Strange thoughts continued to haunt her on her return home. She was
unable to sleep. She formed desperate plans. At last she resolved to
throw off the yoke of servitude, and the still more painful slavery of
feelings which her pride disdained. Having learnt the address of the
prima donna, she went early one morning to her house.

On entering she said, in French, almost incoherently, so great was her
agitation--"Madam, I am a poor serf belonging to a Polish family who
have lately arrived in Florence. I have escaped from them; protect,
shelter me. They say I can sing."

The Signora Teresina, a warm-hearted, passionate Italian, was
interested by her artless earnestness. She said, "Poor child! you must
have suffered much,"--she took Anielka's hand in hers. "You say you
can sing; let me hear you." Anielka seated herself on an ottoman. She
clasped her hands over her knees, and tears fell into her lap. With
plaintive pathos, and perfect truth of intonation, she prayed in
song. The Hymn to the Virgin seemed to Teresina to be offered up by
inspiration.

The Signora was astonished. "Where," she asked, in wonder, "were you
taught?"

Anielka narrated her history, and when she had finished, the prima
donna spoke so kindly to her that she felt as if she had known her for
years. Anielka was Teresina's guest that day and the next. After the
Opera, on the third day, the prima donna made her sit beside her, and
said:--

"I think you are a very good girl, and you shall stay with me always."

The girl was almost beside herself with joy.

"We will never part. Do you consent, Anielka?"

"Do not call me Anielka. Give me instead some Italian name."

"Well, then, be Giovanna. The dearest friend I ever had but whom I
have lost--was named Giovanna," said the prima donna.

"Then, I will be another Giovanna to you."

Teresina then said, "I hesitated to receive you at first, for your
sake as well as mine; it you are safe now. I learn that your master
and mistress, after searching vainly for you, have returned to
Poland."

From this time Anielka commenced an entirely new life. She took
lessons in singing every day from the Signora. and got an engagement
to appear in inferior characters at the theater. She had now her own
income, and her own servant--she, who till then had been obliged to
serve herself. She acquired the Italian language rapidly, and soon
passed for a native of the country.

So passed three years. New and varied impressions failed, however,
to blot out the old ones. Anielka arrived at great perfection in her
singing, and even began to surpass the prima donna, who was losing
her voice from weakness of the chest. This sad discovery changed the
cheerful temper of Teresina. She ceased to sing in public; for she
could not endure to excite pity, where she had formerly commanded
admiration.

She determined to retire. "You," she said to Anielka, "shall now
assert your claim to the first rank in the vocal art. You will
maintain it. You surpass me. Often, on hearing you sing, I have
scarcely been able to stifle a feeling of jealousy."

Anielka placed her hand on Teresina's shoulder, and kissed her.

"Yes," continued Teresina, regardless of everything but the bright
future she was shaping for her friend. "We will go to Vienna--there
you will be understood and appreciated. You shall sing at the
Italian Opera, and I will be by your side--unknown, no longer sought,
worshiped--but will glory in your triumphs. They will be a repetition
of my own; for have I not taught you? Will they not be the result of
my work!"

Though Anielka's ambition was fired, her heart was softened, and she
wept violently.

Five months had scarcely elapsed, when a _furore_ was created in
Vienna by the first appearance, at the Italian Opera, of the Signora
Giovanna. Her enormous salary at once afforded her the means of even
extravagant expenditure. Her haughty treatment of male admirers only
attracted new ones; but in the midst of her triumphs she thought often
of the time when the poor orphan of Pobereze was cared for by nobody.
This remembrance made her receive the flatteries of the crowd with
an ironical smile; their fine speeches fell coldly on her ear, their
eloquent looks made no impression on her heart: _that_, no change
could alter, no temptation win.

In the flood of unexpected success a new misfortune overwhelmed her.
Since their arrival at Vienna, Teresina's health rapidly declined, and
in the sixth month of Anielka's operatic reign she expired, leaving
all her wealth, which was considerable, to her friend.

Once more Anielka was alone in the world. Despite all the honors and
blandishments of her position, the old feeling of desolateness came
upon her. The new shock destroyed her health. She was unable to appear
on the stage. To sing was a painful effort; she grew indifferent to
what passed around her. Her greatest consolation was in succoring the
poor and friendless, and her generosity was most conspicuous to all
young orphan girls without fortune. She had never ceased to love her
native land, and seldom appeared in society, unless it was to meet her
countrymen. If ever she sang, it was in Polish.

A year had elapsed since the death of the Signora Teresina, when
the Count Selka, a rich noble of Volkynia, at that time in Vienna,
solicited her presence at a party. It was impossible to refuse the
Count and his lady, from whom she had received great kindness.
She went. When in their saloons, filled with all the fashion and
aristocracy in Vienna, the name of Giovanna was announced, a general
murmur was heard. She entered, pale and languid, and proceeded between
the two rows made for her by the admiring assembly, to the seat of
honor beside the mistress of the house.

Shortly after, the Count Selka led her to the piano. She sat down
before it, and thinking what she should sing, glanced round upon the
assembly. She could not help feeling that the admiration which beamed
from the faces around her was the work of her own merit, for had she
neglected the great gift of nature--her voice, she could not have
excited it. With a blushing cheek, and eyes sparkling with honest
pride, she struck the piano with a firm hand, and from her seemingly
weak and delicate chest poured forth a touching Polish melody, with a
voice pure, sonorous, and plaintive. Tears were in many eyes, and the
beating of every heart was quickened.

The song was finished, but the wondering silence was unbroken.
Giovanna leaned exhausted on the arm of the chair, and cast down
her eyes. On again raising them, she perceived a gentleman who gazed
fixedly at her, as if he still listened to echoes which had not
yet died within him. The master of the house, to dissipate his
thoughtfulness, led him toward Giovanna. "Let me present to you,
Signora," he said, "a countryman, the Count Leon Roszynski."

The lady trembled; she silently bowed, fixed her eyes on the ground,
and dared not raise them. Pleading indisposition, which was fully
justified by her pallid features, she soon after withdrew.

When on the following day Giovanna'a servant announced the Counts
Selka and Roszynski, a peculiar smile played on her lips, and when
they entered, she received the latter with the cold and formal
politeness of a stranger. Controlling the feelings of her heart,
she schooled her features to an expression of indifference. It was
manifest from Leon's manner, that without the remotest recognition, an
indefinable presentiment regarding her possessed him. The Counts had
called to know if Giovanna had recovered from her indisposition. Leon
begged to be permitted to call again.

Where was his wife? why did he never mention her? Giovanna continually
asked herself these questions when they had departed.

A few nights after, the Count Leon arrived sad and thoughtful. He
prevailed on Giovanna to sing one of her Polish melodies; which she
told him had been taught, when a child, by her muse. Roszynski, unable
to restrain the expression of an intense admiration he had long felt,
frantically seized her hand, and exclaimed, "I love you!"

She withdrew it from his grasp, remained silent for a few minutes,
and then said slowly, distinctly, and ironically, "But I do not love
_you_, Count Roszynski."

Leon rose from his seat. He pressed his hands to his brow, and was
silent. Giovanna remained calm and tranquil. "It is a penalty from
Heaven," continued Leon, as if speaking to himself, "for not having
fulfilled my duty as a husband toward one whom I chose voluntarily,
but without reflection. I wronged her, and am punished."