CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 1 (continued 3)

You know, my dear boy, my notions concerning your dress. Express nothing in fancy; and without being the Alpha or Omega of fashion, be neither fop nor sloven, and dress for the effect of general and not particular dignity, and never wear a striped cravat. Do not ape eccentricity of manner and opinion, and take the world in a laughing and good humored mood. I detest a beardless Cato, for I never knew one of them, who could stand fire. Talk to women about every thing but prudence and propriety, and they will think you as wise as you are well bred; for they cannot bear the restraint of advice, or the judgment of criticism. Tasso makes his heroine taunt Rinaldo with gravity and sedateness, and when she calls him a "Zenocrates in love" the volume of her eloquence exhibits the bitterest venom of female invective.

Chalgrave is now still, solitary, and deserted; and were it not for Lucy's cheerful voice, I should look on myself as a living tomb. Your pup Gildippe tore off the cover of my Elzevir Horace, an offence deserving a halter, yet she is pardoned for your sake. Tell me not of Sir Isaac Newton's diamond, for he never destroyed a jewel so rare, and so highly prized—ask Col. H. if a colt is best broken in a snaffle-bit—and tell him 'tis downright superstition to worm a genuine pointer. I send the pistols made by Wodgen and Barton, and carrying a ball of the most approved weight. Do write to me, and never forget that you are a Granby.

I am, my dear boy, Yours truly, CHARLES GRANBY.

P. S. Translate the Ode to Fortune for me! Old Schrevelli said that he had rather be the author of that poem, than the Emperor of all the Austrias, and there was more sense than enthusiasm in his noble preference.

P. S. Never scrape your bullets with a knife—but use a flat file. Do not play the flute; and never write verses on a "flower presented to a lady," on "a lady singing," or on "receiving a lock of hair;" for of all puppyism, this is the smallest accomplishment.

P. S. Never buy a gaudy handkerchief! Do not say raised, disremember, expect for suspect; and never end the common courtesies of conversation with the frigid Sir! "Thank ye Sir!" Drink tea instead of coffee, for 'tis more patrician; and do not render yourself suspected by pronouncing criticisms on wines.

The postscripts were multiplied through a full page, which presented a striking picture of all the odd conceits—incongruous notions, and broad feeling which tortured my kind uncle's tranquil brain, and I arose from the perusal of his letter with mingled emotions of love, respect, and laughter. Lucy's epistle was like that of all girls, full of small news, long words, and burning sentences of love and sentiment, and inquiring in a postscript of the health of Arthur Ludwell, as her mother was greatly interested in his welfare. Frederick gave me a learned dissertation on the origin of civil society, and the philosophy of Bolingbroke, scourging me into frantic ambition, and ending with a prayer that I would ever keep my honor untainted. My honor was then the subject of their hopes and fears; and, as I eyed the pistols, I found the fierceness of my nature lurking with a tranquil rapture around the open, and undisguised hints of my family. To my temperament, the neat and elegant workmanship, and the beautiful polish of the pistols, argued sternness and chivalry: and under the protection of the code of honor, I was determined, by braving every conflict, to gratify my long, deep, and vindictive hate of Pilton. How curiously constituted, how wayward, and yet how uncontrollable is the swelling pulse of the human heart, when agitated by some momentary and master passion; at any other period, the remembrance of Isa Gordon, would have soothed me into a lover's thoughtful gloom, but now every gentle and luxuriant tendril which was woven around my heart was a crushed and bleeding ruin, and I examined my uncle's gift of blood—only to murmur the name of Pilton.

My visits to Miss Pilton's had been attentive, and constant, and I had concealed my fraud with such art, that I found her listening with unhesitating confidence, to the deceitful passion which I daily uttered. Cautious of proposing matrimony, yet ever alert to hint it—affecting distress and melancholy—and alternately jealous and confiding, I awoke her sympathy, only to gain her passionate and abiding affection, while I secured my victory by every art which duplicity could invent, or falsehood suggest. I saw her reject the accomplished and educated youth whose pure and guileless feelings had retained the early romance of childhood's love, and when I found her in tears, with her head reclining on my bosom, she told me, with a blushing cheek, that she had sacrificed him, whose singleness and purity of heart she could not doubt, for me alone.

'Twas a calm and soft evening when Miss Pilton left Williamsburg, and, ere we parted, I extorted from her unsuspicious feelings a promise that she would write to me. Day had languished itself into night, when I found myself a solitary loiterer in the noiseless grove which skirted the city. The wind sobbed through the dreary and desolate silence of the forest, and when I looked up to the twinkling and radiant light which blazes in a starry sky of Virginia, the innate piety of Nature almost chastened me into repentance. How vain is that feeble wisdom which impotently labors to read those mute and living oracles of God? yet who, in searching into them, docs not feel that his heart is kindled into enthusiasm, by their wild and spiritual eloquence. May not each bright and dazzling star whose lambent fire dances over the cloudless sky be the abode of spirits enjoying a realm of mind—of philosophers who rived the adamant of vulgar error—of patriots who offered their blood at the shrine of their country—of those who opened a vista for freedom through the gloom of tyranny—and of the poet who, fettered to the earth, boldly anticipated a foretaste of his eternal home, in some earthly, yet beautiful and rapturous dream?

THETA.

THE DREAM.

I.

I dreamed a dream—and still upon my mind The image of that dream, on Memory's page Inscribed in letters large and legible, Rests vivid as the lightning's scathing flash. Beneath a spreading oak, that towered high And lone upon a hillock's grassy plot, A Maiden stood—and by her side a Youth, Whose summers did, tho' few, outnumber hers; And she was beautiful as rainbow tints— Her voice, like sweetest music borne upon The bosom of some gentle breeze far o'er The hushed and silent waters of the deep— Her breath, like fragrant odors from the lap Of Flora sent, when Morning's blush appears— Her heart, the home where wild affections dwelt— Her mind, of intellectual power the seat— Her eye, the mirror to her speaking soul! Upon her marble brow was set the seal Of Dignity—and in her slender form Were blended grace and perfect symmetry. The Youth was tall, erect—but unlike her In all things save affection's swelling tide: Unknowing of the bright and quenchless fire, At Beauty's altar lit, that constant burned Within his bosom's deep recess, the world Had deemed him changeful as the fitful wind. Silent they were, and round them silence reigned: Above, the clear blue ether spread her veil, And by them swept the gentle, fresh'ning breeze That cooled the burning temples of the one, The flowing tresses of the other waved. Beneath them was a wide spread plain, o'er which The full Moon poured her streams of silver light, And in a flood of glory bathed both plain And rugged cliffs that wildly rose beyond. Upon that lovely scene the maiden looked That joy and stillness breathed into her heart; But he that meeting, had not sought to gaze On landscapes, living though they were. He saw But her whose form before him rose, so bright, So beautiful, that all else faded from The view: He heard no sound save that alone Which from his beating heart was sent: and oft He did essay to breathe the hallowed thoughts That in his bosom long had slept—the pent- Up fountains of his love to ope; but oft In vain, 'till faltering accents came at last, And told the feelings of his inmost soul. But she was calm; no falling of the eye— No heightened color's tinge—no trembling of That silver voice, spoke aught of passion there. Yet kindness breathed in every word that fell From off her Angel lips—and told that though Her heart with his beat not in unison, It still could feel for sorrows not its own. Though soft, like breath of pois'nous Simoom came Her voice. Young Hope her dewy pinions shook, And as she winged her airy flight away, Came casking Care her place to fill. And yet A moment's space he lingered there; and as Upon her saddened face he once again Did look with mingled feelings, inly swore To perish ere his love should fade and die. And she did pensive turn her steps along Their homeward way, again to be the life, The light, the chiefest joy of all around.

II.

A change swept o'er the aspect of my dream, And in its mystic flight my spirit bore Me to the festive hall. I saw them 'midst The thoughtless throng—their eyes lit up with joy— Their lips all wreathed in smiles—and on their cheeks The glowing hues of pleasure mantled high. He spoke not oft to her, but frequent did Address him to some other fair—and all Did deem, and she did hope that love of her Was buried deep in Lethe's magic pool; And lighter then of heart to think that care His mind had left, unwonted gladness beamed Forth from her speaking eye, and lit with ten- Fold lustre up those features ever fair.

III.

The scene was changed. Apart within the walls Of his lone study sat the youth. Before Him lay a letter, breathing much of deep, Impassioned love. Yes, he again had dared At that same Angel-shrine his heart to lay, And, well as words could speak, a love to paint, Not torpid, cold and calculating, like The selfish feeling of a worldly man— But with the every fibre of his heart Inwove. For he had seen her oft, and well Had studied both her features, mind and heart, Since first the pangs of unrequited love Across his bosom shot: in all things had He found her of such perfect, faultless mould— So far beyond compare with all that e'er His eye had looked upon—yea, e'en than aught Of fairy form, which frolic fancy in Her wildest mood had shadowed glowing forth To young imagination's quickened sight,— That madly had he drunk at passion's fount, Ere yet the voice of reason whispered late, (Too late, alas! for in the vortex was He twirling then, unskilled the yawning gulf To shun,) that she was not for one like him. Perchance the spell that bound him unto her And deep affection's gushing waters stirred, Was wrought into its present strength—for that She minded him of one—a sister dear— Like her in nature as in name, on whom His heart did centre once, when joyous, bright And sunny hours e'er gilded o'er the stream Of early life about their childhood's home; When each was to the other all that earth Of joy could give—a little world—beyond Whose narrow bounds their youthful vision then Extended not. And now in her he saw The image of that sister's mind and heart Reflected back in colors yet more bright, And felt that life to him was nothing worth, Except with her its joys and ills were shared.

IV.

The scene was changed. Within her father's home The maiden sat, and bent her o'er the page On which were traced the wild outpourings of Her lover's heart. A cloud was on her brow— Not gathered there by anger, but by grief. And long she sorrowed o'er the fate of one Whom she had learned to value far above The worthless crowd that throngs round Beauty's form; Then sudden snatched a pen, and tho' it pained Her much, did haste once more in kindest terms To bid him banish Hope—for tho' a friend She'd ever be—to him she could no more.

V.

Again my spirit bore me to the youth's Lone study, where I saw him pacing to And fro, with heavy step and downcast look. His eye was fixed and dull—all smiles had fled, And o'er his pallid, bloodless cheek had woe His sable mantle flung. But whilst he thus Was moved, anon there entered one endeared By Friendship's strongest ties, who knew the fate His fondest hopes had met, and told a tale Of which he deemed not aught before—a tale That scarce at first could credence gain, so dread Its import was; yet soon he found 'twas but Too true—"His sacred letter, ere it reached Its destined port, had by some strange mischance Been torn, its secrets filched and heralded Abroad: yet, by the wakeful kindness of That much-loved one, his hallowed thoughts had reached The ears of few." Then sudden o'er him came A fearful mood that shook his every limb. Like liquid fire his blood along his veins Did course, and to his throbbing temples mount— Then rush tumultuous back upon his heart That sent it once again with quickened speed Along his swollen, well-nigh bursting veins; And from his lips at times did fall unmeet And vengeful words, that told what passion stirred Within. But that soon passed, and to the eye His troubled soul, as that of infant hushed To sleep upon its mother's breast, was calm.

VI.

The scene was changed. Before the altar stood The maiden, in her bridal vestments clad, And gave her hand and virgin heart away— Whilst mantling blushes o'er her features spread Like Iris' colors on the deepened blue Of Heaven's high vault—to one whose kindling eye Was turned with rapture on her matchless face, And who in part was like unto the youth That first beside her stood—yet not the same. And she did love him with a boundless love— Deep, pure and changeless as Jehovah's word— The very essence of her being, that life's Quiescent stream with fairest garlands strewed— For he her youthful heart's responsive chord Had known to touch with sweet and winning words, By graceful mien, and giant strength of mind. Unblest he was with Mammon's glittering hoard— In nothing rich, save worth's neglected store; And yet for that, her heart with wildest joy Did but the closer cling unchanged to him. And he, with pride and pleasure took her to His bosom beating high; for none could know, And knowing not admire. But his was not The fervent adoration of the heart, In prostrate homage bowed before her shrine, That moved the soul of him who first essayed Her peerless love to win. And yet before Them to all seeming lay a flowery path, Along whose scented walks they might their way With noiseless step and even tenor wend.

VII.

Once more, and only once, a change passed o'er My fitful dream. In sultry, southern clime, Again upon my vision fell the tall, Attenuated image of that youth, Whom first beneath the spreading oak I saw; And he was changed not less in feature than In heart. The glow of health had fled his cheek, Now haggard, swart and bronzed by burning sun. His eye, once bright with joyous life, had lost Its lustre now, and deep upon his brow Had care her furrows traced. His spirit too, So light and buoyant once, was now all bound And broken like the willow's drooping branch. But o'er his heart a yet more fearful change Had come. Once warm and sensibly alive To pity's cry—e'er breathing love for all— Now cold and seared—the living fountains of Its sympathy were dried—and dead it was To all things save the worldly schemes that fierce Ambition wrought. And none did know the weight Of anguish on its aching chords that pressed, Since living man no commune held with him: For he did spurn them as unhallowed things, And 'round him wrapt the cloak of selfishness: For what was now the world to him, since she Whose presence had made all things beautiful, Was lost, forever lost? And he did look Unmoved on fairest form, and brightest eye; Unmoved he heard full many a voice attuned In sweet accordance with the soft piano; For mute were all the echoes of his soul, Since never could he hope again such pure, Such bright, such dazzling purity to find, As dwelt within the heart of her he loved. And naught the slumbering powers of his mind Did rouse and prompt to grapple with the herd That crossed his path, save only the desire To banish thought and leave a name behind. For he did feel that none would glory in His present fame, and that he was a lone And desert being—all forgetting, and By all forgot. And though his soul did thirst At honor's fount to drink and laurels win, He inly scorned the world—the world's acclaim— And whilst it flattered, loathed its fulsome praise. And yet unto all outward seeming was His spirit calm as ocean's waves, when lie The winds of Heaven upon her bosom hushed. Here ceased my dream—for on my slumbers broke The glare of day, and called my spirit home.

SYLVESTER.

MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE.

[From 'The Gift,' edited by Miss Leslie.] BY EDGAR A. POE. A wet sheet and a flowing sea. Cunningham.

Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered up. Beyond all things the works of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius—a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime—and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed a strong relish for Physical Philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age—I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be considered rather the ravings of a crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a nullity.

After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18—, from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I went as passenger—having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me like a fiend.

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank.

We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the eastern coast of Java without any other incident to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound.

One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very singular, isolated cloud, to the N. W. It was remarkable, as well for its color, as from its being the first we had seen since our departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at once to the Eastward and Westward, girting in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor, and looking like a long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterwards attracted by the dusky red appearance of the moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a rapid change, and the water seemed more than usually transparent. Although I could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot, and was loaded with spiral exhalations similar to those arising from heated iron. As night came on, every breath of wind died away, and a more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The flame of a candle burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion, and a long hair, held between the finger and thumb, hung without the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as the captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the anchor let go. No watch was set, and the crew, consisting principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon deck. I went below—not without a full presentiment of evil. Indeed every appearance warranted me in apprehending a Simoom. I told the captain my fears—but he paid no attention to what I said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My uneasiness however prevented me from sleeping, and about midnight I went upon deck. As I placed my foot upon the upper step of the companion ladder, I was startled with a loud, humming noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a mill-wheel, and before I could ascertain its meaning, I found the ship quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a wilderness of foam hurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us fore and aft, swept the entire decks from stem to stern.

The extreme fury of the blast proved in a great measure the salvation of the ship. Although completely water-logged, yet, as all her masts had gone by the board, she rose, after a minute, heavily from the sea, and, staggering awhile beneath the immense pressure of the tempest, finally righted.

By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. Stunned by the shock of the water, I found myself upon recovery, jammed in between the stern-post and rudder. With great difficulty I gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was, at first, struck with the idea of our being among breakers, so terrific beyond the wildest imagination was the whirlpool of mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed. After a while, I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment of our leaving port. I hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft. We soon discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All on deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard, and the captain and mates must have perished as they slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without assistance, we could expect to do little for the security of the ship, and our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like pack-thread, at the first breath of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the water made clear breaches over us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered excessively, and, in almost every respect, we had received considerable injury—but to our extreme joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had no great difficulty in keeping free. The main fury of the Simoom had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from the violence of the wind—but we looked forward to its total cessation with dismay, well believing, that, in our shattered condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and nights—during which our only subsistence was a small quantity of jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle—the hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws of wind, which, without equalling the first violence of the Simoom, were still more terrific than any tempest I had before encountered. Our course for the first four days was, with trifling variations, S. E. and by South; and we must have run down the coast of New Holland. On the fifth day the cold became extreme, although the wind had hauled round a point more to the Northward. The sun arose with a sickly yellow lustre, and clambered a very few degrees above the horizon—emitting no decisive light. There were no clouds whatever apparent, yet the wind was upon the increase, and blew with a fitful and unsteady fury. About noon, as nearly as we could guess, our attention was again arrested by the appearance of the sun. It gave out no light, properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow unaccompanied by any ray. Just before sinking within the turgid sea its central fires suddenly went out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some unaccountable power. It was a dim, silver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down the unfathomable ocean.

We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day—that day to me has not yet arrived—to him, never did arrive. Thenceforward we were enshrouded in pitchy darkness, so that we could not have seen an object at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal night continued to envelop us, all unrelieved by the phosphoric sea-brilliancy to which we had been accustomed in the tropics. We observed too, that, although the tempest continued to rage with unabated violence, there was no longer to be discovered the usual appearance of surf, or foam, which had hitherto attended us. All around was horror, and thick gloom, and a black sweltering desert of ebony. Superstitious terror crept by degrees into the spirit of the old Swede, and my own soul was wrapped up in silent wonder. We neglected all care of the ship, as worse than useless, and securing ourselves as well as possible to the stump of the mizen-mast, looked out bitterly into the world of ocean. We had no means of calculating time, nor could we form any guess of our situation. We were however well aware of having made farther to the Southward than any previous navigators, and felt extreme amazement at not meeting with the usual impediments of ice. In the meantime every moment threatened to be our last—every mountainous billow hurried to overwhelm us. The swell surpassed any thing I had imagined possible, and that we were not instantly buried is a miracle. My companion spoke of the lightness of our cargo, and reminded me of the excellent qualities of our ship—but I could not help feeling the utter hopelessness of hope itself, and prepared myself gloomily for that death which I thought nothing could defer beyond an hour, as, with every knot of way the ship made, the swelling of the black stupendous seas became more dismally appalling. At times we gasped for breath at an elevation beyond the Albatross—at times became dizzy with the velocity of our descent into some watery Hell, where the air grew stagnant, and no sound disturbed the slumbers of the Kraken.

We were at the bottom of one of these abysses, when a quick scream from my companion broke fearfully upon the night. 'See! see!'—cried he, shrieking in my ears,—'Almighty God! see! see!' As he spoke, I became aware of a dull, sullen glare of light which rolled, as it were, down the sides of the vast chasm where we lay, and threw a fitful brilliancy upon our deck. Casting my eyes upwards, I beheld a spectacle which froze the current of my blood. At a terrific height directly above us, and upon the very verge of the precipitous descent, hovered a gigantic ship of nearly four thousand tons. Although upreared upon the summit of a wave of more than a hundred times her own altitude, her apparent size still exceeded that of any ship of the line or East Indiaman in existence. Her huge hull was of a deep dingy black, unrelieved by any of the customary carvings of a ship. A single row of brass cannon protruded from her open ports, and dashed off from their polished surfaces the fires of innumerable battle-lanterns, which swung to and fro about her rigging. But what mainly inspired us with horror and astonishment, was that she bore up under a press of sail in the very teeth of that supernatural sea, and of that ungovernable hurricane. When we first discovered her, her stupendous bows were alone to be seen, as she rose up, like a demon of the deep, slowly from the dim and horrible gulf beyond her. For a moment of intense terror she paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in contemplation of her own sublimity, then trembled and tottered, and—came down.

At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over my spirit. Staggering as far aft as I could, I awaited fearlessly the ruin that was to overwhelm. Our own vessel was at length ceasing from her struggles, and sinking with her head to the sea. The shock of the descending mass struck her, consequently, in that portion of her frame which was already under water, and the inevitable result was to hurl me with irresistible violence upon the rigging of the stranger.

As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about, and to the confusion ensuing, I attributed my escape from the notice of the crew. With little difficulty I made my way unperceived to the main hatchway, which was partially open, and soon found an opportunity of secreting myself in the hold. Why I did so I can hardly tell. A nameless and indefinite sense of awe, which at first sight of the navigators of the ship had taken hold of my mind, was perhaps the principle of my concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself with a race of people who had offered, to the cursory glance I had taken, so many points of vague novelty, doubt, and apprehension. I therefore thought proper to contrive a hiding-place in the hold. This I did by removing a small portion of the shifting-boards in such a manner as to afford me a convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship.

I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold forced me to make use of it. A man passed by my place of concealment with a feeble and unsteady gait. I could not see his face, but had an opportunity of observing his general appearance. There was about it an evidence of great age and infirmity. His knees tottered beneath a load of years, and his entire frame quivered under the burthen. He muttered to himself in a low broken tone, some words of a language which I could not understand, and groped in a corner among a pile of singular-looking instruments, and decayed charts of navigation. His manner was a wild mixture of the peevishness of second childhood, and the solemn dignity of a God. He at length went on deck, and I saw him no more.

* * * * *

A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul—a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the lessons of by-gone time are inadequate, and for which I fear futurity itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like my own the latter consideration is an evil. I shall never,—I know that I shall never—be satisfied with regard to the nature of my conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions are indefinite, since they have their origin in sources so utterly novel. A new sense, a new entity is added to my soul.

It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and the rays of my destiny are, I think, gathering to a focus. Incomprehensible men! Wrapped up in meditations of a kind which I cannot divine, they pass me by unnoticed. Concealment is utter folly on my part, for the people will not see. It was but just now that I passed directly before the eyes of the mate,—it was no long while ago that I ventured into the captain's own private cabin, and took thence the materials with which I write, and have written. I shall from time to time continue this journal. It is true that I may not find an opportunity of transmitting it to the world, but I will not fail to make the endeavor. At the last moment I will enclose the MS. in a bottle, and cast it within the sea.

An incident has occurred which has given me new room for meditation. Are such things the operations of ungoverned Chance? I had ventured upon deck and thrown myself down, without attracting any notice, among a pile of ratlin-stuff and old sails in the bottom of the yawl. While musing upon the singularity of my fate, I unwittingly daubed with a tar-brush the edges of a neatly-folded studding-sail which lay near me on a barrel. The studding-sail is now bent upon the ship, and the thoughtless touches of the brush are spread out into the word DISCOVERY.

I have made many observations lately upon the structure of the vessel. Although well armed, she is not, I think, a ship of war. Her rigging, build, and general equipment, all negative a supposition of this kind. What she is not I can easily perceive, what she is I fear it is impossible to say. I know not how it is, but in scrutinizing her strange model and singular cast of spars, her huge size and overgrown suits of canvass, her severely simple bow and antiquated stern, there will occasionally flash across my mind a sensation of familiar things, and there is always mixed up with such shadows, as it were, of recollection, an unaccountable memory of old foreign chronicles and ages long ago.

I have been looking at the timbers of the ship. She is built of a material to which I am a stranger. There is a peculiar character about the wood which strikes me as rendering it unfit for the purpose to which it has been applied. I mean its extreme porousness, considered independently of the worm-eaten condition which is a consequence of navigation in these seas, and apart from the rottenness attendant upon age. It will appear perhaps an observation somewhat over-curious, but this wood has every characteristic of Spanish oak, if Spanish oak were distended or swelled by any unnatural means.

In reading the above sentence a curious apothegm of an old weather-beaten Dutch navigator comes full upon my recollection. 'It is as sure,' he was wont to say, when any doubt was entertained of his veracity, 'as sure as there is a sea where the ship itself will grow in bulk like the living body of the seaman.'

About an hour ago I made bold to thrust myself among a group of the crew. They paid me no manner of attention, and, although I stood in the very midst of them all, seemed utterly unconscious of my presence. Like the one I had at first seen in the hold, they all bore about them the marks of a hoary old age. Their knees trembled with infirmity, their shoulders were bent double with decrepitude, their shrivelled skins rattled in the wind, their voices were low, tremulous, and broken, their eyes glistened with the rheum of years, and their gray hairs streamed terribly in the tempest. Around them on every part of the deck lay scattered mathematical instruments of the most quaint and obsolete construction.

I mentioned some time ago the bending of a studding-sail. From that period the ship, being thrown dead off the wind, has held her terrific course due South, with every rag of canvass packed upon her from her trucks to her lower-studding-sail booms, and rolling every moment her top-gallant yard-arms into the most appalling hell of water, which it can enter into the mind of man to imagine. I have just left the deck, where I find it impossible to maintain a footing, although the crew seem to experience little inconvenience. It appears to me a miracle of miracles that our enormous bulk is not buried up at once and forever. We are surely doomed to hover continually upon the brink of Eternity, without taking a final plunge into the abyss. From billows a thousand times more stupendous than any I have ever seen, we glide away with the facility of the arrowy sea-gull, and the colossal waters rear their heads above us like demons of the deep, but like demons confined to simple threats and forbidden to destroy. I am led to attribute these frequent escapes to the only natural cause which can account for such effect. I must suppose the ship to be within the influence of some strong current, or impetuous under-tow.

I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin—but, as I expected, he paid me no attention. Although in his appearance there is, to a casual observer, nothing which might bespeak him more or less than man—still a feeling of irrepressible reverence and awe mingled with the sensation of wonder with which I regarded him. In stature he is nearly my own height, that is, about five feet eight inches. He is of a well-knit and compact frame of body, neither robust nor remarkably otherwise. But it is the singularity of the expression which reigns upon the face, it is the intense, the wonderful, the thrilling evidence of old age so utter, so extreme, which strikes upon my soul with the shock of a Galvanic battery. His forehead, although little wrinkled, seems to bear upon it the stamp of a myriad of years. His gray hairs are records of the past, and his grayer eyes are Sybils of the future. The cabin floor was thickly strewn with strange, iron-clasped folios, and mouldering instruments of science, and obsolete, long-forgotten charts. His head was bowed down upon his hands, and he pored with a fiery unquiet eye over a paper which I took to be a commission, and which, at all events, bore the signature of a monarch. He muttered to himself, as did the first seaman whom I saw in the hold, some low, peevish syllables of a foreign tongue, and although the speaker was close at my elbow, yet his voice seemed to reach my ears from the distance of a mile.

The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The crew glide to and fro like the ghosts of buried centuries, their eyes have an eager and uneasy meaning, and when their figures fall athwart my path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I have never felt before, although I have been all my life a dealer in antiquities, and have imbibed the shadows of fallen columns at Balbec, and Tadmor, and Persepolis, until my very soul has become a ruin.

When I look around me I feel ashamed of my former apprehensions. If I trembled at the blast which has hitherto attended us, shall I not stand aghast at a warring of wind and ocean, to convey any idea of which the words tornado and Simoom are trivial and ineffective! All in the immediate vicinity of the ship is the blackness of eternal night, and a chaos of foamless water; but, about a league on either side of us, may be seen, indistinctly and at intervals, stupendous ramparts of ice, towering away into the desolate sky, and looking like the walls of the Universe.

As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current, if that appellation can properly be given to a tide which, howling and shrieking by the white ice, thunders on to the Southward with a velocity like the headlong dashing of a cataract.

To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly impossible—yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these awful regions predominates even over my despair, and will reconcile me to the most hideous aspect of death. It is evident that we are hurrying onwards to some exciting knowledge—some never-to-be-imparted secret, whose attainment is destruction. Perhaps this current leads us to the Southern Pole itself—it must be confessed that a supposition apparently so wild has every probability in its favor.

The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step, but there is upon their countenances an expression more of the eagerness of hope than of the apathy of despair.

In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and as we carry a crowd of canvass, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out the sea—Oh, horror upon horror! the ice opens suddenly to the right, and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily in immense concentric circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic amphitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon my destiny—the circles rapidly grow small—we are plunging madly within the grasp of the whirlpool—and amid a roaring, and bellowing, and shrieking of ocean and of tempest, the ship is quivering, oh God! and—going down.

A SKETCH.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.

The shades of night are fleeing fast away Before the blushing of the morning light; The diamond stars that gleamed in bright array Through the lone watches of the silent night, Are fading dimly, as an orb more bright, The glorious sun, from the deep coral caves, Comes leaping forth in swift and tireless flight, And as the sea his burning bosom laves, More brightly throws his glance across the bounding waves. The cheerful songsters of the verdant grove, Are trilling forth their merry morning lays— Their matin songs of warm impassioned love, Which sweetly strike the ear of him who strays Through the green paths and shady woodland ways, Drinking deep pleasure from old Nature's wells, Where the wild cat'ract in the sunlight plays, Or seated lone, mid dark and mossy dells— Or on some rocky mount yields to her magic spells. The red-breast, mounted on some tow'ring tree, Is chanting loud his merry, mirthful strain; And the sweet lark's melodious notes of glee, Are softly floating o'er the dewy plain. From the broad fields which wave with golden grain, Echoes the whistle of the timid quail; And the loud laughter of the reaper train Sweeps wildly by, borne on the passing gale O'er woodland hill afar, and flowery-vested vale. I hear the tuneful sound of humming bees, And gently blows the soothing summer wind With murmuring sound among the wavy trees, And where gay flowers, in wild luxuriance twined, Shed fragrance on its wings. How dull, how blind To nature and her charms is he who sleeps Through the glad morn, nor feels the fragrant wind That o'er the hills and verdant valleys sweeps, 'Till with wild joy the heart of Nature's lover leaps! O'er hill and valley far away I've strayed, And gathered roses wet with morning dew, To deck the grave where sleeps a gentle maid Whose tender heart no change nor coldness knew, But throbbed with love, which warmer, holier grew As waxed more dim life's faint and flickering light, And to the close remained unchanged and true— A holy flame that burned, amid the blight, Of fell disease and anguish, more divinely bright. The sun climbs higher in the azure sky— More fiercely on the earth descend his beams— The tender flowers hang low their heads and die, And wearied cattle seek the cooling streams. Faint grow the ploughmen and their toil-worn teams; The reapers too have ceased their strains of mirth; No more the air with sounds of pleasure teems; And now the shadows traced upon the earth, And the fierce heat, proclaim the sultry noon-day's birth. O'er the wide fields the herds have ceased to rove, The tuneful birds have hushed their morning song, Silent and lone is the deserted grove Which late re-echoed to the warbling throng. Hark! hark! I hear, sounding the vales along, The mellow horn—the pleasant sound which calls From the hot fields, the wearied harvest throng To seek, where the old oak tree's shadow falls, Their noon-day meal hard by the flowery cottage walls. Within a green and trellised bower I lie, Securely sheltered from the solar rays, And on the bright and glowing summer sky In contemplation rapt, I fix my gaze, And scan each fleecy cloud which slowly strays Like some pure spirit o'er the azure dome, Making amid its wild and trackless ways, Its boundless depths, a bright ethereal home Where lone and airy forms in silent grandeur roam. And here at noon-day hour I often dream Of the fair hopes which light life's gloomy waste— A desart plain o'er which a laughing stream, Has found a way, its banks with wild flowers graced. But ah! alas! when the fair stream is traced, Amid lone sands we find its darksome goal. O dreary life! in death's cold grasp embraced— A withered thing, a dark and blotted scroll, O'er which oblivion's deep and sluggish waters roll. In early youth upon the sea of life, We spread our sails, nor dream of pain nor care, Nor the fierce tempest, nor the raging strife Which gathers round our bark where'er we steer, But on we rush, heedless and without fear, Till, shipwrecked all our hopes, we helpless lie And feel the bitter pangs of black despair— Or from the demon strive in vain to fly, Or rush into the arms of Death and madly die. The sun is sinking down the western skies— A holy calm is reigning o'er the earth— From the green valleys cheerful sounds arise— The tinkling sheep-bell, and the merry mirth Of happy children—laughing at the birth Of some new pleasure. Now the setting sun, More brightly gleaming o'er the virent earth, Casts a rich glow of golden light upon The fleecy clouds, which line the western horizon. Along yon valley where (a silent grove!) Those dark green pines in loneliness arise; With a sad heart in solitude I'll rove, And darkly muse upon the broken ties Of happier days—the bright and smiling eyes, Whose gentle light gave life a summer bloom, And made this earth seem like a Paradise— Now cold and rayless in the starless gloom, Which darkly hovers o'er and shrouds the loathsome tomb. The twilight shades are gathering o'er the land— Shrouding the valleys in the gloom of night, While I beside a murmuring streamlet stand, And see depart the last faint rays of light Which linger round yon mountain's topmost height. 'Tis the lone night—another day has gone, And Time who speeds with never tiring flight, Beheld a thousand laughing eyes this morn, That now are sleeping where no day shall ever dawn.

GREEK SONG.

The exploit of Harmodius and Aristogiton, in slaying Hipparchus, tyrant of Athens, on the festal day of Minerva—hiding their poniards in myrtle wreaths, which they pretended to carry in honor of the Goddess, was celebrated in an Ode, the unsurpassed strength and beauty of which, it has utterly baffled the skill of all English versifiers to transfuse into our language. The learned are not agreed as to the author of this noble specimen of classic minstrelsy; though by most, it is ascribed to Callistratus. Some have set it down to Alcæus; misled, perhaps, by the tyrant-hating spirit it breathes,—so fully in unison with the deep, trumpet tones of his "golden lyre." Unhappily for the paternity of this ode, he died eighty years before the event it celebrates. Of no other relic of antiquity, probably, have so many translations been attempted. I have seen seven or eight. If the following be added to so many woful failures, the author will not be greatly troubled. It never was in print before—I believe.

HYMN,

IN HONOR OF HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGITON.

TRANSLATION.

Wreath'd in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal, Like those champions, devoted and brave, When they plunged in the tyrant their steel, And to Athens deliverance gave. Belov'd heroes! your deathless souls roam, In the joy-breathing isles of the blest; Where the mighty of old have their home— Where Achilles and Diomed rest. In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine, Like Harmodius, the gallant and good, When he made, at the tutelar shrine, A libation of Tyranny's blood. Ye deliverers of Athens from shame— Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs! Endless ages shall cherish your fame, Embalmed in their echoing songs.

Amongst other translations of this exquisite ode, is one by Charles Abraham Elton, a translator of Hesiod, and of several other Grecian poems; all of which are in a London edition of two elegant 8vo. volumes. The first stanza of his version is as follows:

"In myrtle veiled will I my falchion wear; For thus the patriot sword Harmodius and Aristogeiton bare, When they the tyrant's bosom gored, And bade the men of Athens be Regenerate in equality."

It is a proof of the fairness with which Mr. Elton has aimed at a literal rendering of his author, that he has made even the name of ARISTOGEITON retain its place; as inharmonious a one, perhaps, as ever "filled the trump of future fame." In the Edinburgh Review for January, 1833, we find a translation of considerable merit, in the stanza of "Bruce's Address:" less literal than Mr. Elton's, yet more brief and simple, and partaking more of the thrilling energy of the original. In its arrangement, the edition of Ilgen is followed. It is due to the author of the foregoing translation to say, that it was written long before the year in which this one was published; and before he had seen the seven or eight others above mentioned.

"Wreathed with myrtles be my glaive,¹ Like the falchion of the brave, Death to Athens' lord that gave, Death to Tyranny! Yes! let myrtle wreaths be round, Such as then the falchion bound, When with deeds the feast was crown'd, Done for Liberty! Voiced by Fame eternally, Noble pair! your names shall be, For the stroke that made us free, When the tyrant fell! Death, Harmodius! came not near thee, Isles of bliss and brightness cheer thee, There heroic breasts revere thee, There the mighty dwell!"

¹ Sword.

P.

SONNET.

O fairest flow'r; no sooner blown than blasted, Soft silken primrose faded timelessly.—Milton.

It was an infant dying! and I stood Watching beside its couch, to mark how Death, His hour being come, would steal away the breath Of one so young, so innocent, so good. Friends also waited near—and now the blood 'Gan leave the tender cheek, and the dark eye To lose its wonted lustre. Suddenly Slight tremblings o'er him came; anon, subdued To utter passiveness, the sufferer lay, Far, far more beautiful in his decay Than e'er methought before! I held his hand Fast lock'd in mine, and felt more feebly flow The pulse already faint and fluttering. Lo! It ceased; I turn'd, and bow'd to God's command.¹

¹ Samuel II. Chap. xii.—22, 23.

* * *

SPECIMENS OF LOVELETTERS

IN THE REIGN OF EDWARD IV.

From the second volume of a Collection of Original Letters written during the reigns of Henry VI, Edward IV, and Richard III. By John Fenn, Esq., M.A. and F. R. S.

I.

Right reverend and worshipful, and my right well beloved Valentine, I recommend me unto you, full heartilie desiring to hear of your welfare, which I beseech Almighty God long for to preserve unto his pleasure, and your heart's desire.

And if it please you to hear of my welfare, I am not in good heele (health) of bodie, nor of heart, nor shall be till I hear from you

For there wottes (knows) no creature that pain I endure And for to be dead (for my life), I dare it not discur (discover)

And my lady my mother hath labored the matter to my father full diligently, but she can no more get than ye know of, for the which God knoweth I am full sorry. But if that ye love me, as I trust verily that ye do, ye will not leave me therefore; for if that ye had not half the livelihood that ye have, for to do the greatest labour that any woman alive might, I would not forsake you.

And if ye command me to keep me true wherever I go, I wis I will do all my might you to love, and never no mo, And if my friends say, that I do amiss They shall not me let (hinder) so for to do, Mine heart me bids ever more to love you— Truly over all earthlie thing And if they be never so wrath I trust it shall be better in time coming

No more to you at this time, but the Holy Trinity have you in keeping; and I beseech you that this bill be not seen of none earthlie creature save only yourself.

And this letter was endited at Topcroft, with full heavy heart &c.

By your own MARGERY BREWS.

II.

Right worshipful and well beloved Valentine, in my most humble wise, I recommend me unto you &c.

And heartilie I thank you for the letter, which that ye send me by John Beckerton, whereby I understand and know that ye be purposed to come to Topcroft in short time, and without any errand or matter, but only to have a conclusion of the matter betwixt my father and you; I would be the most glad of any creature alive, so that the matter might grow to effect. And thereas (whereas) ye say, an (if) ye come and find the matter no more towards you than ye did aforetime, ye would no more put my father and my lady my mother to no cost nor business for that cause a good while after, which causeth my heart to be full heavie; and if that ye come, and the matter take to none effect, then should I be much more sorry, and full of heaviness.

And as for myself I have done, and understand in the matter that I can or may, as God knoweth; and I let you plainly understand, that my father will no more money part withal in that behalf, but an 100l. and 50 marks (33l. 6s. 8d.) which is right far from the accomplishment of your desire.

Wherefore, if that ye could be content with that good, and my poor person, I would be the merriest maiden on ground; and if ye think not yourself so satisfyed, or that ye might have much more good, as I have understood by you afore; good, true, and loving Valentine, that ye take no such labor upon you, as to come more for that matter, but let what is, pass and never more be spoken of, as I may be your true lover and beadwoman during my life.

No more unto you at this time, but Almighty Jesu preserve you both bodie and soul &c.

By your Valentine MARGERY BREWS.

Topcroft 1476.7.

MARCELIA.

Then she is drown'd? ————Drown'd—Drown'd. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia! And therefore I forbid my tears.—Hamlet.

It was a solitary spot!— The shallow brook that ran throughout the forest, (Aye chattering as it went,) there took a turn And widened;—all its music died away, And in the place, a silent eddy told That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees Funereal (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine, And spicy cedar,) cluster'd; and at night Shook from their melancholy branches sounds And sighs like death!—'Twas strange, for thro' the day They stood quite motionless, and looked, methought, Like monumental things, which the sad earth From its green bosom had cast out in pity, To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves Disown'd their natural green, and took a black And mournful hue: and the rough brier had stretch'd His straggling arms across the water, and Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching With his tenacious leaf, straws, wither'd boughs, Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which Swam with the current—and with these it hid The poor Marcelia's death-bed! Never may net Of vent'rous fisher be cast in with hope, For not a fish abides there. The slim deer Snorts, as he ruffles with his shorten'd breath The brook, and, panting, flies th' unholy place— And the wild heifer lows and passes on; The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds Go higher up the stream. And yet I love To loiter there; and when the rising moon Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks Red and dilated through the evening mists, And chequer'd as the heavy branches sway To and fro with the wind, I listen, and Can fancy to myself that voices there Plain, and low prayers come moaning thro' the leaves For some misdeed! The story goes, that a Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world Frown'd upon,) once strayed thither, and 'twas thought Did cast her in the stream. You may have heard Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who Fell ill, and came to want in youth? No?—Oh! She loved a man who marked her not. He wed, And then the girl grew sick, and pin'd away, And drown'd herself for love!—Some day or other I'll tell you all the story.

* * *

TO MIRA.

BY L. A. WILMER.

Far from the gaudy scenes my earliest youth Loved to inhabit, which Hope's rising sun Lent every grace and charm—save that of Truth, And made me happy but to be undone, (My joys expectant blasted ere begun,) Far from those pleasing scenes 'tis mine to roam. Friendless, forlorn, my idle course I run, While Disappointment, a malignant gnome, Still tortures, and the grave appears my happiest home. Ere yet I bid a long, a last farewell To the sweet Muse, reluctant to forego The sacred solace and enchanting spell Which charm'd my solitude, and sooth'd my woe— Ere I renounce my harp, and cease to know The poet's rapture, when his eye surveys The heavenly visions fancy doth bestow, On which her favored sons alone may gaze, Once more I lift my voice to sing in Mira's praise. While sickly flattery heaps the unhallowed shrine Of pomp and pride with praise that palls the sense, Let spotless candor, Heaven-born truth be mine: Base are the praises sold at truth's expense: Mira! thy name all falsehood drives from hence! Accept this tribute due to worth like thine— Accept this offering of a heart from whence No guile shall rise to taint this verse of mine, But friendship's holy signet sanctify each line. O might I deem my verse could live beyond The petty confines of the dreary tomb— Might I believe my wishes not too fond, That point to fame beyond the eternal gloom— When this frail form shall in the grave consume, That future ages shall my works behold— Then, Mira, on this page thy name's perfume Should breathe a fragrance, when the hand is cold And crumbled into dust which here that name enrolled. As long as years revolved, and seasons came, Tho' other flowers should fade away and die, An ever-blooming flower should be thy name, Dipped in the radiance of the evening sky: When marble monuments in ruins lie, And sculptured pillars from their bases fall, Could I but place fair Mira's name on high In Fame's eternal, adamantine hall, Then would my lot be blessed, my hopes accomplished all. Tho' placed by Fate in this ungenial clime, Where scarce the sacred Muse hath deigned to tread— These Western lands, where Song appears a crime, And Genius rears a sad and sickly head— And tho' malignant stars their influence shed— Yet might I boast thy friendship, I would bend No more when black misfortunes round me spread; But my last breath in thankfulness would send, And tell to future times thou wast my only friend. I have seen womankind in all their charms— Yea! all that beauty, wealth, and wit bestow— With all that strikes the eye, or fancy warms, In festal halls, where gold and diamonds glow, And gay costumes that mock the painted bow Of Iris hanging on Heaven's battlements: Yet not all these could bid my bosom know Such admiration, or such joys dispense, As when the maiden smiled in heavenly innocence. Then, Mira, not to pride my harp is strung— Not to the measures of the giddy dance— The boasted beauty shall remain unsung, For I, unmoved, can meet her fatal glance. Not in the fairy regions of romance My footsteps stray—but Truth directs my song: To Truth's eternal portals I advance, Deserted by the rhyming crew so long, And Virtue, Worth, and Thou shall still employ my tongue. With thee, sweet Modesty and Truth reside— Sincerity from courts and crowds exiled— Virtue, that shuns the haughty brow of Pride— And Charity, Heaven's first-born, favorite child,— As if the skies upon thy birth had smiled, And given thee all to make a woman dear. Yes! thou couldst humanize the savage wild, Make tigers pause thy soothing voice to hear, Melt marble hearts, and smooth the brow of cankering care. When the last echoes of my harp expire, In mournful breathings on Patapsco's shore— When the unpractised hand that struck the wire, Shall wake those wild and artless notes no more— When the green meadow and the torrent's roar— The woody walk, so long my dear delight, With all that charmed my fancy most before— When Death shall veil these objects from my sight, O say, wilt thou my name in thy remembrance write? Then let the world its malice all combine— Its hate I reck not, and its wrongs despise: A bliss they dream not of shall still be mine— A bliss untold, yet worthy of the skies, Which all their curs'd malevolence defies. Even in the anguish of the mortal hour, My soul superior to the gloom shall rise, And smile on Death when all his terrors lower, And the grim tyrant stalks full panoplied in power.

STANZAS.

Oh! never, never, until now, Seem'd happiness so near me— Hope never wore a brighter brow To flatter or to cheer me: Yet while I listen to her voice, Sad memory is chiding— And I must tremble to rejoice, And weep while I'm confiding. I thought my spirit had grown old, While counting years by sorrow, And that the future could unfold For me no happier morrow; But ah! I find myself a child Of newly waken'd feeling, As full of dreams, as bright and wild, As fancy's first revealing.

LEILA.

Critical Notices.

THE HEROINE.

The Heroine: or Adventures of Cherubina. By Eaton Stannard Barrett, Esq. New Edition. Richmond: Published by P. D. Bernard.

Cherubina! Who has not heard of Cherubina? Who has not heard of that most spiritual, that most ill-treated, that most accomplished of women—of that most consummate, most sublimated, most fantastic, most unappreciated, and most inappreciable of heroines? Exquisite and delicate creation of a mind overflowing with fun, frolic, farce, wit, humor, song, sentiment, and sense, what mortal is there so dead to every thing graceful and glorious as not to have devoured thy adventures? Who is there so unfortunate as not to have taken thee by the hand?—who so lost as not to have cultivated thy acquaintance?—who so stupid, as not to have enjoyed thy companionship?—who so much of a log, as not to have laughed until he has wept for very laughter in the perusal of thine incomparable, inimitable, and inestimable eccentricities? But we are becoming pathetic to no purpose, and supererogatively oratorical. Every body has read Cherubina. There is no one so superlatively unhappy as not to have done this thing. But if such there be—if by any possibility such person should exist, we have only a few words to say to him. Go, silly man, and purchase forthwith "The Heroine: or Adventures of Cherubina."

The Heroine was first published many years ago, (we believe shortly after the appearance of Childe Harold;) but although it has run through editions innumerable, and has been universally read and admired by all possessing talent or taste, it has never, in our opinion, attracted half that notice on the part of the critical press, which is undoubtedly its due. There are few books written with more tact, spirit, näïveté, or grace, few which take hold more irresistibly upon the attention of the reader, and none more fairly entitled to rank among the classics of English literature than the Heroine of Eaton Stannard Barrett. When we say all this of a book possessing not even the remotest claim to originality, either in conception or execution, it may reasonably be supposed, that we have discovered in its matter, or manner, some rare qualities, inducing us to hazard an assertion of so bold a nature. This is actually the case. Never was any thing so charmingly written: the mere style is positively inimitable. Imagination, too, of the most etherial kind, sparkles and blazes, now sportively like the Will O' the Wisp, now dazzlingly like the Aurora Borealis, over every page—over every sentence in the book. It is absolutely radiant with fancy, and that of a nature the most captivating, although, at the same time, the most airy, the most capricious, and the most intangible. Yet the Heroine must be considered a mere burlesque; and, being a copy from Don Quixotte, is to that immortal work of Cervantes what The School for Scandal is to The Merry Wives of Windsor. The Plot is briefly as follows.

Gregory Wilkinson, an English farmer worth 50,000 pounds, has a pretty daughter called Cherry, whose head is somewhat disordered from romance reading. Her governess is but little more rational than herself, and is one day turned out of the house for allowing certain undue liberties on the part of the butler. In revenge she commences a correspondence with Miss Cherry, in which she persuades that young lady that Wilkinson is not her real father—that she is a child of mystery, &c.—in short that she is actually and bonâ fide a heroine. In the meantime, Miss Cherry, in rummaging among her father's papers, comes across an antique parchment—a lease of lives—on which the following words are alone legible.

This Indenture For and in consideration of Doth grant, bargain, release Possession, and to his heirs and assigns Lands of Sylvan Lodge, in the Trees, stones, quarries, &c. Reasonable amends and satisfaction This demise Molestation of him the said Gregory Wilkinson. The natural life of Cherry Wilkinson only daughter of De Willoughby eldest son of Thomas Lady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.

This "excruciating MS." brings matters to a crisis—for Miss Cherry has no difficulty in filling up the blanks.

"It is a written covenant," says this interesting young lady in a letter to her Governess, "between this Gregory Wilkinson, and the miscreant (whom my being an heiress had prevented from enjoying the title and estate that would devolve to him at my death) stipulating to give Wilkinson 'Sylvan Lodge,' together with 'trees, stones, &c.' as 'reasonable amends and satisfaction' for being the instrument of my 'demise,' and declaring that there shall be 'no molestation of him the said Gregory Wilkinson' for taking away the 'natural life of Cherry Wilkinson, only daughter of' —— somebody 'De Willoughby eldest son of Thomas.' Then follows 'Lady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.' So that it is evident I am a De Willoughby, and related to Lady Gwyn! What perfectly confirms me in the latter supposition, is an old portrait which I found soon after, among Wilkinson's papers, representing a young and beautiful female superbly dressed; and underneath, in large letters, the name of 'Nell Gwyn.'"

Fired with this idea, Miss Cherry gets up a scene, rushes with hair dishevelled into the presence of the good man Wilkinson, and accuses him to his teeth of plotting against her life, and of sundry other mal-practices and misdemeanors. The worthy old gentleman is astonished, as well he may be; but is somewhat consoled upon receiving a letter from his nephew, Robert Stuart, announcing his intention of paying the family a visit immediately. Wilkinson is in hopes that a lover may change the current of his daughter's ideas; but in that he is mistaken. Stuart has the misfortune of being merely a rich man, a handsome man, an honest man, and a fashionable man—he is no hero. This is not to be borne: and Miss Cherry, having assumed the name of the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby, makes a precipitate retreat from the house, and commences a journey on foot to London. Her adventures here properly begin, and are laughable in the extreme. But we must not be too minute. They are modelled very much after those of Don Quixotte, and are related in a series of letters from the young lady herself to her governess. The principal characters who figure in the Memoirs are Betterton, an old debauché who endeavors to entangle the Lady Cherubina in his toils—Jerry Sullivan, an Irish simpleton, who is ready to lose his life at any moment for her ladyship, whose story he implicitly believes, without exactly comprehending it—Higginson, a grown baby, and a mad poet—Lady Gwyn, whom Cherubina believes to be her mortal enemy, and the usurper of her rights, and who encourages the delusion for the purpose of entertaining her guests—Mary and William, two peasants betrothed, but whom Cherry sets by the ears for the sake of an interesting episode—Abraham Grundy, a tenth rate performer at Covent Garden, who having been mistaken by Cherry for an earl, supports the character à merveille with the hope of eventually marrying her, and thus securing 10,000 pounds, a sum which it appears the lady possesses in her own right. He calls himself the Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci. Stuart, her cousin, whom we have mentioned before, finally rescues her from the toils of Betterton and Grundy, and restores her to reason, and to her friends. Of course he is rewarded with her hand.

We repeat that Cherubina is a book which should be upon the shelves of every well-appointed library. No one can read it without entertaining a high opinion of the varied and brilliant talents of its author. No one can read it without laughter. Its wit, especially, and its humor, are indisputable—not frittered and refined away into that insipid compound which we occasionally meet with, half giggle and half sentiment—but racy, dashing, and palpable. Some of the songs with which the work is interspersed have attained a most extensive popularity, while many persons, to whom they are as familiar as household things, are not aware of the very existence of the Heroine. All our readers must remember the following.

Dear Sensibility, O la! I heard a little lamb cry ba! Says I, so you have lost mamma! Ah! The little lamb as I said so, Frisking about the fields did go, And frisking trod upon my toe. Oh!

And this also.

TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFT.

If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ran One tide of ink to Ispahan; If all the geese in Lincoln fens Produced spontaneous well-made pens; If Holland old or Holland new, One wondrous sheet of paper grew; Could I, by stenographic power, Write twenty libraries an hour; And should I sing but half the grace Of half a freckle on thy face; Each syllable I wrote should reach From Inverness to Bognor's beach; Each hair-stroke be a river Rhine, Each verse an equinoctial line.

We have already exceeded our limits, but cannot refrain from extracting Chapter XXV. It will convey some idea of the character of the Heroine. She is now at the mansion of Lady Gwyn, who, for the purpose of amusing her friends, has dressed up her nephew to represent the supposed mother of the Lady Cherubina.

CHAPTER XXV.

This morning I awoke almost well, and towards evening was able to appear below. Lady Gwyn had invited several of her friends; so that I passed a delightful afternoon; the charm, admiration, and astonishment of all.

When I retired to rest, I found this note on my toilette.

To the Lady Cherubina.

Your mother lives! and is confined in a subterranean vault of the villa. At midnight two men will tap at your door, and conduct you to her. Be silent, courageous, and circumspect.

What a flood of new feelings gushed upon my soul, as I laid down the billet, and lifted my filial eyes to Heaven! Mother—endearing name! I pictured that unfortunate lady stretched on a mattress of straw, her eyes sunken in their sockets, yet retaining a portion of their youthful fire; her frame emaciated, her voice feeble, her hand damp and chill. Fondly did I depict our meeting—our embrace; she gently pushing me from her, and baring my forehead, to gaze on the lineaments of my countenance. All, all is convincing; and she calls me the softened image of my noble father!

Two tedious hours I waited in extreme anxiety. At length the clock struck twelve; my heart beat responsive, and immediately the promised signal was made. I unbolted the door, and beheld two men masked and cloaked. They blindfolded me, and each taking an arm, led me along. Not a word passed. We traversed apartments, ascended, descended stairs; now went this way, now that; obliquely, circularly, angularly; till I began to imagine we were all the time in one spot.

At length my conductors stopped.

'Unlock the postern gate,' whispered one, 'while I light a torch.'

'We are betrayed!' said the other, 'for this is the wrong key.'

'Then thou beest the traitor,' cried the first.

'Thou liest, dost lie, and art lying!' cried the second.

'Take that!' exclaimed the first. A groan followed, and the wretch tumbled to the ground.

'You have killed him!' cried I, sickening with horror.

'I have only hamstrung him, my Lady,' said the fellow. 'He will be lame while ever he lives; but by St. Cripplegate, that won't be long; for our captain has given him four ducats to murder himself in a month.'

He then burst open the gate; a sudden current of wind met us, and we hurried forward with incredible speed, while moans and smothered shrieks were heard at either side.

'Gracious goodness, where are we?' cried I.

'In the cavern of death!' said my conductor; 'but never fear, Signora mia illustrissima, for the bravo Abellino is your povero devotissimo.'

On a sudden innumerable footsteps sounded behind us. We ran swifter.

'Fire!' cried a ferocious accent, almost at my ear; and there came a discharge of arms.

I stopped, unable to move, breathe, or speak.

'I am wounded all over, right and left, fore and aft, long ways and cross ways, Death and the Devil!' cried the bravo.

'Am I bleeding?' said I, feeling myself with my hands.

'No, blessed St. Fidget be praised!' answered he; 'and now all is safe, for the banditti have turned into the wrong passage.'

He then stopped, and unlocked a door.

'Enter,' said he, 'and behold your mother!'

He led me forward, tore the bandage from my eyes, and retiring, locked the door after him.

Agitated by the terrors of my dangerous expedition, I felt additional horror in finding myself within a dismal cell, lighted with a lantern; where, at a small table, sat a woman suffering under a corpulency unparalleled in the memoirs of human monsters. Her dress was a patchwork of blankets and satins, and her gray tresses were like horses' tails. Hundreds of frogs leaped about the floor; a piece of mouldy bread, and a mug of water, lay on the table; some straw, strewn with dead snakes and sculls, occupied one corner, and the distant end of the cell was concealed behind a black curtain.

I stood at the door, doubtful, and afraid to advance; while the prodigious prisoner sat examining me all over.

At last I summoned courage to say, 'I fear, madam, I am an intruder here. I have certainly been shown into the wrong room.'

'It is, it is my own, my only daughter, my Cherubina!' cried she, with a tremendous voice. 'Come to my maternal arms, thou living picture of the departed Theodore!'

'Why, ma'am,' said I, 'I would with great pleasure, but I am afraid—Oh, madam, indeed, indeed, I am quite sure you cannot be my mother!'

'Why not, thou unnatural girl?' cried she.

'Because, madam,' answered I, 'my mother was of a thin habit; as her portrait proves.'

'And so I was once,' said she. 'This deplorable plumpness is owing to want of exercise. But I thank the Gods I am as pale as ever.'

'Heavens! no,' cried I. 'Your face, pardon me, is a rich scarlet.'

'And is this our tender meeting?' cried she. 'To disown me, to throw my fat in my teeth, to violate the lilies of my skin with a dash of scarlet? Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle! Tell me, girl, will you embrace me, or will you not?'

'Indeed, madam,' answered I, 'I will presently.'

'Presently!'

'Yes, depend upon it I will. Only let me get over the first shock.'

'Shock!'

Dreading her violence, and feeling myself bound to do the duties of a daughter, I kneeled at her feet, and said:

'Ever respected, ever venerable author of my being, I beg thy maternal blessing!'

My mother raised me from the ground, and hugged me to her heart, with such cruel vigor, that, almost crushed, I cried out stoutly, and struggled for release.

'And now,' said she, relaxing her grasp, 'let me tell you of my sufferings. Ten long years I have eaten nothing but bread. Oh, ye favorite pullets, oh, ye inimitable tit-bits, shall I never, never taste you more? It was but last night, that maddened by hunger, methought I beheld the Genius of Dinner in my dreams. His mantle was laced with silver eels, and his locks were dropping with soups. He had a crown of golden fishes upon his head, and pheasants' wings at his shoulders. A flight of little tartlets fluttered about him, and the sky rained down comfits. As I gazed on him, he vanished in a sigh, that was impregnated with the fumes of brandy. Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle.'

I stood shuddering, and hating her more and more every moment.

'Pretty companion of my confinement!' cried she, apostrophizing an enormous toad which she pulled out of her bosom 'dear, spotted fondling, thou, next to my Cherubina, art worthy of my love. Embrace each other, my friends.' And she put the hideous pet into my hand. I screamed and dropped it.

'Oh!' cried I, in a passion of despair, 'what madness possessed me to undertake this execrable enterprise!' and I began beating with my hand against the door.

'Do you want to leave your poor mother?' said she in a whimpering tone.

'Oh! I am so frightened!' cried I.

'You will spend the night here, however,' said she; 'and your whole life too; for the ruffian who brought you hither was employed by Lady Gwyn to entrap you.'

When I heard this terrible sentence, my blood ran cold, and I began crying bitterly.

'Come, my love!' said my mother, 'and let me clasp thee to my heart once more!'

'For goodness sake!' cried I, 'spare me!'

'What!' exclaimed she, 'do you spurn my proffered embrace again?'

'Dear, no, madam,' answered I. 'But—but indeed now, you squeeze one so!'

My mother made a huge stride towards me; then stood groaning and rolling her eyes.

'Help!' cried I, half frantic, 'help! help!'

I was stopped by a suppressed titter of infernal laughter, as if from many demons; and on looking towards the black curtain, whence the sound came, I saw it agitated; while about twenty terrific faces appeared peeping through slits in it, and making grins of a most diabolical nature. I hid my face with my hands.

''Tis the banditti!' cried my mother.

As she spoke, the door opened, a bandage was flung over my eyes, and I was borne away half senseless, in some one's arms; till at length, I found myself alone in my own chamber.

Such was the detestable adventure of to-night. Oh, that I should live to meet this mother of mine! How different from the mothers that other heroines rummage out in northern turrets and ruined chapels! I am out of all patience. Liberate her I must, of course, and make a suitable provision for her too, when I get my property; but positively, never will I sleep under the same roof with—(ye powers of filial love, forgive me!) such a living mountain of human horror. Adieu.

HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.

The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow; a Tradition of Pennsylvania. By the author of Calavar and the Infidel. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

By The Gladiator, by Calavar, and by The Infidel, Dr. Bird has risen, in a comparatively short space of time, to a very enviable reputation; and we have heard it asserted that his last novel 'The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow,' will not fail to place his name in the very first rank of American writers of fiction. Without venturing to subscribe implicitly to this latter supposition, we still think very highly of him who has written Calavar. Of this last mentioned work, and of the Infidel, we have already given our opinion, although not altogether as fully as we could have desired: and we regret that circumstances beyond our control have prevented us from noticing the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow until so late a day as the present.

Had this novel reached us some years ago, with the title of, 'The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow: A Romance by the author of Waverley,' we should not perhaps have engaged in its perusal with as much genuine eagerness, or with so dogged a determination to be pleased with it at all events, as we have actually done upon receiving it with its proper title, and under really existing circumstances. But having read the book through, as undoubtedly we should have done, if only for the sake of Auld Lang Syne, and for the sake of certain pleasantly mirthful, or pleasantly mournful recollections connected with Ivanhoe, with the Antiquary, with Kenilworth, and above all with that most pure, perfect, and radiant gem of fictitious literature the Bride of Lammermuir—having, we say, on this account, and for the sake of these recollections read the novel from beginning to end, from Aleph to Tau, we should have pronounced our opinion of its merits somewhat in the following manner.

"It is unnecessary to tell us that this novel is written by Sir Walter Scott; and we are really glad to find that he has at length ventured to turn his attention to American incidents, scenery, and manners. We repeat that it was a mere act of supererogation to place the words 'By the author of Waverley' in the title page. The book speaks for itself. The style vulgarly so called—the manner properly so called—the handling of the subject to speak pictorially, or graphically, or as a German would say plastically—in a word the general air, the tout ensemble, the prevailing character of the story, all proclaim, in words which one who runs may read, that these volumes were indited 'By the author of Waverley.'" Having said thus much, we should resume our critique as follows.

"The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is, however, by no means in the best manner of its illustrious author. To speak plainly it is a positive failure, and must take its place by the side of the Redgauntlets, the Monasteries, the Pirates, and the Saint Ronan's Wells."

All this we should perhaps have been induced to say had the book been offered to us for perusal some few years ago, with the supposititious title, and under the supposititious circumstances aforesaid. But alas! for our critical independency, the case is very different indeed. There can be no mistake or misconception in the present instance, such as we have so fancifully imagined. The title page (here we have it) is clear, explanatory, and not to be misunderstood. The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, A Tradition of Pennsylvania, that is to say a novel, is written, so we are assured, not by the author of Waverley, but by the author of that very fine romance Calavar—not by Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, but by Robert M. Bird, M.D. Now Robert M. Bird is an American.

We will endeavour to give an outline of the story. In a little valley bordering upon the Delaware, and called Hawk-Hollow from a colony of hawks who time out of mind had maintained possession of a blasted tree at its embouchure, resided, some fifty years ago, one Gilbert, an English emigrant. He had seven sons, all of whom displayed in early life a spirit of desperate and reckless adventure, and a love of the wild life of the woods and mountains. Oran was the name of the eldest, and at the same time the most savage and intractable of the seven. The disposition thus evinced obtained for these young desperadoes the sobriquet of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow. Gilbert, the father, falls heir to a rich estate in England, and after making a vain attempt to settle in that country and educate his children as gentlemen, returns at length to the valley of Hawk-Hollow, so much more congenial to the temper and habits of his sons. A fine but fantastic manor-house is erected, and the family acquire consideration in the land. In the meantime Mr. Gilbert's first wife dying, he weds another, who bears him a daughter, Jessie. At the opening of the tale, however, a Captain Loring resides upon the estate, and in the mansion of the Gilberts, holding them as the agent or tenant of a certain Col. Falconer, who is a second edition of Falkland in Caleb Williams,—and who has managed to possess himself of the property at Hawk-Hollow, upon its confiscation on account of the tory principles and conduct of the Hawks.

During the happier days of the Gilberts, the life of this Falconer was preserved by three of them, upon a certain occasion of imminent peril. He however, being badly wounded, they convey him to their father's house, and Jessie, their sister, attends him in the character of nurse. She loves him. He returns her love with gratitude and perhaps some little actual affection, not however sufficient to banish from his mind the charms or the wealth of a lady of whom he had been previously enamored—the daughter of a gentleman who had succored and patronised him at a time when he needed aid, and who discarded him upon perceiving the growing intimacy between his child and his protegé. Grateful however for the kindness and evident affection of Jessie, and intoxicated with her beauty, he marries her in a moment of madness and passion—prevailing upon her to keep the marriage a secret for a short time. At this critical juncture, Falconer, who has already risen to honors and consideration in the world, as an officer of the Colonial army, receives overtures of reconciliation both from his old patron and his daughter. His former flame is rekindled in his bosom. He puts off from day to day the publication of his marriage with Jessie, and, finally, goaded by love and ambition, and encouraged by the accidental death of the regimental chaplain who married him, as well as by that of the only witness to the ceremony, he flies from Jessie who is about to become a mother, and leaving herself and friends under the impression that the rite of marriage had been a mere mockery for the purpose of seduction, throws himself at once into the arms of his first love, and at length espouses her, a short time before the decease of Jessie, who dies in bringing a son into the world.

The wrath of the brothers of Jessie, has doomed this child to destruction—but their mother, at this same period giving birth to a still-born infant, an exchange is brought about through the instrumentality of an old nurse Elsie Bell, who plays an anomalous part in the story, being half witch, and half gentlewoman. The effect of this exchange is that the still-born child of Mrs. Gilbert is buried as the offspring of Jessie, while her real offspring, is sent to the West Indies, to be nurtured and educated by a sister of Mr. Gilbert. The boy thus sent was called Hyland, after one of the Hawks who perished in the rescue of Col. Falconer.

Such are the events which, at the opening of the story, have broken up the family of the Gilberts, and effected their ruin.

"The sons no longer hunted with the young men of the county, but went, as in their war expeditions, alone: and when others thrust themselves into their company they quarrelled with them, so that they began to be universally feared and detested. To crown all, as soon as the Revolution burst out they went over to the enemy: and, being distributed among the wild and murderous bands of savages forming on the north-western frontiers, they soon obtained a dreadful notoriety for their deeds of daring and cruelty. Of course this remarkable defection of the sons, caused the unlucky father to be suspected and watched. He was accused at last of aiding and abetting them in their treasonable practices, and soon, either from timidity or a consciousness of guilt, he fled, seeking refuge within the royal lines. This was sufficient for his ruin: for, after the usual legal preliminaries, he was formally outlawed, as his sons had been before, and his property confiscated. He died soon afterwards, either at New York, or Jamaica."

Hyland, the son of Falconer by Jessie, but the supposed youngest brother of the Hawks, returns after many years, to his native country with the intention of accepting a British commission; but seeing more closely, and with his own eyes, the true principles which actuated the colonists, he finally relinquishes that design. In the meantime visiting the Hawk-Hollow under the assumed name of Herman Hunter, and in the character of a painter, he becomes enamored of Catherine, the daughter of Captain Loring. The attachment is mutual, although the lady is already betrothed to Henry, the son of Col. Falconer, a rather gentlemanly, although a very dissipated and good-for-nothing personage. Difficulties thicken of course. Miss Harriet Falconer, a copy in many respects of Di Vernon, becomes, for some very trivial reason, a violent enemy of Herman Hunter, and even goes so far as to suspect him of being connected with the outlawed Hawks of the Hollow. Captain Loring, on the other hand, is his firm friend—a circumstance which restores matters to a more proper equilibrium, and much flirtation is consequently carried on, in and about the old mansion house and pleasure grounds of the Gilberts. In the meantime an attempt is made, by some unknown assassin, upon the life of Col. Falconer, at New York; and the county is thrown into a panic, by the rumor that Oran, the eldest brother of the Hawks, is not dead, as was supposed, but in existence near the Hollow with a desperate band of refugees, and ready to pounce upon the neighboring village of Hillborough. Miss Harriet Falconer busies herself in a very unlady-like manner to ferret out the assassin of her father. Plot and counterplot follow in rapid succession. New characters appear upon the scene. A tall disciple of Roscius called Sterling, is, among others, very conspicuous, thrusting his nose into every adventure, and assuming by turns, although in a very slovenly way, the character of a Methodist preacher, of a pedlar, of a Quaker, and of a French dancing master. Elsie Bell, the old witch, prophecies, predicates, and prognosticates; and in short matters begin to assume a very serious and inexplicable aspect. Hyland Gilbert alias Herman Hunter, the painter, is drawn into an involuntary connection with his supposed brother Oran, the refugee, and some circumstances coming to light not very much to his credit, he is obliged to flee from the mansion of the gallant Captain—not, however, until he has declared his passion for the daughter, into the ear of the daughter herself. Through the instigation of Harriet Falconer, the day is at length fixed for the marriage of her brother Henry with Catherine Loring. Accident delays the ceremony until night, when, just as the lady is hesitating whether she shall say yes, or no, the tall gentleman ycleped Sterling who has managed, no one knows how, to install himself as major-domo, chief fiddler, and master of ceremonies at the wedding, takes the liberty of knocking the bridegroom on the head with his violin, while Oran, the refugee, jumps in at one window with a gang of his followers, and Hyland Gilbert, alias Herman Hunter, the painter, popping in at another, carries off the bride at a back door nemine contradicente. The bird being flown, the hue and cry is presently raised, and the whole county starts in pursuit. But the affair ends very lamely. Precisely at the moment when Hyland Gilbert, alias Herman Hunter, the painter, has carried his mistress beyond any prospect of danger from pursuit, he suddenly takes it into his head, to change his mind in relation to the entire business, and so, turning back as he came, very deliberately carries the lady home again. He himself, however, being caught, is sentenced to be hung—all which is exceedingly just. But to be serious.

The crime with which the young man is charged, is the murder of Henry Falconer, who fell by a pistol shot in an affray during the pursuit. The criminal is lodged in jail at Hillborough—is tried—and, chiefly through the instrumentality of Col. Falconer, is in danger of being found guilty. But Elsie Bell now makes her appearance, and matters assume a new aspect. She reveals to Col. Falconer the exchange of the two infants—a fact with which he had been hitherto unacquainted—and consequently astounds him with the information that he is seeking the death of his own son. A new turn is also given to the evidence in the case of the murder by the death-bed confession of Sterling, who owns that he himself shot the deceased Henry Falconer, and also attempted the assassination of the Colonel. The prisoner is acquitted by acclamation. Col. Falconer, is shot by mistake while visiting his son in prison. Harriet dies of grief at the exposure of her father's villainy, and of her own consequent illegitimacy. Hyland Gilbert and Catherine are united. Oran, the refugee, who fired the shot by which Col. Falconer was accidentally killed, being hotly pursued, and dangerously wounded, escapes, finally, to his fastnesses in the mountains, where, after a lapse of many years, his bones and his rifle are identified. Thus ends the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow.