CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 8 (continued 3)

I had, on my first entrance into the saloon, remarked a PORTRAIT, which, with many others, adorned the room, but which, though it hung in a much less conspicuous light, had, from the first moment I beheld it, irresistibly attracted my attention. Its subject was a young lady, apparently not more than sixteen years old. Whenever the conversation flagged, or my thoughts were free, my eyes insensibly turned to the charmed spot, and there they would rest, while with a strange delight, my mind would busy itself in trying to define, and to gift with “a local habitation and a name,” the deep, overpowering sympathies its beauty awakened in the mind of the beholder. I can speak of the effect on my feelings, but words would be inadequate to express its surpassing loveliness. In beholding it, I could only exclaim, in the celebrated words of Burke, “There surely never lighted on this globe a more delightful vision.” To describe the features separately, would give you no idea of the bewitching harmony of the whole expression. “Her eyes dark charm 'twere vain to tell.” Their light seemed as emanated from the celestial world, and while you were gazing on it, your soul appeared to catch something of the beatific vision. And yet this heavenly being seemed not sublimated beyond the affections of earth—No, the rainbow of hope and love looked as it were spanning a dark cloud, which might blot it out forever. This fascination continued from day to day, and yet no remark or inquiry was made as to the original of the portrait. I felt as if there were something mysterious or sacred about it, and that it would be intruding into the sanctuary of private feelings, to show any curiosity on the subject. None of the family ever alluded to it, though they must have observed the deep interest with which I regarded it.

One evening, after all the little nurslings were hushed, we sat as usual, telling over, with the garrulity of age, the events of “by-gone days.” Ashton's talent for animated narrative was of the first order, and the hours flew on the wings of delight, when I could get him to dilate on the revolutionary struggles at the south. Of those times his mind retained the faint recollections of childhood, but his memory was stored with volumes of their kindling and heart-stirring facts, which seemed to possess double interest, when told by the patriot and the sage. His early fancies had been fed with this “ancient lore” from the fountain of a mother's love and a mother's instructions. Listening to her stories of the self-denial, hardships and dangers, our ancestors encountered in the path to freedom, his soul had become transformed into their image; and now, the spirits of Laurens, and Rutledge, and Sumpter, seemed to stalk before me, while he rehearsed their deeds.

I inquired if any members of his own immediate family were engaged in the war? “None,” he replied, “but its evils were felt in almost every family, and its consequences, like those of other civil wars, were often destructive to domestic peace and happiness. Such was the case in our own house. I have remarked the fixed attention with which you have gazed on a female portrait in my saloon. It is not often I lift the veil which conceals the story of one whose fate was so intimately linked with the tenderest feelings of my own heart; but I see that your sympathies are already interested, and if you desire it, I will give you a brief sketch of the original of the portrait, referring, where my recollections fail, to my mother's memoranda.” I expressed my high gratification at his offer, and he proceeded to relate the following particulars.

“Morna Ridgely was the only child of Colonel Charles Ridgely, an officer in the forty-second regiment of British light infantry. He was the younger son of a noble family in Northumberland; and, as usual in such cases, the laws of entail excluded him from the advantages of patrimony, leaving him to choose between the church and the army. He possessed a gallant, noble, and sincere disposition, and scorned the idea of making ‘merchandise of the gospel;’ but to fight his country's battles, to bring glory to Old England, was quite congenial to his feelings. His choice was made, and he was to go into the army as soon as a vacancy occurred in the regiment. Meantime, he was pursuing his studies at the University of Edinburgh, where many of the younger branches of English nobility are sent.

“It was here that he formed an attachment to a lovely young Scottish maiden, by the name of Morna Donald. Her father had been the leader of a clan, which had often made incursions on the border, and, of course, his name was in ‘ill odor’ with the English gentry of the neighboring lands. But the gentle Morna bloomed in unstained purity and innocence, the brightest flower on Scottish heath—and she gave the ‘jewel of her heart’ to the gallant and open hearted Ridgely, not dreaming how soon it would be withered by the cold blight of scorn and unkindness.

“All his family, except my mother, spurned poor Morna as the daughter of a savage rebel, and declared they felt it a disgrace to receive her into their houses. Ridgely's feelings were wounded in the keenest manner by this treatment, and he would have sunk under the mortification, but for the soothing affection of my mother, between whom and himself there existed the warmest and most confidential intimacy. She proffered her heart and her house to receive the forlorn Morna, who found her bosom the ark of safety and repose, amidst the storms by which she was buffetted. About this time his commission was obtained, but the regiment not being called into service, the young couple, at my mother's solicitation, remained with her during the first year of their marriage. The spirits of the young bride had received a shock of disappointment from which they never recovered. She was calm and resigned, but the thrill of pleasure which once gave joy to her heart and beauty to her countenance, was gone never to return. Sadness preyed on her health, but her friends looked forward in hope to the interesting period when a mother's cares and a mother's love should win her spirit back to hope and happiness.

“How fallacious are human expectations! The same wave that cast the little orphan on the shores of time, bore the mother to the ocean of eternity. With a smile of perfect confidence, she gave the bud of promise into the arms of my mother, saying, this is yours, the last gift of the dying Morna—a precious pledge of her unwavering trust in your affection. And most faithfully was that pledge redeemed by my mother! from that moment did the little Morna lie in her bosom, and receive all the tenderness of maternal care. Having a few months previously lost her only child, an infant twelve months old, all her tenderness was now centred in her new charge, whose beauty and sprightliness promised to repay all her attention.

“Ridgely was ordered to join his regiment and proceed to Ireland, where a rebellion had recently broken out. In departing, he bathed the little orphan with his tears, and renewed the gift to his sister, not knowing that he should ever behold her more. The child grew; the charms of her mind and person fast unfolded in the sunshine of my mother's love, and she soon became the joy and pride of her heart. Her father returned to England when she was four years old, and had the long wished for happiness of clasping his beloved child, the image of his lost wife, to his bosom; and the shattered fragments of his heart were gathered again around his infant daughter. How gratifying to him, to see how powerfully she felt the tie of birth! The highest boon she could ask, was to sit on her father's knee, and lean her bright check on his heart, while she persuaded him to stay with her, and she would love him ‘as much as aunt Ashton.’ Among the ‘dire chimeras’ of the nursery, she had heard many tales of the ‘wild Irish,’ and her little heart beat with anxious fears for her father's safety; she could not be quieted until he promised not to go among them any more.

“But now the young Morna was herself to be the adventurer. Major Ashton (my father) was commanded to embark with his regiment for the American colonies. This was unexpected and sad news to my dear parents; but there was no time to parley. The yoke of servitude began to sit uneasily on the necks of the colonists, under the growing demands of government—and an increased army was necessary to enforce submission. With decision and promptitude worthy of a better cause, my father obeyed the summons. The military hero is bred in the school of suffering and self-denial. A separation from all the endearments of social and domestic life, he considers one of the necessary consequences of the service, and he submits with dignity. Such was the conduct of Colonel Ridgely, in parting with his only child. His tears fell on her cheek, while with trembling fingers he threw back the thick curls from her forehead, that he might behold all of a face so lovely and so beloved. It was happy for Morna that she could not comprehend the fullness of his agony. She knew that she was her father's darling, and her heart beat in unison with his as far as she understood his feelings; but the page of the future is gilded with bright hues in childhood, and she readily yielded to the soothing assurances of her aunt, that either she would return to England, or her father be sent to America. So she was comforted, and her thoughts were diverted by the wonderful and mysterious preparations (as it seemed to her) her aunt was making to go away. In the course of a month she bade adieu to the white cliffs of Albion; and after a tedious voyage of thirty-eight days, Morna's uncle pointed out to her the distant shores of the western world. She gazed on the prospect with wonder-waiting eyes, for she had never thought of any land so far from her home and country.

“Major Ashton's troops were landed at Boston; but as that post was well supplied, the reinforcements were stationed in the various commercial towns along the seaboard, to enforce compliance with the new system of taxation. He was ordered to Charleston, in South Carolina; and after a stormy cruise of ten days arrived in harbor and disembarked his forces, making Charleston his head quarters. For the sake of brevity, I must pass over many intervening circumstances, and even years, not necessary to the main interest of my story. I must not omit, however, to mention that my mother was called, the second year of her residence here, to experience the bitterest of all calamities, in the death of her beloved husband, who fell a victim to the fever of the climate. I was an infant at that time, but I can imagine the desolation of her soul, left a widow, and a stranger in a foreign land; and my earliest recollections of her are associated with times, when she sat silent, and almost unheeding my importunity to know what made her weep so much. I find a letter from Colonel Ridgely to my mother, written during that year, informing her that his regiment would sail in a few days for the East Indies, to relieve another, which was suffering greatly from disease. ‘It is uncertain,’ he says, ‘how long we may continue on this station, though the present prospect is, that we shall only act as a temporary relief.’ He speaks of his dear child, and the anxious and melancholy thoughts that fill his mind, when he reflects on the distance and the time that must separate him from her.

“But time, as it passed the young Morna, had a dove's wing. Her bark of happiness was borne smoothly and joyfully down the current of life. Young hope spread her sail, and no cloud dimmed the bright horizon. The toys of childhood were gradually laid aside for the pleasures and occupations of intellectual cultivation. My mother, while she guarded against the perversion of the superior talents of her pupil, spared no expense in adorning her mind with every lasting and lovely accomplishment. But of all adornings, she considered that of a meek and quiet spirit to be of greatest price, having learned it in the school of sad experience; and to this end she labored with the waywardness of childhood and the vanity of youth, believing that they who sow in hope will reap in joy. And such was her recompense. The natural sensibilities of her niece were exquisite: she trembled lest by taking a wrong direction they should prove the scourge of her life. Byron says,

Far otherwise was it with my lovely cousin. Many sweet and endearing instances of her goodness my memory still retains. She was my mother's almoner to the cottages of the poor. On these errands I was frequently her companion; and though my wayward and loitering step exercised her patience in no small degree, she never chid me in any voice but that of love, or denied me any innocent gratification, however great the self-denial it imposed on her. You will not wonder that she was the idol of the indigent and helpless. Among this mass of people, the African slaves excited her warmest sympathy—evinced in benevolence of the most practical sort. Instead of joining her schoolmates on holidays in selfish recreations, she would petition her aunt to carry some nice soup to aunt Dinah, or to read the bible to blind Betty who loved to hear it so much. I believe they looked upon her as a ministering angel; something celestial compounded of a purer flesh and blood than sinful mortals, ‘God bless and love you Miss Morn; you are too pretty for this world!’ was their usual salutation.

“When my mother arrived in Charleston, she sought out a faithful servant as a nurse for her young family. Margaret was her name, which we soon contracted into the endearing appellative of ‘Mammy Marget.’ She was the most devoted and faithful servant I ever knew. I loved and venerated her next to my mother. She doated on my cousin; with watchful fidelity she guarded her health and happiness so far as her limited sphere extended, and was rewarded with the deep and tender attachment of a grateful heart.

“In her school, Morna was a general favorite. Arbitress in every disagreement, her candor and disinterested kindness could admit no appeal from its fair and equal decision. With Mary Percy, one of her classmates, a girl of congenial tastes and feelings, she was very intimate. The rocks and dells in these environs still bear memorials of their merry gambols and rambles amongst the wild luxuriance of nature. Alfred Percy, also, the brother of the young lady, and two years older, was frequently one of the party, and performed wonders of agility and bold adventure in various feats of climbing, leaping, and swimming, any of which he would carry to the utmost extent of possibility to oblige or amuse Morna. In a short time he had so won her admiration as to be her beau ideal of all that was noble and elegant: however, she was not the girl to be fascinated on a slight acquaintance. The current of her affections ran in too deep a channel to be ruffled by the wing of every bird that flitted over it. My mother's experienced eye discerned the growing attachment of Percy towards her lovely niece, and while she would not have influenced her decision in a matter where the affections are so deeply interested, she hoped the time might come when she would not be insensible to the love of one so worthy of her heart and her choice.

“We must turn from the visions of youth and the dream of love to our political horizon, which now grew darker and darker. Our colonies had reached the lowest point of oppression and injustice; they felt the burden intolerable; and rising, threatened to heave off the weight that was crushing them. You recollect the affair at Lexington struck the first note of revolt, which was re-echoed by most of the States in the Union. South Carolina was, perhaps, at that time, the most loyal of all to the British government; but even here there were not a few whose hearts swelled with indignation at her tyrannical exactions. My mother's feelings on this subject were identified with those of the suffering colonists, and she felt that if she had a son able to do his country service, she would buckle on his armor, and speed him with her prayers, in the cause of freedom and suffering humanity.

“After the first shock of resistance, you recollect the States were unanimous in the cause of liberty; though the scene of war was, during the first part of the contest, confined to the Northern and middle States, and our arms were generally successful wherever valor and dexterity could supply the want of superior numbers and discipline. How did the courageous youth of South Carolina burn to join their brethren of the North in the struggle for liberty! The hot valor of young Percy, like that of his namesake of poetic fame, spurred him on to rush into the marshalled ranks, from which he could scarcely be withheld by the sober forecast of his father, who foresaw that the tide of battle was already tending towards the south.

“Information was at length received, that a British squadron had been fitted out for the reduction of Charleston; and, detained by unfavorable weather, was lying at Cape Fear. This gave the Americans time to strengthen their fortifications, so as to make an attack from the seaboard extremely difficult. In the month of June, 1776, the squadron anchored off the bar. What a moment of thrilling anxiety was this to every true American heart in the place! The land forces were commanded by Cornwallis and Clinton; the naval by Sir Peter Parker. The provincial forces were commanded by General Lee. Our young hero Percy, was honored with a lieutenancy in his army. It was some days before the British troops could disembark, owing to the impediment in crossing the bar. At length, however, they effected a landing on Long Island, and prepared for an attack. Percy's post was in the select division, placed on the main land, opposite Sullivan's island, the only successful point of attack.

“The evening before the expected battle he called at my mother's, still the spot of peculiar attraction whenever a moment of leisure allowed him the indulgence of his warmest and tenderest feelings. She candidly expressed her fears for his safety, knowing the dangerous post he would occupy, and his fearless intrepidity. She charged him to remember how many hearts would throb with deep interest for him on that eventful day, and concluded by hoping that discretion would temper his courage. He replied with restrained emotion, ‘I hope, dear madam, I am not insensible to your regard, and that of many kind friends; but there is one whose interest and sympathy I would rather win than the world besides.’ He looked towards Morna, but she was gone. He followed her retreating footsteps to her favorite alcove. ‘Morna,’ he said, assuming the manner of their childhood's freedom, ‘I have heard you say, courage should be your second requisite in a hero. I come to ask a token from you as an incentive to valor to morrow.’ ‘Would you desire a higher,’ she answered, ‘than the cause of your country? Oh, Alfred, it is not your honor or courage that is in danger, but your life.’ ‘Then give me this bright tress, which has escaped from its bondage, to remind me that you are among those who care for my safety. It will be the first and brightest charm my heart ever wore.’ Morna spoke not: how could she? But her lover read the confession of her heart in the ‘many colored Iris’ which filled her eye. You may imagine the scene that followed, when the fervor and faith of young hearts are pledged on the eve of doubtful battle. The hour of separation came, and Percy was taking his leave of her he loved best, with a countenance of hope unclouded by doubt or fear. He whispered to Morna, in going, ‘Remember the token, the talisman of protection and favor to the knight without fear and without reproach.’ ‘Noble Percy!’ exclaimed Mrs. Ashton, ‘you were never formed to wear the chain of slavery.’ Morna, too, felt proud of her lover; but in the moment of her exultation, she thought of the perils to which his life must be exposed, and the dark omen of dread dimmed the bright star of her destiny. My mother, while she evinced the warm sympathy which all the circumstances of the newly awakened feelings in her niece's bosom were calculated to inspire, endeavored to calm them by pointing to the bright side of the picture, and urging her to look forward with patient hope to the probably successful issue. But Mammy Marget, who felt, perhaps, quite as much in whatever distressed her young mistress, with the characteristic propensity of narrow-minded ignorance, sought to lay the blame of her tears on somebody, and who so probably the cause as Percy. ‘Mas Alfred, he's always so violent, he must be the most foremost of any, no place will do for him but the hottest. Why not put some of the raggamuffins, as the British calls the militia, in that dangerous place, they mean creters don't care—jist as live shoot down a clever young man like him as a dog. But, maybe this don't comfort you, Miss Morn, my pretty dove, so I won't say no more but the truth, and that is, he's as ginerous as you; for but t'other day, he ask me, Mammy Marget, how you do these hard times? I tell him, well as other folks I reckon, I only wish we had some of that good sugar and coffee that them mean English is squandering out yander, with their white sarvants to tend'm, struttin' about like peacocks in their finery. Then I see the fire in his eye, and he say, bridling up jest like him, I would not fill my mouth with any of their good things; but as it does not hurt your conscience, take this and buy some, (and he give me ever so much money,) they will be mean enough, as you say, to extort upon the penury of a poor slave. That's jist what he say, I knowed what he meant in spite of his high larnt words, and thinks I, I'll remember 'em to tell Miss Morn.’

“You recollect the entire failure of this first expedition against Charleston, owing to the inability of the land and naval forces to unite in the attack. The American batteries sustained the fire from the fleet with unmoved firmness, and Percy won laurels by his intrepidity and presence of mind. The enemy seeing it impossible, in present circumstances, to gain footing, left Charleston harbor with all their forces; and during the two succeeding years, no further attempt was made to reduce this place.

“About this time a letter came to my mother, under the British passport. It was from Colonel Ridgely from whom she had received no intelligence for ten years. It informed her, that the state of affairs in America had recently recalled his regiment from India, with the design of transporting that, and several others, to the southern colonies, to oppose the combined forces of France and America. He lamented the occasion of his visit to a land where his tenderest and most cherished hopes were centered. He spoke of the necessity to which the ministry, by their harsh and unjust exactions had reduced the American colonies, of taking up arms in self-defence. Not even Chatham's eloquence could arrest the storm, though he had predicted with a prophet's inspiration, that the final issue would be the infamy of its originators, and the everlasting degradation of England. As an officer in his majesty's service, he said honor and loyalty forbade him to withdraw from the duties imposed on him, however his own individual feelings and opinions might prompt him to retire from the combat.

“You may well conceive with what mingled emotions of hope and disappointment the bosoms of a daughter and sister were filled on reading this letter. Morna's first words were, ‘Dear aunt, shall I live to see my beloved father in the ranks of my country's enemies? No, the grave would be far preferable—can nothing avert it? O! how shall I meet Alfred? His high soul will revolt at an alliance with the daughter of his country's enemy. Write to him, dear aunt, immediately for me, and release him from every obligation.’ ‘My beloved child,’ replied she, ‘I must first chide your generous haste, which would destroy both your own and Alfred's happiness. Can you suppose he could cease to love you, or to respect your father, only because he is engaged to support a cause, which, though we esteem it unjust, every loyal subject of Britain is bound to maintain? Rather let us seek resignation and comfort from heaven, and hope that God may over-rule the purposes of man for the good of all, and the glory of his name.’ Morna yielded to the opinion of her aunt, which in her calmer moments she felt to be just, and at her request tried to compose her agitated feelings, as she laid her aching head on that bosom which was alike the sanctuary of her joys and sorrows. Her wearied senses sunk into repose, and she was unconsciously placed on the couch of rest. This was scarcely done, when a quick knock was heard at the door. Mrs. Ashton hastened to attend the summons, and prevent any interruption from sudden noise. ‘Mr. Percy!’ was her exclamation, ‘is it you? Your countenance is the omen of evil tidings—are you the herald of recent disasters?’ ‘Madam, your look tells me you are not ignorant that the enemy, having gained possession of Georgia, is marching rapidly towards our capital. I have just received a major's commission, and orders to march my company to reinforce General Lincoln; but, like the crusader of old, I come, first to visit the shrine of my tutelar saint, and bear from its altar the token of conquest and safety. May I not see Miss Ridgely?’ My mother then related the story of the recent tidings from England, and the overwhelming effect on her niece's spirits. Percy remained silent, and his brow lowered with displeasure for a moment, but his noble nature rose triumphant over the irritation of national feeling. ‘I must see her,’ he said, with deep emotion; ‘I must assure her how much I love and admire the sensibility of her filial piety.’ My mother stept softly into the chamber, and found Morna sleeping soundly, but with a flushed cheek, indicating so high a degree of excitement, that she feared the consequences of awaking her. Mammy Marget, who was watching by her, declared it would be the death of her if she saw Mr. Percy now. ‘He's always so vilent, talking about honor and death. It's hardly worth while to lose honor or life fighting with they mean English, and the runaway niggers they git to join 'em. Oh no, he'll jist set Miss Morn to crying, for she bleeves every word he tells her. He can jist leave a message, or a little keepsake, or something to show he 'ant forgot her; and that he couldn't do, neither.’

“Mammy Marget's advice was certainly wise in this case, and after much earnest debate, Percy consented to yield to prudent counsel, and with a heavy heart took his leave. In a few hours he was on his route to join General Lincoln, who kept in advance of General Prevost, whose obvious design was to reach Charleston as soon as possible. General Moultrie, stationed to oppose his passage, found his efforts ineffectual; he passed with his superior force towards the capital, while Lincoln marched rapidly towards its relief. He despached in advance of his army a chosen body of mounted infantry, commanded by our young hero Percy, to guard the passes to the city, but the little band used all their efforts in vain.

“Prevost arrived within cannon shot, and summoned the town to surrender, on the 12th of May, 1779. But being summoned, did they do it? No, Lincoln was advancing with a superior force, and the enemy dared not risk an attack, but prudently resolved to take possession of the islands of St. James and St. John, where they waited to be reinforced by the arrival of two frigates. In one of these vessels was Colonel Ridgely. His regiment was landed on Port Royal island, where they were commanded to wait further preparations to begin the attack. Colonel Ridgely's thoughts turned from the scene of military show towards his daughter, whose image, amidst all the vicissitudes of his wanderings, was still stamped in living colors on his heart. He was impelled to encounter every danger, to see her, if she still lived. A disguise was the only possible means of doing this, as all communication with the enemy was interdicted by the Americans, under the severest penalty. His ingenuity suggested the habit of an English chaplain, whose inoffensive and pious character, had gained him permission to visit some sick prisoners in the Charleston hospital. Under cover of night Ridgely passed the sentinels, with the pretence of administering to a dying prisoner the consolation of religion. When in the city, he varied the deception a little, inquiring for the residence of Mrs. Ashton, as a clergyman on holy duty bound.

“I feel that I can give you no idea of the scene that ensued, when the disguise was thrown off, and the person of Colonel Ridgely was revealed before his astonished sister. ‘My brother!’ was the exclamation, as she sunk back in her seat, paralyzed with emotion. Morna caught the electrifying words, and sprung forwards; but ere he had clasped her in his arms, the rush of feelings had overpowered her senses, and she lost in momentary insensibility the consciousness of his presence. Her recollection was soon restored. Her father's countenance was the first object that met her returning sensibility. Oh! how many long past and almost forgotten reminiscences seemed to spring up around her, as she gazed with intense delight on that still remembered smile. Her spirits rose from their depression; she lost the fear of coming evil in the endearments of a father's love, and hope dispelled the dark cloud that had seemed to lower over her.

“Colonel Ridgely's disposition was one to look on the bright side of things. He expressed his hope that there would be no further bloodshed, and that a capitulation, honorable to both sides, would restore peace to the besieged city. The dawn was almost visible, before he resumed his habit, to return. Morna's last request was, that he would not risk a life so dear, if there was the least possibility of danger or detection.

“Sir H. Clinton arrived with reinforcements on the 1st of April, soon after which he summoned the town to surrender; but General Lincoln declared his intention of defending the place (to which resolution he was induced by the daily expectation of recruits from Virginia, which never arrived) whenever hostilities should commence. The batteries of the enemy were immediately opened on the town. The Americans returned a brisk, but ineffectual fire. Their numbers were too few to cope with the united strength of the British army, and the troops so scattered as to be exposed to be cut off by every fire from the batteries. The results of this unavailing struggle on the side of the Americans, caused the final capitulation of Charleston. But this happened too late to awaken joy or sorrow in the breast of Morna. Her betrothed lover was one of General Lincoln's aids, and commanded his first battery. He maintained this post of danger with consummate skill and bravery, until every man was swept away from around him, and he stood alone, a distinguished mark for their shot. It was but for a moment, and he fell, covered with wounds and with glory. General Lincoln, who was near him in his last moments, sent a message to his family, informing them that he met death as became an American, and a hero, fighting in the cause of liberty.

“Afflictions, it is said, never come alone. The same day that brought the overwhelming tidings of Percy's fall, intelligence reached my mother that Colonel Ridgely was mortally wounded. Hostilities having ceased, he sent under a flag of truce to request the immediate attendance of his sister and daughter. No time was to be lost; in a state of mind bordering on distraction, they were hurried towards the British camp. My mother was a worshipper of God; to Him she looked up for strength equal to the mighty conflict. But of poor Morna, how shall I speak? The waves of affliction had well nigh overwhelmed the slender bark of her existence, and despair alone seemed to nerve her step, as she was conducted to the door of her father's tent. The attendant officer seeing them approach, opened the door, and with a sad countenance informed them that Colonel Ridgely had just expired. A shriek was the only sound that escaped Morna's lips. She fell insensible on the floor, and happy would it have been for her if life had been extinguished with her reason, which from that moment never resumed its empire. The functions of life gradually revived, and maintained a feeble and wavering existence for a few weeks; but the gem of the mind was gone—wild and incoherent fancies filled her imagination—broken images of past and future joys were confusedly mingled with phantoms of fear and dread. In her last moments, there was something mysterious and almost supernatural in the creations of her imagination. She seemed to have caught the glimpse of a procession, which she was hastening to join. ‘Mammy Marget,’ she cried, ‘bring my bridal dress—the procession is waiting for me; to the church you know we must go to be united: there is Alfred and father too. Haste! haste!—it is almost in the clouds already, but I must overtake it!’ Breathless she sunk back, and expired. Her remains were laid in my mother's garden, and the turf that 'wraps her slumbering clay' was daily moistened with her tears. On the slab that marks the spot are inscribed Hamlet's words: ‘Lay her in the earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring.’”

Such was the history attached to the PORTRAIT.

V.

STANZAS.

BY JAMES F. OTIS.

LOVE AND CONSTANCY.

BY E. BURKE FISHER.

CHAP. I.—LOVE.

“Harry, dear Harry, farewell!” “God bless you, Mary, we shall meet again!”—a stifled sob from the first speaker, and an ejaculation of manly sorrow from the latter, attested their emotion—the oarsmen dipped their light blades into the wave, and the little craft obedient to the impulse rapidly receded from the shore. The youth watched its progress through the glancing waters, and every ripple it created seemed to wash upon his heart; a moment, and it ranged under the bows of a stately vessel, which soon after spread her canvass to the breeze, and bore down the bay, on her outward course. Evening found the youth pacing the shore, gazing upon the faint outlines of the departing ship, and when the niggard robe of night hid her from his view, then it was that the full sense of his situation fell heavily upon him—he felt that he was an outcast—an alien, without a single tie to bind him to life, and with a sensation of wretchedness, known only to him who has tasted of the bitter chalice of misery—he cast him down upon the sands, and wept long and bitterly! * * *

* * * * *

Who is there who has not heard the melancholy detail, as

of the fierce and destructive tornado, that ushered in the autumnal equinox of 1787. Its fury was felt by the storm-tossed seaman, as his frail bark drove onward to destruction, and its disastrous results might in part be gathered, from the many evidences of its triumph as strewn along the shores of Cape Cod. The tempest proved as transient as it was violent, and the sun, that shone out on the morrow of the storm, steeped its rays in the now tranquil ocean, which, apparently conscious of the ruin it had wrought, seemed to atone for its mischief by studied repose. The regular swell of the sea succeeded the raging billows of the night—the shrill demon of the tempest had retired to his northern caves, and in his stead, the playful zephyrs of the south wantoned upon the waters. The hardy wreckers were out upon the beach as usual, after a night of storm, culling a harvest from the spoils which the ocean had cast upon their shores. Men, women and children were engaged in this employment, and so inured had they become to their somewhat equivocal profession, that whether the object they inspected was the corpse of the shipwrecked, or a cask of West India, the same sang froid was evinced, and they proceeded as leisurely to rifle the garments of the disfigured and ghastly dead, as in breaking open a sea chest. An unusually well stowed bale had drawn the attention of the crowd, and they were busily employed in turning over its contents, when an exclamation of surprise from an idler upon the strand caused the party to turn in the direction he pointed, and they beheld the object that had elicited his outcry. Drifting in towards the land, they saw a floating spar, upon which rode a small lad of some sixteen or seventeen years, supporting in his arms what seemed the lifeless form of a female. There was something so noble in this generous devotion to another's safety in the hour of deadly peril—a touching display of all that ennobles, in the conduct of one so young, thus jeopardizing his own doubtful chance of preservation, in the rescuing from the fierce waters their prey, that even the cold and sluggish feelings of the men of Barnstable were moved to admiration, and forgetting personal advantage in the excitement of the moment, they awaited but the approach of the float within range of their interference, when they rushed into the surge, and with deafening plaudits bore the young mariner and his burthen to the land. The boy relaxed not his hold of his companion, until he had safely deposited her in the arms of the bystanders, when, throwing one look upon her wan and lifeless features, he cast his eyes to heaven, and murmuring, “Thanks, merciful Father! she is saved!” he sank insensible upon the sand.

Sympathy—that noblest attribute of the soul, finds as ready response in the heart of the child of nature, as in the tutored feelings of the man of civilization; and the lawless wrecker in his course of plunder, may act as nobly, and feel as proudly the sacred glow of humanity, as does the sage expounder of moral legislation! The witnesses of the sad scene we have described, furnished ample illustration of the fact, for the men of Cape Cod, “albeit, unused to the melting mood,” drew their hands over their eyes, and their tones were husky as they communed with each other, while the women, ever alive (in all conditions) to the dictates of humanity, busied themselves in the attempt to excite to action the frozen channels of life in the unfortunate maiden.

The intense pitch to which the sensibilities of her preserver were strung, precluded him from enjoying the repose he so much required, and supported by one of the spectators, he stood watching with silent expectation the efforts at resuscitation practised upon his companion in suffering. The exertions of the females were at length crowned with success, the ashy paleness of her brow was crossed by the flush of returning animation, and before the lapse of another hour the children of the wreck, who but a short time since were tossed to and fro upon the capricious waters, found themselves under the friendly roof, and seated at the hospitable board of Gregory Cox, to whose dwelling the generous wreckers had borne them.

The kindly nature of their host, for a long time, taught him forbearance upon the subject of their painful story, and weeks passed on before he gently hinted his wish to hear the sad recital, and so judiciously did the worthy Quaker prosecute his inquiries, that the detail was given, with scarce the knowledge of the lad, that the events over which he brooded had been revealed to their sympathizing friend. His narrative was brief, yet pregnant with misfortune. Thus it ran.

The maiden was the daughter of a Frenchman of rank, who had lately relinquished an official post in the Canadas with the intention of returning to his native land. He had, with his wife and daughter, embarked in the vessel commanded by the narrator's sire. Circumstances connected with the instructions of his owners, had induced the commander to make for the port of Boston, but contrary winds rendered nugatory his efforts, and for several days the ship had been beaten along the coast of Massachusetts, where it was met by the raging equinox, and destroyed by the combined fury of the winds and waves. So unforeseen was the shock, and so totally unprepared were the miserable victims, that the same storm-fed billow which scattered the fragments of the vessel to the fury of the winds, bore with it the mass of beings that cowered upon its decks. Borne along by the violence of the assault, the boy was plunged into the boiling sea, but fortunately striking a drifting spar as he fell, he had steadied himself upon it, the only living thing, as he thought, that survived the onset of the fierce destroyer. As he was thus rocking upon the turbulent waves, a gleam of lightning, triumphing for a moment over the darkness, gave to his view the garments of the girl, and with instinctive humanity, he lifted her from the waters and supported her in his arms, although aware that he was thereby rendering more hazardous his own ultimate chances of safety.

It seemed as if the eye of Omnipotence saw and approved the act, for in a short time the march of the tempest was stayed, the lashing billows sank to gentle ripples, and the wild roar of the howling winds gave way to the soothing breeze, as it swept from the land. During the remainder of that eventful night of disaster and death, did the young mariner sustain the insensible form of his companion, and although no signs of returning consciousness rewarded his care, yet, buoyant with the hope of a generous and daring spirit, he clung to his position until the coming of Aurora revealed the shores of Barnstable, towards which his sailless and unseamanlike craft was rapidly drifting. The rest has been already shown.

Time rolled on! Weeks resolved themselves into months, and months became absorbed in years, yet the circumstances of the wreck, as detailed in the journals of the day, brought no claimant for the girl. As to the stripling, his only relative was that parent whom he had seen meet a watery grave, and he knew that he stood alone in the world, with no one to sympathize with the misery that racked his bosom, save the orphan partner of his perils; and when he looked upon her budding loveliness, thus left to waste neglected, and without the fostering care of maternal watchfulness, he vowed to be to her all that a brother could, or a parent might be. The isolation of his destiny had rendered him an enthusiast upon the one subject of his charge, so that, when in the gay flush of innocent girlhood, she shared his joys and mingled her tears with his, his feelings became concentred in devotion, which the world calls love, but for which affection, pure as seraphs might glory in avowing, would be the more fitting term. In the absence of other channels to vent his feelings she became the cynosure of his loftiest imaginings, his more than sister. Happy in her youth, and time-seared to the loss she had sustained, Mary Destraix loved her preserver with a sister's tenderness; and when, after the lapse of years, there came one who called himself her uncle—her father's brother—the joy with which she sprang to his embrace was merged in tears, when the probability of her separation from her brother crossed her mind, as the stranger announced his intention of returning with her immediately to the castellated abode of her ancestors, in the sunny plains of Marne.

“And Harry—my brother Harry, shall he not go with us?” she asked inquiringly, gazing into the stern face of her new-found relative.

The Frenchman turned to the spot, where stood the subject of the query. He had heard the story of the youth, and liked not the question; and as he glanced, not at the noble countenance and manly bearing, but the rustic apparel of the stripling, his dislike to a further intimacy between the pair was increased. The stranger was lord of Marne, and had breathed the courtly air of the Louvre, and he could see nothing worthy of consideration in the mere fact, that a rough and untutored rustic should peril his life for a maiden of noble blood. Tendering the youth a purse well stocked with Louis, he signified his disinclination to rank him among the members of his voyage home. The indignant recipient took the proffered gold, advanced a step, and dashing the gift at the feet of its aristocratic giver, rushed from the scene.

“Harry, my noble, generous preserver,” sobbed a voice at his side, as he stood upon the rude piazza that overlooked the ocean, “think not so meanly of me, as that for broad lands and empty honors I would forsake you! Harry, my brother, I will not go!”

“Not so, Mary Destraix,” was the answer of him she addressed—the bitterness of his feelings rising paramount to the usual joyousness of his tones when he spoke to her—“Are you not the daughter of a peer of France, called to fulfil a bright and envied destiny? Would you so forget your illustrious ancestry, as to forego their claims upon you as their descendant, to follow the fortunes of one, who was even cast from the ocean as unworthy to tenant its caves?”—and the boy laughed in his agony.

“Look there!” he continued, addressing the stranger who had followed his niece—“Look at yon cradle of storms!” and he enforced his words, by pointing out towards the quiet waters, which lay steeped in the phosphorescent tintings of a summer's eve. “Where were the vassals of your house that they stepped not in to the rescue of their master? Will the great deep give up its prey for gold? Though the blood of Charlemagne runs in your veins, that act—that crowning act, of offering lucre in exchange for life—would sink you to a level with the veriest serf!”—and drawing up his form, now moulded into the fair proportions of nineteen summers, he gave back the haughty glance of the Frenchman with one equally fierce, and turned to the weeping maiden.

The result of their conference was such as lovers' conferences usually are. The mind of Mary was open to the fact, that her feelings towards her preserver were merged in a fonder tie than a sister's, and a promise of constancy, immutable to time and circumstance—an interchange of tokens—a kiss, the first that ever consecrated their mutual affections, and Harry Harwood sought his couch that night—so late boiling with the fiercest passions—now calm and full of hope—

The going down of the succeeding sun found Harry weeping upon the beach alone.

CHAP. II.—CONSTANCY.

There were banquetting, and revelry within the princely halls of Versailles, and the dulcet sounds of woman's voice accorded well with the rich breathings of lute and harp. The effulgence of a thousand lights streamed upon the beauties of the court of Louis, as they stood ranged in their dream-like loveliness at the footstool of the queenly Austrian. The rich swell of vocal melody—the tread of the dancers, as they moved in the stately Pavon, or lascivious waltz—the laugh of the witty, as jest and repartee rang through the lofty dome—all typifyed an epoch of pleasure, and absence from cares such as then existed in the converzaziones of Maria Antoinette, but which too soon gave way before the ruthless onset of revolutionary reformation, covenanted in the destruction of these very halls, and sealed in the blood of royalty.

The park, and alleys of the gardens, echoed with the laughter of joyous and happy spirits, and the flowery groves, and trelliced arbors—fit spot for love's communion—were made this night the trysting spot of many a youthful pair, while the gentle breeze as it swept through the leafy paradise, carried upon its wings confessions—reciprocal disclosures—vows, and protestations, baseless all—aye, baseless as the courier by which they were borne away!

“Beautiful Mary, you wrong me, every way you wrong me, by your unjust suspicions. The Deperney may be as fascinating as you describe her, but I own not her power! The Canaille of the National Assembly may be won by her lures, but Marmonti wears no colors save those of the fair Destraix!”

“Hold, impertinent! Know you not that the Lady Deperney is my friend, and beware how you speak of the members of the Assembly, or I shall send you to republican America, there to learn more fitting terms, by which to designate the leaders of the people!”

“That I may also gain some tidings of your lover of Barnstable,” was the laughing rejoinder of her companion. “Your uncle tells strange stories of that same youth, and I am half inclined to be jealous of some certain passages that occurred, in the tete-à-tete you wot of.”

“Aye! my gallant deliverer from the raging billows of the Atlantic.” For a moment, there came associations of a painful nature, across her mental vision, and she felt herself checked in her levity: it was but for a moment, for in the next, she smilingly tapped the mercurial Frenchman upon the shoulder as she answered, “Nay, you should not be too severe upon my youthful follies—the boy saved me from a watery death, and in the hour of parting, there might have been things spoken, prompted more by gratitude than prudence—besides I was so young!”

“But what if the boy should clothe this pretty romance with the sober hues of reality, and come to claim his rights? What would the heiress of Marne think, if, at the levee of our gracious sovereign, her quondam lover should step forward, and demand her as his bride?”

“Rest contented on that score, knight of the tristful countenance,” laughingly responded the fair one; “the lad has too much sense to attempt any flight of the kind; his modesty and wits would teach him that in so doing he was transgressing the bounds of discretion.”

“And yet, if he could survey the ripened loveliness of the flower he saved when in its budding helplessness,” urged the gallant Marmonti, bending his lips to the hand of his companion, “and feel no wish to claim it for his trans-Atlantic bower, he must be indeed a Stoic; and I take it, that his is a warmer spirit than voluntarily to purge his memory of the recollection of an action that must come coupled with the charms of the rescued floweret. By the bones of the immortal Henri! but the little I have heard of thy deliverance, and the heroism that achieved it, have taught me a brother's love for this same—how call you the youth?”

“Harley—No—Harwood; ay, that is his name—but, methinks, a glimpse of him would tend marvellously to lessen thy brotherly feelings. He had but little of knightly bearing, and his speech and actions savored somewhat of his nautical training. I would that he were here?”

There was a rustling in the adjacent shrubbery—a hasty step was heard upon the gravelled avenue, and as the intruder dashed swiftly by, there came words upon the ear of the late speaker, breathed in tones she remembered but too well. “And this is Mary Destraix, and it is thus she speaks of Henry Harwood! Great God, how I have been duped!” The footsteps died away in the distance, and before she could rally from the shock, the speaker was gone.

The sword of Marmonti was drawn from its sheath, but the convulsive grasp of the conscience-stricken girl withheld him from pursuit; and when he inquiringly bent his gaze upon her countenance, its expression was so death-like and cold, that fearing she was ill, (for he understood not the purport of the stranger's exclamation,) he hastily returned to the saloon.

During the remainder of the evening, it was the subject for comment that the favorite of the queen was grave and abstracted, and that her brow, usually lighted up with the joy of an untroubled spirit, was crossed with darker hues than were wont to sully it. Even Marmonti strove in vain to restore her depressed spirits, but it would not do; the words she had heard in the garden clogged her soul, bowing it down to remorse and anguish. Memory led her away from these scenes of hollow semblance to the shores of Massachusetts—to that eventful night, when, in her feebleness, she battled with the adverse waters. Again she was listening to the oft-repeated story of the garrulous wreckers, as they painted, in their blunt honesty of speech, the daring courage and generous conduct of the youthful mariner, as, after having laid her gently upon the beach, he uttered that prayer of thanksgiving for her safety. As fancy's finger pointed out these episodes of her past existence, and she reflected upon the return she had made—that she had spoken of him as a thing of scorn, and that he had heard her! the swelling waves of contrition irrigated her selfish soul, and she retired to her chamber, for that night redeemed from the trammels of coquetry and ingratitude. Dismissing her maid, she sat down in an embrasure of her apartment, but was disturbed from her reverie by the entrance of her attendant, who placed beside her a pacquet, bearing her address, and again retired. Hastily breaking the seal, she opened its folds, in doing which a braid of hair escaped from therein and fell to the ground. The contents of the epistle were disjointed in character, and evidenced a bruised and saddened spirit. The writer was Harwood.

“I will not upbraid you, Mary, although you have crushed my fondest—my dearest hopes! Fool that I was, I dreamed that the Mary of my boyhood was still the same—that what she professed in other days, she would prove in my ripened years—that her gentle spirit yet retained its recollection of one with whom was spent the darkest portion of her brief existence! Do you remember that night when the demon of the storm swept the bosom of the dark Atlantic, and I bore you——but no! not that; but surely you still retain the memory of that kind, good old man, who took us in our destitution and gave us a home, and who, when we were seated at his social board, would moralize upon our melancholy story, and bid us love one another, for it seemed as if Providence so willed it in the arrangement of our destinies. And oh! how often, when wandering along the shores of Barnstable, have we mingled our tears when we looked out upon the great sea, the sepulchre of all we loved, and cheated Sorrow of its triumph, in gilding with Hope's brightest pencillings a radiant and sunny future—and then, that evening, when in the holy hush of nature, and in the presence of none save our God, you vowed remembrance, and gave me a ringlet of your own raven hair. I return it, Mary, for I may not retain it after the fatal proofs of your feelings towards me, which inadvertently I overheard this night. Alas! that such things should be—that you, whom I have loved—how fervently and deeply let my present agony pourtray, should speak of me as of one——but I will not upbraid, but bless you, Mary; even in your heartlessness will my prayers be as fervent for your welfare, as when in other years I watched your girlhood beyond the ocean. Farewell! Heiress of Marne, farewell—forever!”

Her attendants, upon entering their mistress' chamber on the ensuing morning, found her lying insensible upon her couch, the letter of Harwood compressed within her grasp.

Did she awake to better feelings, and was the film of ingratitude and deceit rent from her heart? Alas! that selfishness should prevail over the finer impulses of our nature, and the perspective of a coronet in woman's eye sway ascendant over the homely aspect of humble wedlock! Who was Henry Harwood, that he should aspire to the hand of the favorite of Marie Antoinette, and on the plea of having performed a trifling act of humanity, dare thus to address the loveliest woman in the Court of Louis? One month, and Marmonti, amid the beauty and chivalry of France, and honored by the presence of royalty, wedded the fair Destraix!

Marmonti's lineage was noble—ay, princely! In his veins there ran the tide of the House of Bourbon. Marmonti was the friend of his king!

And had the flight of time wrought no change in the fortunes of the boy of the wreck? In a land like ours, industry and perseverance eke out their reward, and fostered by the liberal and equalizing spirit of our institutions, Harwood's concentrated energies found ample opportunity to develop themselves. His tale won for him the favorable notice of a philanthropist, and his integrity and devotion to the sternest duties, gained him his friendship—so that the homeless, beggared stripling of a few years past, found himself embarked upon the sea of commerce, aided by friendly winds, on his course to fortune and esteem; and although he could urge no pretensions to ancestral honors, yet in republican America, where aristocracy is but the idle misnomer of faction, and man is judged by the standard of his moral excellence, Harwood became one of her genuine aristocracy—one of her merchant nobles!

The bells that rung out the consummation of the nuptial rites, tortured not the ears of the jilted lover—he was ploughing the waves on his return.

CHAP. III.—REVERSES.

There was slaughter in the streets of Paris! Revolution,—not the revolution of a shackled and indignant people rising to assert their rights,—but of a wild mob,

stalked in the palaces of the mighty, desecrating their ancestral domes, and treading down with demoniac fury the trophied honors of their sires. Faction—lawless and unprincipled faction—usurped the tribunals of justice—its acts were the dethronement of kings, ratified in the blood of princes. The headless trunk of the Bourbon was cast beneath the feet of his people in their fury, and to weep for him was to share his fate! The regal Antoinette too—the fairest, yet alas! the most hapless of the daughters of Lorraine—was dragged to the accursed block, and in rapid succession her chivalrous defenders kissed the guillotine, reeking with the blood of their sovereigns. The fell tiger Anarchy, was abroad in Gallia, and his fangs rent asunder the life-strings of all who owned not his sway, while the wild shouts that ushered in the blood-washed republic was mingled with the wail of France for her slaughtered and dishonored chivalry.

Marmonti witnessed the decapitation of his royal relative, and heard from his cell the cry that told the murder of the queen. A blank of a few days ensued—he was dragged from his dungeon—a dash in the records of the criminal tribunal, and all that remained of Frederick, Duke of Marmonti, was his lifeless and mangled corpse. Did the wife of Marmonti share the grave of her lord?

Seated in the oriel of an apartment in the Palais du Ministéres des Affaires des Etrangéres, was a lady clothed in a suit of sables. The year was in its decline, and the melancholy aspect of the external world served to deepen the gloom that sat throned upon the features of the mourner. Ever and anon the hoarse roar of the multitude in the adjacent place swept into the room, as some popular leader vented his oratory; or from the Boulevard below the window, there would ascend the voices of the patriotic artizans, as they repeated in stunning chorus,

She shuddered as these sounds broke upon her ear, and when from the Place Vendome there darted a thousand artificial meteors, aided in effect by the discharge of artillery, she shrouded her face with her hands and wept convulsively.

The door was thrown open and a visiter announced, but absorbed in grief she heeded not the tidings. The visiter advanced until within a few feet and paused, as if awaiting her attention, but still she noted not his proximity.

“Lady,” murmured the stranger—God of heaven! could it be his voice?—“Duchess of Marmonti, will you not speak to your friend?” Yes, those tones were his; his whom in her girlhood she had such cause to love and honor, whom in her womanhood she had slighted and defamed. And what did he here? Had he heard of her misfortunes, and was his errand to the wretched that he might triumph in her wretchedness? The passions of her race stirred within her as she caught at this opinion, and throwing back the dishevelled ringlets from her care-worn features she raised her flashing eyes to the face of the speaker; but the saddened look and pitying glance that met her gaze, spoke not joy but sorrow for her misery, and again her head was hidden from her companion's view.

“Mary”—and the voice of the speaker was fraught with emotion—“Mary,” and as if that name conjured up old and familiar associations, he seated himself beside her; a tear filled in his eye and dropped upon the hand he pressed within his own. That tear! It opened the floodgates of memory, and told a brother's love. The sufferer saw not in the being before her, the man she had so deeply injured in his richest affections, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, she poured forth her grief, even as she was wont to do in earlier, happier years. Time rolled refluently in its channels, and her companion was once more the Harry of Barnstable and she again Mary Destraix. Cheated by the phantom of happiness the kindly demeanor of Harwood created, she wept the more; but her tears were not wrung from the heart—and when in the outpourings of his sympathy he spoke of her departure from Paris and its associations, and painted with brotherly fervor the comfort and safety that awaited her in his distant home, she raised her eyes beaming with gratitude and essayed to speak, but her emotions were too strong for the cold medium of words, and she could only thank him with her tears.

The influence of Harwood, through his country's ambassador, was sufficient to obtain from the new government of France a passport of safe conduct for the widow of the revolutionary victim, so that the only object of his coming being now accomplished, the pair quitted its shores. In her home in the western world the expatriated Duchess found an effectual asylum from the contingencies that threatened her during her continuance in the French capital; and as she noted the frank and urbane deportment of her host, her mind regained its wonted vigor and her countenance its healthful hues: not but that at times, when the sad and tragic scenes through which it had been her destiny to pass came across her brain, there came an icy sensation upon her heart, but she triumphed over her misfortunes, and would have been even selfishly happy was it not that when she reflected upon her conduct towards Harwood a sense of shame possessed her mind; but his own actions aided to dispel such feelings and sear her heart to their impression, and she became as tranquil as the exigencies of her situation would warrant.

As to him—experience had taught him a lesson never to be forgotten. He had periled his happiness upon the fickle sea of human affections, and had met disappointment as the product; and although when he gazed upon the surpassing beauty of her, his first—his only love—he felt as he did on that day when he watched from the beach of Cape Cod her departure from the scenes of her girlhood; yet the revelations of woman's faith he had obtained in the royal gardens of Versailles, nerved his heart against further invasion from the son of Venus. It had worn away the enthusiasm of his earlier years, and left him still alive to the deference which woman in any and all circumstances has a right to claim, but callous to her lures; so that when in the course of time the mercurial passions of the French people had become shackled by the wisdom and tyranny of the giant-minded Corsican, and that politic ruler deemed it expedient to annul the decree against the house of Marne and invited its only living representative to return to her family possession, Harwood at once counselled her acceptance of the proffered restitution, and despite her avowed astonishment and reluctance, hastened the arrangements for her departure.

“She will wed again,” soliloquized the merchant, as he turned from gazing upon the bark which was conveying her to “the land of the vine.” “She will wed again; and surrounded by minions and parasites, and in the possession of gewgaw honors, be happier than as the wife of one who has nothing to offer but honest affections and an humble home,” and with a sigh he quitted the quay.

Years brought another change in the dynasties of France. The imperial diadem was rent from the brow of Napoleon, and he—“the man of a thousand thrones”—left to point the moral of his own ambition upon the sea girt rock of Helena. The Bourbon sat again upon the throne of his sires, and with him the fortunes of his followers loomed in the ascendant. The predictions of Harwood had been in part fulfilled, for the relict of Marmonti was again a bride, and a leader in the brilliant circles that shone in the zodiac of the restoration. I have said in part—for, had her change of fortunes brought corresponding happiness?—We shall see.

The merchant read the announcement in the Parisian journals, and there was bitterness in the train of reflections which accompanied the perusal. Throwing aside the paper he indulged in long and melancholy musings upon this fresh instance of her versatility of principles, so glaringly developed in a second marriage. A letter was placed in his hands at the moment, and carelessly breaking the wax he held it unread, his mind still wandering upon the on dit from whence his reverie; but a vagrant glance at the superscription at length rivetted his attention, and he eagerly devoted himself to scanning its contents.

“Congratulate me, my dear friend,” he read, “for I am the happiest of women. Our gracious sovereign is the idol of his people, and the times of wit and gaiety are revived in the capital. You will see by the publications of the day that I am again wedded; and although I do not feel for my present husband the strong affection which I entertained for the first, and which is buried with him, still I think I shall love him, for he strives to render me happy by indulgence in my every wish. His loyalty throughout the period of his monarch's exile, his unswerving zeal and bravery in the field, have endeared him to the king, who has been pleased to reward his faithful services with honors and preferment. My own introduction at court gained the favorable notice of his majesty, who smilingly assured me that my misfortunes should not be forgotten. And now, my friend, the storms that have hitherto overclouded the sun of my life are forever dispersed, and the future is full of promise. The court is re-established at Versailles—but I forget that between us Versailles is an interdicted name. The garden scene! Ah, how you would be amused to hear the envious demoiselles of the court rallying me upon that little incident, but I only laugh at them and”——

The idle levity with which she alluded to a period of such painful interest, jarred upon his excited feelings. “What an escape I have had!” he murmured, as with vacant eye he watched the blaze of the epistle as it scorched and blackened in the grate, where it had accidentally fallen. “Can she be indeed a faithful type of her sex? Nay, that is impossible; and yet”— He paused and left the blank unfilled.

* * * * *

Gentle readers, you whose grey hairs are the results of sorrowful experience as well as time, have been taught that it is not expedient at all times to give utterance to our opinions; and you, also, romantic lingerers on the shores of boyhood, have yet to learn that be your experience what it may, as it is with religion so also with woman; and he who tilts against either is warring with established usage, and will be buried in the ruins of his own creation. Thence it is that I, having performed my duty as an historian, wish not to hinge a moral upon my labors, leaving it for you to draw such inferences as you may deem most wise. But ere I leave you, I would state that the score of years that have passed away since the occurrence of the events recorded above, have wrought little change in the two principal personages of my story. Age has, it is true, somewhat marred the beauty of the Countess Malvoli, but her eager pursuit after pleasure is as keen as ever, while the merchant of Boston is still a bachelor, and has even been known in some of his cloudy moments, to assert—in the language of the Volscian Satirist—

TO J—— S——.

(NOW OF ALABAMA.)

E. A. S.

Virginia, June 26, 1836.

¹ Southern Literary Messenger.

PARADISE LOST.

There exists a prose version of Milton's Paradise Lost, which was innocently translated from the French version of that epic. One Green, also, published a new version of the poem into blank verse.

LETTER TO B——.¹

¹ These detached passages form part of the preface to a small volume printed some years ago for private circulation. They have vigor and much originality—but of course we shall not be called upon to endorse all the writer's opinions.—Ed.

It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and mine of poetry, I feel to be false—the less poetical the critic, the less just the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are but few B——'s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here observe, “Shakspeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and yet Shakspeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?” The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word “judgment” or “opinion.” The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakspeare a great poet—yet the fool has never read Shakspeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never have been discovered—this neighbor asserts that Shakspeare is a great poet—the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his opinion. This neighbor's own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above him, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals, who kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle.

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You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law or empire—an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors, improve by travel—their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many letters of recommendation.

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I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is another. I remarked before, that in proportion to the poetical talent, would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore, a bad poet would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique. Whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love, might be replaced on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we have more instances of false criticism than of just, where one's own writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good. There are of course many objections to what I say: Milton is a great example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the Paradise Regained, is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in fact, the Paradise Regained is little, if at all, inferior to the Paradise Lost, and is only supposed so to be, because men do not like epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to derive any pleasure from the second.

I dare say Milton preferred Comus to either—if so—justly.

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As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon the most singular heresy in its modern history—the heresy of what is called very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplified.

Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most philosophical of all writing²—but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is, or should be, instruction—yet it is a truism that the end of our existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our existence—every thing connected with our existence should be still happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and happiness is another name for pleasure;—therefore the end of instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above mentioned opinion implies precisely the reverse.

² Spoudiotaton kai philosophikotaton genos.

To proceed: ceteris paribus, he who pleases, is of more importance to his fellow men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means of obtaining.

I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt be tempted to think of the devil in Melmoth, who labors indefatigably through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two thousand.

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Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study—not a passion—it becomes the metaphysician to reason—but the poet to protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in contemplation from his childhood, the other a giant in intellect and learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their authority, would be overwhelming, did I not feel, from the bottom of my heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination—intellect with the passions—or age with poetry.

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are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths, men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; the depth lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought—not in the palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding the goddess in a well: witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith—that moral mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of a man.

We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his Biographia Literaria—professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a treatise de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. He goes wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray—while he who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is useful to us below—its brilliancy and its beauty.

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As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had, in youth, the feelings of a poet I believe—for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in his writings—(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom—his El Dorado)—but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire—we know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier.

He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently is too correct. This may not be understood,—but the old Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober—sober that they might not be deficient in formality—drunk lest they should be destitute of vigor.

The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full of such assertions as this—(I have opened one of his volumes at random) “Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done, and what was never done before”—indeed! then it follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what has been done before, no genius can be evinced: yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.

Again—in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian's or M’Pherson's, can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the controversy. Tantæne animis? Can great minds descend to such absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his abomination of which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the beginning of the epic poem “Temora.” “The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze.” And this—this gorgeous, yet simple imagery—where all is alive and panting with immortality—this—William Wordsworth, the author of Peter Bell, has selected for his contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:

Secondly:

Now we have no doubt this is all true; we will believe it, indeed we will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.

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But there are occasions, dear B——, there are occasions when even Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an extract from his preface—

“Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (impossible!) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!) and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to assume that title.” Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Yet let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.

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Of Coleridge I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering intellect! his gigantic power! He is one more evidence of the fact “que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient.” He has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading his poetry I tremble—like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious, from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.

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What is Poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! Give me, I demanded of a scholar some time ago, give me a definition of poetry? “Tres-volontiers,”—and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr. Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakspeare! I imagined to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B——, think of poetry, and then think of—Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then—and then think of the Tempest—the Midsummer Night's Dream—Prospero—Oberon—and Titania!

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A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having for its object an indefinite instead of a definite pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting perceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations, to which end music is an essential, since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music without the idea is simply music; the idea without the music is prose from its very definitiveness.

What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul?

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To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B——, what you no doubt perceive, for the metaphysical poets, as poets, the most sovereign contempt. That they have followers proves nothing—

THE SCIENCE OF LIFE.

BY M. CAREY.

1. If you be so exceptious and pettish, as to question every word you hear said of you, you will have few friends, little sense, and much trouble.

2. Neglect not manners as if they were of little importance. They are frequently what the world judges us by, and by which it decides for or against us. A man may have virtue, capacity and good conduct, and yet by roughness be rendered insupportable.

3. Broach not odd opinions to such as are not fit to hear them. If you do, you will do them no good by it, perhaps hurt; and may very well expect discredit and mischief to yourself. An ill placed paradox, and an ill timed jest have ruined many.

4. To have a graceful behavior, it is necessary to have a proper degree of confidence; and a tolerably good opinion of yourself. Bashfulness is boyish.

5. Think how many times you have been mistaken in your opinions in times past, and let that teach you in future not to be positive or obstinate.

ANTHOLOGIA.

BY M. CAREY.

1. On a lady of sixty marrying a youth of seventeen.

2. Composition of an Epigram.

3. Lurking Love.

4. The Farmer's Creed.

5. On a Slanderous Coquette.

6. On Content.

7. On a Dandy.

Editorial.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

HOUSE OF LORDS.

Random Recollections of the House of Lords, from the year 1830 to 1836. By the author of “Random Recollections of the House of Commons.” Philadelphia: Republished by E. L. Carey & A. Hart.

This is an exceedingly interesting volume, written by Mr. Grant, a young Scotch reporter—a man of sound sense, acute observation, and great knowledge of mankind. Its manner is correct, fluent, and forcible—occasionally rising into a high species of eloquence. It has too, that rare merit in compositions of this nature—the merit of strict impartiality—an impartiality so rigidly observed, that it is nearly impossible to form, from any thing comprehended in the book itself, an estimate of the political principles of the writer.

The work commences, in pursuance of the author's plan adopted in his book on the other House of Parliament, with an account of the interior of the building in which the Lords assembled prior to its partial destruction by fire in October 1834. This account is full of interest. “The present house,” says the author, “is a small, narrow apartment. Last year it was but very imperfectly lighted. It is more cheerful now, owing to the new windows added to it during the recess. It is incapable of containing more than two hundred and fifty of their lordships with any degree of comfort. It is right to mention, however, that it is but seldom a greater number are present, and it is not often there are so many.”

Chapter II is occupied with the forms, rules, regulations, &c. of the House, and is also very entertaining. Among other things, we have here a denial of the common assertion that the Lord Chancellor carries the Great Seal before him when advancing to the Bar of the House to receive a bill sent up by the Commons. His Lordship, we are told, very gravely, merely carries before him the bag in which it is deposited when he receives it from the King, or when, on his retirement from office, he delivers it up into his Majesty's hands. This bag, we are farther informed, is about twelve inches square, is embroidered with tassels of gold, silver, and silk, and has his Majesty's arms on both sides. The Great Seal itself is made of silver, and is seven inches in diameter. We do not understand the manner in which the Seal is said to be divided into two parts, and attached to the letters patent. The impression is six inches in diameter, and three quarters of an inch thick. On every new accession we learn that a new Seal is struck, and the old one cut into four pieces and deposited in the Tower. In this chapter we have the following characteristic anecdote of King William. The empressement with which the narrator dwells upon the wonderful circumstance of the monarch's actually reading a letter “without embarrassment, or the mistake of a single word,” is an amusing instance of the mystifying influence of “the divine right” and its accompaniments, upon the noddles of its devotees. The idea, too, of the King's asking what are the words in his own speech, is sufficiently burlesque.