^^^ll^WwKiliK 
 
Mi 
 
 
 WORDSWORTH COLLECTION 
 
 MADE BY 
 
 CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN 
 ITHACA, N. Y. 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 VICTOR EMANUEL 
 
 CLASS OF 1919 
 1925 
 
THE 
 
 GLASGOW 
 
 UNIVERSITY ALBU 
 
 MDGCCXLYII. 
 
 EDITED BY STUDENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY. 
 
 GLASGOW: 
 
 BY GEORGE RICHARDSON, 35, MILLER STREET, 
 
 FOR THE EDITORS. 
 
In presenting their " Biennial Offering " for the 
 present Session, the Editors of the " Glasgow 
 University Album " trust that they will meet with 
 the same indulgence which has been so often granted 
 to their predecessors in office. They hope that, 
 if the Volume which jthey now introduce to their 
 Subscribers and the Public be not found worthy 
 of much praise, it may, at least, be spared the 
 Critic's censure. To those Fellow-Students who 
 have assisted in filling these pages — to those gen- 
 tlemen who, though now occupying distinguished 
 places in the world of letters, have shown that they 
 still retain an affectionate remembrance of their 
 Alma Mater — and last, not least, to those who, 
 though unconnected with this University, have not 
 disdained to take an interest in the Volume, and to 
 lend their aid to enrich its pages : to each and all 
 
of these Contributors, and also to their Subscribers, 
 the Editors would offer their sincere thanks. With 
 this brief introduction, they submit to the Public 
 The Glasgow University Album for 1847. 
 
 Glasgow College, > 
 April, 1847. \ 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 THE BEAUTY OF AUGSBURG, - - - - 9 
 
 THE SIEGE OF VEII, ----- 30 
 
 THE ACCESSORIES OF LIFE, - - - - 75 
 
 THE MORNING BREEZE, - - - - 81 
 
 LETHE'S STREAM, - - - - - 84 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF THE BOOKS, . - - 87 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM, 99 
 
 THE SEA-KING'S FUNERAL, - - - . 100 
 
 THE RESURRECTIONIST, - - - - - 106 
 
 LULLABY AT SEA, - - - - - 113 
 
 HYMN TO AUTUMN, - - - - - 114 
 
 ON POETICAL GENIUS, - - - - 120 
 
 TWILIGHT IN ROTHESAY BAY, - - - - 133 
 
 SONG, ------- 136 
 
 CONSTANCE MORDAUNT, - - - - - 139 
 
 THE NEREID'S HYMN AT THE BIRTH OF VENUS, - 176 
 THE CONNECTION BETWEEN SCIENCE, LITERATURE, AND 
 
 RELIGION, - .... - 187 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF A MIND, .... 212 
 
 THE STARS, - - - . - - 216 
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING, - - - - 217 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WARD, - - - - 219 
 
 MELODIES AND MYSTERIES, - - - - 244 
 
 BOYHOOD, - - - - - - 246 
 
 THE FOREST HUT, - - - - - 247 
 
 THE FEAST OF HIERO, - - - - 270 
 
 A CITY LYBIU, - - - - - - 276 
 
 IN AFFLICTION, ..... 27S 
 
THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY ALBUM. 
 
 THE BEAUTY OF AUGSBURG; 
 A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 BY W. S. DANIEL. 
 
 How are the old Imperial Cities of Germany fallen 
 from tlieir greatness! Augsburg and Nuremberg, 
 Ulm and Ratisbon, those thronged marts of the 
 Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries — those grand 
 emporia of the trade of Southern Europe, the Le- 
 vant and the Indies — are now, like their fair Flemish 
 rival, Bruges, little more than venerable skeletons 
 of the past. But how much of modern civilization 
 and modern freedom do we owe to those ancient 
 seats of commerce — how many of the inventions and 
 discoveries which constitute the glory of the present 
 era, trace their origin to those busy and populous 
 communities — how many of those ideas which now 
 
 A 
 
10 
 
 form the ruling maxims of constitutional govern- 
 ment first suggested themselves to the minds of the 
 bold, independent, Imperial Burghers of Germany! 
 
 Of these old cities, Augsburg affords one of the 
 saddest pictures of commercial decadence. The 
 rich treasures in antiquities and the fine arts, which 
 stiU adorn the streets and churches of Nurem- 
 berg, satisfy, to a certain extent, the expectations 
 of the stranger, and cause him to forget the greater 
 glory which has passed away in the shorn but still 
 dazzling splendour which remains. Augsburg, on 
 the contrary, possessed of fewer remanent attrac- 
 tions, at once suggests to the mind the melancholy 
 contrast between present insignificance and departed 
 grandeur. It was, undoubtedly, one of the most 
 opulent and powerful, as it is one of the most ancient 
 of European cities. As to its antiquity, without sub- 
 scribing to the truth of the old chronicler's* statement 
 that it is as old, if not older than Troy itself, we 
 must allow, that in all probability, it was the site of 
 a Roman Colony : — as to its former commercial great- 
 ness, it is sufficient to recollect that, after supplant- 
 ing Ulm, it became the first trading city of Southern 
 Germany, then the grand international highway be- 
 
 * Crusius, Schwabische Cronick. Vol. 11. p. 448. Edit. 1733, 
 
11 
 
 tween the East and the "West : — as to its former 
 splendour and gaiety, it is only necessary to recall 
 to the memory the great Imperial Diets,* with their 
 accompaniment of tournament and ceremonial pomp 
 and royal festivity, of which it was the scene, — and of 
 the surpassing wealth of its princely merchants we 
 
 * Among the most brilliant of these was the Diet A. D. 
 J 518, in the reign of Maximilian, as described by the old his- 
 torian, Fugger, when the marriage of the Margrave of Bran- 
 denburg with the Princess Susanna of Bavaria, was celebrated 
 in Augsburg. We are told by the above cited authority, 
 among other things, how often the Emperor took the bride 
 on his arm through the streets — how the court-jester, on the 
 first day of the festivities, tumbled a monk into a cistern of cold 
 ■water to the great delectation of the Emperor, the bride, and 
 the court ladies — how the bride was dressed in red, white, yel- 
 low, and rose colour — how the Emperor, electors, and nobles, 
 repaired each night to the "dancing-house," and danced till 
 midnight — how the Council of Augsburg held a grand archery 
 meeting (with the cross bow) at which one hundred and sixty- 
 nine competitors entered the lists, Maximilian himself and the 
 princes being of the number, when a miller's son of Gisslingen 
 won the first prize, but had his joy embittered by the news 
 that his father's mill and house had been burnt to the ground 
 during the contest — and how the great Emperor (who died 
 soon after) on his departure, turned round towards the city 
 and exclaimed, " The blessing of God be on thee, thou fair 
 city of Augsburg, and thy gentle inhabitants ! Eight good 
 entertainment have we had within thy walls, but we shall 
 never behold them more." 
 
 Fugger, Spiegel der Ehren des Erzhauses Oesterreich, p. 
 1358. Edit. 1668. 
 
12 
 
 have sufficient testimony, in the fact, that one of 
 theix* number held the rich American Province of 
 Venezuela in pledge for a vast sum lent to the Em- 
 peror Charles the Fifth, and that the same powerful 
 monarch, after having been shown, by Francis the 
 First, the royal jewels of France, expressed his 
 admiration of their magnificence, but added signifi- 
 cantly, " I have a Weaver in Augsburg who could 
 buy them all !"* 
 
 During the troublous times of the middle ages, 
 the German cities had increased rapidly in wealth 
 and importance. Surrounded by powerful fortifica- 
 tions, and filled with a warlike and rapidly augment- 
 ing population, many of them purchased by gold, 
 or extorted by armed force, their emancipation from 
 the jurisdiction of the various princes and nobles 
 within whose dominions they were situated, and 
 acknowledging the Emperor to be their sole superior 
 lord, were thence denominated free Imperial Cities. 
 They gradually assumed to themselves an almost 
 unlimited control over their own internal affairs, 
 and lodged the administrative functions in the hands 
 of a council of citizens, over whom presided a 
 
 • This was Antony Fugger, afterwards created a Graf by 
 Charles, who lodged in his splendid mansion in the AVein- 
 jnarkt for a year. 
 
13 
 
 superior magistrate, styled Proconsul or Burgo- 
 master. The honours of the magistracy were, for a 
 considerable period, limited to the members of a 
 small number of the leading families of each city, 
 who thus became a sort of civic nobility, and who 
 were termed, in the old Roman style, Patrician 
 families. In the beginning of the Sixteenth Cen- 
 tury, however, the administration of these municipal 
 republics assumed a still more popular form, for 
 the citizens refusing any longer to submit to the 
 exclusive control of a few leading families, insisted 
 on the eligibility of all freemen to the various ofl&ces 
 of the civic magistracy. These old Burgher fami- 
 lies, however, by their wealth and character, con- 
 tinued, of course, to exercise a great influence in the 
 affairs of the Imperial Towns. 
 
 Having made these few prefatory remarks, we 
 shall now suppose ourselves to be within the waUs 
 of the City of the Pine- Apple,* in the days of its pro- 
 sperity and renown. 
 
 In the Sixteenth Century there lived in Augsburg 
 several branches of a commercial family of great 
 
 * " Ses armes sont ; parti de gueules et d' argent, a une 
 pomme de pin de sinople posee en pal sur un piedestal de 
 meme." 
 
 Heiss. Histoire del' Empire, Vol. II. p. 335. Edit. 1733, 
 
14 
 
 opulence, of the name of Welser, which belonged to 
 that patrician class of citizens to which we have just 
 alluded. Crusius, in his Chronicles, written at the 
 end of the Sixteenth Century, enumerates the 
 Welsers along with a few others, as having already 
 flourished for four centuries in the city ; and in the 
 annals of Fugger, we find Bartholomew Welser ad- 
 dressing the Emperor, Frederick the Fourth, as 
 Burgomaster, at the Diet of 1473, and Hieronymus 
 Welser acting in the same capacity at that of 1509. 
 Some of the members of this family, in the Six- 
 teenth Century, were men of prodigious wealth ; and 
 Francis Welser, with whom alone we are concerned 
 in this brief narrative, though not possessed of such 
 enormous means, was still one of the wealthiest 
 among the merchants of Germany. 
 
 Not gifted with the comprehensive intellect and 
 noble liberality of heart which distinguished some 
 of his connexions, he was animated by one sole, 
 overwhelming passion, the desire of accumulating 
 gold. He was one of those purse-conceited men 
 who estimate the importance of an individual solely 
 by the amount of his means. In shaking the hand 
 of any of his acquaintance on the streets or in the 
 Rath-haus, the pressure was nicely graduated by a 
 cool estimate of the monetary value appertaining to 
 
15 
 
 the autograph of the fingers shaken. He had a small 
 blank, condescending simper for the witty sally of 
 the clever poor man, — a frank laugh for the jest of 
 the well-to-do citizen, — and a broad guffaw for the 
 joke of the Millionaire, whose humour was enriched 
 with the pearls of the Indies. Unlike the generality 
 of the sturdy imperial Burghers, he had also a slavish 
 reverence for titled rank, which he was ever eager 
 to exhibit. He had married, while yet young, a 
 lady whose character, as is so frequently the case, 
 formed a perfect contrast to his own. The Frau 
 Welser was a woman intelligent, humane, of agree- 
 able and even fascinating manner, easy of approach 
 to all, and one who paid more homage to natural 
 merit than to the mere accident of birth or fortune. 
 This strangely contrasted pair, however, lived happily 
 together, for Herr Welser was proud of the attain- 
 ments of his wife, and was content that her gentle 
 and winning demeanour should add influence and 
 lustre to his house, by attractions altogether foreign 
 to his own manners and modes of thinking. Their 
 union was blest with but one child, a daughter of 
 consummate beauty, who inherited, in addition, all 
 the intellect and gentleness of her mother. Philip- 
 pina Welser, according to the descriptions which 
 have come down to us, was equally lovely in face 
 
16 
 
 and figure ; her hair was of the darkest brown, her 
 eyes of a deep melting blue, and her skin of such 
 exquisite whiteness that, according to the hyper- 
 bolical fancies of contemporary annalists, when she 
 sipped the red wine, the glowing stream flushed 
 visibly through her transparent throat. From a 
 portrait which is still preserved at Schonbrun, there 
 is no doubt, however, that Philippina well deserved 
 the name, conferred upon her when a girl, of " The 
 Beauty of Augsburg." 
 
 When Phihppina advanced to womanhood, there 
 arose a difference of opinion between Welser and his 
 lady, as to the sort of individual who should be 
 blessed with the possession of her hand. The mind 
 of the father was bent upon the selection of a person 
 of countless wealth or superior station. The mother, 
 on the other hand, thought only of some one whose 
 character and habits should entitle him to the pos- 
 session of so rare a creature, and who, by his conduct, 
 was likely to render her mari'ied life happy and con- 
 tented. The maiden herself had entered so warmly 
 into the sentiments of her mother, that it was only 
 necessary for her father to point out one, among the 
 daily increasing throng of suitors that surrounded 
 her, as being entitled to especial notice from his enor- 
 mous expectations or dignified position, to prepossess 
 
ir 
 
 her against that individual, and to turn all the 
 feminine warmth of her heart into the icy coldness 
 of determined indifference. 
 
 Such was Philippina, and such her sentiments, 
 at the eventful period when she entered on her 
 eighteenth year. 
 
 In the large establishment of Herr Welser, the 
 person who filled the place of waiting maid to his 
 daughter, was a young country girl named Bertha 
 Schubert, a buxom httle brunette of twenty. Ber- 
 tha was a somewhat giddy but innocent lass, de- 
 votedly attached to her youthful mistress, tolerably 
 self-willed, and given to talking under doorways 
 with the handsome serving-men of the great nobles 
 who assembled at Augsburg at the time of the Diet. 
 When rated by the staid Fraulein Dorothea, a 
 maiden aunt of Philippina 's, who generally resided 
 in the house, for carrying on these tongue flirtations 
 on the opposite side of the "Weinmarkt," little 
 Bertha would toss up her dimpled chin, on retiring, 
 and say to herself, " Well, things are come to a 
 pretty pass, when I must not speak to a man. I 
 suppose that I'll be blindfolded next, that I mayn't 
 see one! Did women come into the world, I should 
 like to know, to be such dumb, prim old maids as 
 our Fraulein Dorothea? A mortal sin to talk to a 
 
18 
 
 good-looking, young serving-man ! ' Well, I should 
 like to see Scripture for that,' as these Protestants 
 say." 
 
 One day, after a scene of this kind. Bertha popped 
 her head out at one of the windows, to see whether 
 she could espy any one with whom she could give 
 an immediate and palpable demonstration of her 
 dissent from the old maid's proposition. But she 
 hastily drew back, exclaiming, " As I live ! there's 
 the tall handsome yomig Cavalier, with the black 
 mustache, who asked me yesterday if Fraulein 
 Philippina were betrothed, and gave me a Spanish 
 dollar when I answered, 'no.' I'll just step down 
 and see if he has any more questions to ask about 
 our Beauty." 
 
 No sooner had Bertha issued from the mansion of 
 the Welsers, than the stranger advanced towards 
 her. He was enveloped in a large military mantle 
 which partially concealed his figure ; and a broad- 
 brimmed, plumed hat, drawn far down upon his 
 forehead, threw a deep shade over his pale handsome 
 countenance. The exquisite symmetry of his per- 
 son, however, could not be disguised, nor the easy 
 gracefulness of his gesture ; and his full dark eyes 
 shone with a brilhancy which was rather enhanced 
 by the shadow that partially concealed them. The 
 young man's age, apparently, did not exceed twenty. 
 
19 
 
 " Knowest thou, fair maiden ! if the Fraulein 
 Philippina walketh forth to-day?" said he, laying 
 his hand, with a smile, on one of Bertha's plump 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Assuredly she doth," said the damsel, who ap- 
 peared to be slyly engaged in taking an exact in- 
 ventory of the features of her unknown questioner ; 
 nd she was on the point of giving a minute detail 
 of the probable time, direction, and duration of her 
 young mistress's walk, when, looking up, she espied 
 the old Fraulein Dorothea gazing down upon her 
 with eyes fixed and staring as those of a Nuremberg 
 doll. Mindful of past lectures, she hastily with- 
 drew, and the young Cavalier -^alked hurriedly 
 along in the direction of St. Ulric's Church. 
 
 Bertha soon afterwards repaired to the apartment 
 of Philippina. On entering it, the young lady, fix- 
 ing on her a peculiarly enquiring glance, said, " who 
 was that Cavalier whom I saw talking with thee just 
 now? What could he have to say to thee ?" 
 
 " Fraulein! this is the third time he hath spoken 
 with me ; and to say sooth, each time hath he 
 questioned me concerning yourself." 
 
 "Indeed !" said Philippina, a slight flush colour- 
 ing her transparent cheek, "and what might the 
 inquisitive gentleman's questions be?" 
 
20 
 
 " Many, many, dear lady! He asked if you were 
 yet betrothed." 
 
 "And what was thy answer?" said Philippina 
 rather quickly. 
 
 "Fair Fraulein! I said that you were not, for 
 that you had never yet seen a man worthy of the 
 love of the famous Beauty of Augsburg." 
 
 " Bertha, Bertha ! my aunt Dorothea is right — 
 thou art ever too ready with thy tongue. I am 
 angry with thee for thy communicativeness to this 
 stranger." 
 
 We cannot venture to say whether Philippina was 
 seriously angry or not with her handmaid ; but, im- 
 mediately on the girl withdrawing from the room, she 
 placed herself in a corner from which she could com- 
 mand an uninterrupted view of the broad thorough- 
 fare, in which the house was situated. In a short 
 time the young Cavalier again appeared, sauntering 
 slowly along the opposite side of the way ; and the 
 eyes of the fair maiden opened with their full lustre 
 as he passed, and followed him with an interest with 
 which they had never before regarded any man upon 
 the streets of Augsburg. 
 
 Several weeks passed by, and although, to tell 
 the sober truth, Philippina, when alone, generally 
 seated herself in the same commanding corner, the 
 young stranger appeared no more. 
 
21 
 
 In the meantime, the crowd of contending suitors 
 that surrounded the Fraulein Welser, now radiant 
 in the full developement of her charms, daily 
 increased in numbers and devotedness. Among 
 these were two eccentric persons, whose position 
 in life, joined to unbounded self-conceit, led them, 
 individually, to believe that they had secured the 
 affections of the unrivalled Beauty. The feminine 
 gentleness of Philippina's disposition, which made 
 her shrink from giving a rude repulse to any one 
 with whom she was acquainted, had caused the ex- 
 pectations of these two singular gentlemen to rise to 
 such a preposterous certainty of success. One ot 
 those importunate wooers was Bartholomew Reb- 
 huhn, a member of one of the oldest families of 
 Augsburg, and a man of immense wealth. He was 
 a tall, lank, cadaverous-faced individual, small eyed 
 and large nosed, and blessed with the somewhat 
 doubtful recommendation of having only one leg of 
 the ordinary fleshy material, its partner being com- 
 posed of wood of a very superior quality. Like 
 many men, marked by some bodily disqualification, 
 he was excessively conceited as to his mental endow- 
 ments, was most fastidious in his phraseology, and 
 pragmatical in his manners. So precise was he on 
 the score of expression, that even before joining a 
 
 B 
 
22 
 
 party of friends, it was his custom to note down 
 what he intended to say, in writing, — and after 
 giving vent to these few elaborated thoughts, he 
 studiously restricted himself to monosyllables and 
 interjections for the rest of the evening. Herr Reb- 
 huhn had hitherto been an obstinate bachelor, but 
 the bright eyes of Philippina worked an entire 
 revolution in his nature. He suddenly became 
 poetical, and wrote divers sonnets — he cultivated, 
 for the first time in his life, a huge pair of red mus- 
 taches, because he thought they would give him 
 something of a martial air^ — and he put a yellow 
 feather of extraordinary length in his cap, and stu- 
 died graceful attitudes before a mirror. His man- 
 ner, instead of being as formerly, staid and solemn, 
 became all of a sudden inspired "with a sort of un- 
 couth, disjointed jocularity; and even his wooden 
 leg seemed to sympathise with the metamorphosis 
 of its master's nature, for it changed the heavy bor- 
 ing thump, with which it used to dig its way over 
 the polished floors, to a sprightly series of light 
 springy taps, quite pleasant to the ear. 
 
 One fine morning in July, Herr Bartholomew 
 having persuaded himself that the lovely Philippina 
 was on the very eve of surrendering, after a six 
 months siege, to his personal and monetary attrac- 
 
23 
 
 tions, determined to propose marriage in due form. 
 He accordingly sat down and prepared a splendid 
 oration ; and then committed the composition to 
 memory, and, in case of accidents, took the original 
 in his hand. He immediately repaired to the house 
 of the Welsers, and found, as he had hoped, Philip- 
 pina alone. After a few enquiries as to the state of 
 her health, and that of her mother and aunt, he 
 determined to proceed, at once, to the important 
 object of his visit. Therefore, smiling in his most 
 engaging manner, and assuming his best attitude, 
 he began, — " Supereminently beautiful Fraulein Phi- 
 lippina I I flatter myself that it is impossible that 
 you could have failed to see — I mean — to observe, 
 most lovely creature ! the — the — the object of my 
 long and assiduous attentions." Here Herr Bar- 
 tholomew stopped short — his memory had failed 
 him, and his manuscript had also disappeared at 
 this critical juncture. Philippina, who was not 
 less amused than astonished at what had occur- 
 red, could not refrain from saying, with an arch 
 smile, and looking stedfastly at a document which 
 had fallen at her feet, " Herr Rebhuhn ! you have 
 dropped a paper." 
 
 Turning his eyes to the ground, the unfortunate 
 gentleman beheld his laboured production, written 
 
24 
 
 in a most legible hand, lying open on the floor before 
 the fair object of his addresses. In utter desperation, 
 he deternained to have recourse to the dangerous 
 expedient of kneeling down at her feet, and thus, at 
 once, shewing the depth of his devotedness, and con- 
 cealing from. her eyes the teU-tale manuscript ; but, 
 unfortunately, through the refractory behaviour of 
 his wooden member, instead of landing gracefully 
 upon his knee, his person assumed a sitting posture, 
 an accident which so overturned the gravity of Phi- 
 lippina that she burst, in spite of herself, into an 
 uncontrollable fit of laughter. Just at this moment 
 the Frau Welser entered the room, and was not a 
 little astonished to find Herr Rebhuhn seated, in 
 evident confusion, on the floor, and her daughter 
 endeavouring, but in vain, to raise him from his 
 humiliating position. 
 
 The other eccentric gentleman, who aimed at the 
 possession of the young lady's hand, was the Graf 
 Stockhausen, a member of an ancient noble family. 
 He was a ruddy faced, sleek, paunchy, little man of 
 mature years, boisterous in manner, and peculiarly 
 irascible in temper, and villainously addicted, more- 
 over, to the use of the grape. Having squandered 
 all his patrimony on good living, he had made up 
 his mind that a union with the daughter of Francis 
 
25 
 
 Welser was a consummation devoutly to be wished, 
 and, believing himself to be a perfect specimen of 
 manly beauty, he never entertained a doubt but 
 that Philippina would be delighted to become a 
 Grafin, and the lady of so elegant a gentleman as 
 himself. Having heard, however, that Herr Reb- 
 huhn, shortly after the singular scene which we have 
 just described, had been privately boasting of his 
 success in the same quarter, the Graf, one evening, 
 after discussing sundry bottles of Rhenish, deter- 
 mined to call on that gentleman and challenge him 
 to mortal combat. In pursuance of this magnani- 
 mous resolution, he repaired to Herr Bartholomew's 
 house, but was informed that that gentleman had 
 gone to bed. Having stated, however, that he had 
 come on an affair of the most urgent character, he 
 was ushered into the bedroom of his redoubtable 
 antagonist. Herr Bartholomew, starting up from 
 sleep, was thunderstruck to see a red fat male coun- 
 tenance bending over him, lit up with an expression 
 of maudlin ferocity. Having enquired, with con- 
 siderable precipitation, the cause of this strange in- 
 trusion, the Graf, with a rapid and marvellously 
 thick utterance, informed him of what he had heard, 
 and insisted on his renouncing Philippina Welser 
 for ever, or else doing battle with him next morning 
 
2Q 
 
 with any weapons which he thought proper to select. 
 Now, had Herr Bartholomew heen prepared for this 
 singular rencounter, he would have delivered a 
 choice harangue upon the occasion ; but being taken 
 quite by surprise, and his bile, moreover, being ex- 
 cited by the insolent manner of his intoxicated 
 rival, and also by certain unpleasant reminiscences 
 of his last interview with the fair cause of strife, he 
 quietly stretched his hand towards his wooden leg, 
 which lay near him, raised it aloft, and exclaiming, 
 "I choose this weapon, you inebriated vagabond!" 
 he caused it to descend with such force upon the 
 Graf Stockhausen's pericranium, that the stout little 
 gentleman rolled upon the floor, and lay motionless 
 for several seconds. Starting up, however, he stag- 
 gered manfully towards his antagonist, who still 
 brandished his leg in his hand ; and dire would have 
 been the conflict between this strange couple, had 
 not the servants of Herr Rebhuhn rolled the Graf 
 down stairs after the manner of an empty wine-cask, 
 and then kicked him out of doors with the least pos- 
 sible ceremony. 
 
 So much for the " pomp and circumstance of glo- 
 rious war," which we must exchange for scenes of 
 a more peaceful character. At the time when this 
 eventful passage of arms took place, the family of 
 
27 
 
 the Welsers were residing at a chateau, belonging 
 to them, which was situated on a wooded hill about 
 a league from the walls of Augsburg. Herr Welser 
 generally rode to the city in the morning, and after 
 transacting business returned to the " Schloss" in 
 the afternoon. One day his fair daughter had re- 
 paired to a rustic summer-house on the side of the 
 hill, and there, in the cool shade of the wood, she 
 busied herself with embroidery and her own sweet 
 thoughts. Having tarried rather longer than usual 
 in this favourite retreat, she found, on arriving at 
 the chateau, that her father had already returned 
 from the city, accompanied by a young stranger. 
 Herr Welser himself soon appeared, and strutting 
 about with his usual fidgetty importance, he said to 
 his wife, 
 
 " Well, Madame, our house is indeed famous 
 over Germany ! To-day I have had a fresh proof of 
 this. My worthy friend, Conrad Fliigel of Vienna, 
 a good man — a man of money and a member of the ^ 
 Council — has sent me here a youth in whom he feels 
 an interest, and asks me to permit him to visit our 
 great establishment for a few weeks, that he may 
 see how we do business here in Augsburg." 
 
 " Who is the young man ?" said the Frau Welser. 
 
 " Ferdinand Maurer, ' ' replied Herr Francis. " The 
 
28 
 
 lad is come of an ancient family, but poor, as mj 
 friend writes. He is handsome — singularly hand- 
 some, and well dressed too ; probably the better 
 part of his patrimony is on his back, if the truth 
 were known. His house, though, is old ; and ancient 
 blood is something, after aU. Speak a few words to 
 him, Philippina ; one sentence of thine, addressed 
 to a young man, hath marvellous potency in it. I 
 would conciliate my friend, Fliigel ; he stands high 
 on the Bourse of Vienna. " 
 
 The young man himself soon appeared, and though 
 his dress was less gay, and his manner more grave 
 and subdued, the quick eye of Philippina immediately 
 recognized in the new comer the tall, graceful, dark 
 eyed stranger whom she had seen conversing with 
 her talkative little maid, Bertha, on the Weinmarkt 
 of Augsburg. The youth bowed profoundly to the 
 ladies as he entered, and if the attention of the Frau 
 Welser had not been otherwise engaged, she could 
 not have failed to remark the heightened rose-tint 
 which suddenly mantled upon the lovely cheek of 
 her daughter as she acknowledged the recognition 
 with that easy gracefulness, which was the charac- 
 teristic of her manner. 
 
 Two or three weeks elapsed, and Ferdinand Maurer 
 rode to Augsburg each morning with Herr Welser, 
 
29 
 
 and returned to the Schloss in the afternoon; for he 
 had become something of a favourite with the rich 
 merchant, since he made an admirable listener, and 
 never started an objection to any of his theories, 
 however singular they might be. Had Herr Francis, 
 however, been quicker sighted, he might at times 
 have discovered a slight smile playing about the fine, 
 proud lip of his companion, after he had indulged in 
 some sally of conceited opiniativeness. The Frau 
 Welser, excellent lady, took Ferdinand into her 
 good graces at once, for she was captivated with his 
 elegant, unpretending manners, his noble counten- 
 ance, his evidently cultivated understanding, and 
 the anxious yet unobtrusive assiduity with which 
 he sought to gain her esteem, " Herr Ferdinand," 
 as she called him, was ever on the outlook for an 
 opportunity of doing some little courteous service 
 for the good lady, in bringing her work-box, or 
 placing her stool at her feet, or winding interminable 
 quantities of silken thread. " Thy mother hath 
 trained thee especially well for ladies' service," said 
 she one day smiling, — " what was her maiden name, 
 Herr Ferdinand ? Was she also of Vienna." 
 
 " The — the — my mother," replied the young man 
 somewhat confusedly, "was of Bohemia, and her 
 name was Adler;" and here the conversation dropped. 
 
30 
 
 As to the young Philippina herself, the impression 
 made upon her gentle nature bj this captivating 
 stranger was, as might have been anticipated, in- 
 finitely more intense. The first look she had ob- 
 tained of him on the streets of her native city had 
 sent a thrill through her young heart, which it had 
 never before experienced, — and after associating with 
 him for some weeks under her father's roof, and dis- 
 covering, with a woman's intuitive quickness of per- 
 ception, how ardent and enthusiastic was his admira- 
 tion of herself, the beauty of Augsburg felt a resist- 
 less presentiment that the being who stood before 
 her was destined, whether for good or evil, to be the 
 presiding genius of aU her after existence. 
 
 One morning while matters were in this position, 
 Herr Welser, who, we have hinted, was not blessed 
 with a quick perception of character, remarked to 
 his lady, " There are some things about this young 
 friend of Herr Fliigel's that puzzle me not a little. 
 He hath evidently never been accustomed to busi- 
 ness, yet writeth he a fine hand, and spelleth mar- 
 vellously. He is, moreover, at times singularly 
 absent in manner ; for yesterday, after I had given 
 him a lively and pleasant lecture for half an hour 
 on the present state of the exchange between Ghent 
 and Augsburg, I asked him whether he had quite 
 
31 
 
 understood me, and the young gentleman replied, 
 " Oh ! yes. Sir, I quite agree with you — the view 
 from the upper windows of the Schloss is exceed- 
 ingly fine." There's a promising merchant for 
 you!" 
 
 "I have remarked that peculiarity," said the 
 Frau Welser. "I too am a little perplexed with 
 some things about this handsome stranger ; but I 
 am convinced he is a young man of noble disposition 
 and superior intellect. The only thing that gives me 
 a little uneasiness is his evidently passionate admira- 
 tion of Philippina." 
 
 Here Herr Welser elevated his eye-brows in the 
 most intense astonishment. 
 
 His lady continued, " His love for our daughter, 
 Francis ! is too ardent to be concealed. I see it in 
 every movement of his countenance, and if my ob- 
 servations be correct, she herself reciprocates his 
 passion with all the innocent warmth of her nature. 
 I am anxious, therefore, that we should hear more 
 of this youth and of his family before this preference 
 of Philippina's deepens into love." 
 
 " Hear more of this young man !" exclaimed Herr 
 Welser in a towering passion, " I wish to hear no 
 more either of him or his kindred. What ! shall 
 Philippina, the fairest girl in Germany, marry this 
 
32 
 
 penniless Ferdinand Maurer, when the richest mer- 
 chants of Augsburg are sighing at her feet — men 
 whose wealth is equal to that of princes, and who 
 would clothe her in jewels that would fill the court 
 ladies of Vienna with wonderment and envy ! How 
 the bare idea of such a connection could enter into 
 your head, wife, astonishes me beyond utterance." 
 
 " Be not over rash, Francis !" said the lady, with 
 that gentle firmness which had such an influence 
 over her vain and weak-minded partner ; " remem- 
 ber that the future happiness of our child should be 
 our grand object ;" and then, touching on her hus- 
 band's weak point, she added, "and the youth's 
 family is said to be ancient — perhaps he may have 
 expectations, at least, with which we are unac- 
 quainted. Therefore, write, I beseech you, to your 
 good correspondent, Conrad Fliigel, and ascertain 
 the exact position of this fine youth and his rela- 
 tions." 
 
 " Well, well," said Herr Welser, in a rather cooler 
 tone, " there is no harm in writing, but we must take 
 care that this precious matter goes no further in the 
 meantime. The idea of this Ferdinand falling in 
 love with my daughter ! — it's very extraordinary — 
 very extraordinary indeed !" 
 
 " He has just told me," said Frau Welser, " that 
 
33 
 
 he must take his departure for Vienna the day after 
 to-morrow, but that he may, perchance, return in 
 two or three months. We have thus ample time for 
 enquiry and consideration ; but meanwhile, let me 
 entreat of thee, for thy daughter's sake, to give no 
 indication to the youth by word or manner, that we 
 have ever thought of this subject." 
 
 " Frau Welser !" said the gentleman, assuming a 
 look of solemn sagacity which was habitual to him 
 when about to say something he thought particularly 
 smart, " Frau Welser ! it strikes me forcibly that 
 your opinions on some points are excessively peculiar. 
 You appear to have a positive dislike to riches — a 
 singular taste, I must say, in a lady allied to the 
 house of the Welsers. Clever beggars, and hand- 
 some youths with empty purses have far higher 
 charms in your eyes than your true men, whose 
 pockets are crammed with the precious metal, and 
 whose credit commands thousands. But let me 
 hint to you, madam, that money is money — money 
 is money." 
 
 "Husband!" said the lady, "I am not so en- 
 amoured of poverty as all that ; though I certainly 
 do think that you merchants of Augsburg measure 
 people too much by a golden standard. But as to 
 our guest, I am convinced he has better means than 
 c 
 
34 
 
 you reckon on ; perchance his ancient hou§e is not 
 so decayed as we have been led to imagine. He has 
 evidently been accustomed to all the luxuries of 
 life ; his dress, though plain, is in the best fashion ; 
 and, but yesterday, when I went with you to Augs- 
 burg, I noticed when he gave alms to the old beggar 
 at the Geginger gate, that his purse had two costly 
 pearls at the ends." 
 
 "It maybe so," said the merchant, and he added, 
 smiling on his wife, " but verily, I believe thou 
 would'st be secretly sorry to find that this interest- 
 ing youth had good expectations." 
 
 Immediately after this conversation, Herr Welser 
 started for Augsburg, accompanied, as usual, by 
 Ferdinand Maurer. 
 
 The following morning was dark and sultry, and 
 a thunderstorm, which raged with extreme violence 
 in the forenoon, prevented Welser and his guest 
 from riding into Augsburg. Ferdinand had now 
 been an inmate of the Schloss for a month, and 
 was intimately acquainted with all the neighbouring 
 localities. About noon the storm cleared off, and 
 was succeeded by a warm and lovely autumnal day. 
 In the afternoon Philippina betook herself to the 
 summer-house as usual, but there was a thoughtful- 
 ness in the expression of her countenance, which 
 
35 
 
 bespoke^the presence of some internal excitement. 
 She could not continue quietly plying her elegant 
 needle-work as formerly, but, issuing from the sum- 
 mer-house, she strolled along the woodland walks 
 till she reached a point on the opposite side of the 
 hiU from that on which the Schloss was situated. 
 Here she seated herself on a green knoll, overhung 
 by the branches of a huge oak tree, whose shade 
 screened her from the glare of the sunshine, and re- 
 sumed her abandoned task. While thus employed, 
 she heard footsteps approaching, and looking up, she 
 was startled, and almost alarmed for the moment, 
 to find that Ferdinand Maurer was beside her. 
 
 " Fraulein Philippina !" said the young man, " I 
 trust I have not unwarrantably trespassed on your 
 loneliness. I was walking at random through the 
 woods, and chance has afforded me this unexpected 
 pleasure." 
 
 Philippina had risen when thus addressed, and 
 without knowing exactly how or wherefore, for she 
 seemed to be in a sort of sweet bewilderment, she 
 continued walking slowly onward, attended by her 
 new companion. 
 
 The pair talked on every subject that was furthest 
 from their thoughts— the weather, the country, the 
 delights of retirement from the bustle of a great 
 
36 
 
 city, and various other topics. At length, Maurer, 
 suddenly changing his manner, and speaking in a 
 low and earnest tone, said, " Fair lady ! I leave the 
 Schloss to-morrow for Vienna." 
 
 "Indeed, so soon !" she said, in a tone which im- 
 phed that the intelligence was not over pleasing to 
 her. 
 
 "Before departing," he proceeded, "I have de- 
 termined to take the liberty of declaring the deep 
 and most devoted love which I bear to you. I have 
 often seen you when you knew it not. Thirty 
 times have I watched in the streets of Augsburg to 
 gain but one look of your beautiful countenance, 
 and, at last, finding from difficulties attached to my 
 position, that it was almost impossible for me to gain 
 your intimacy, I had recourse to the kind offices of 
 an old friend, and with him contrived the innocent 
 stratagem of seeking permission to visit your father's 
 establishment, that I might thus have an oppor- 
 tunity of being introduced to his unrivalled daughter. 
 I dare not ask you, lady ! to give your plight to one 
 of whom you, as yet, know so little. I would only 
 ask this question — whether, if I should return here- 
 after with proofs, that both by an honourable descent, 
 and by the possession of a moderate inheritance, I 
 was not unworthy of an alliance with the family of 
 
37 
 
 the Welsers — if, in such circumstances, I might en- 
 tertain a hope, that my presence would not be dis- 
 agreeable to you ?" 
 
 Philippina, agitated beyond expression, remained 
 silent for a time, but, at length recovering herself, 
 she answered, with a coUectedness which showed the 
 natural firmness of her mind, " Herr Maurer ! I 
 hardly know whether I should reply or not ; but 
 your question is so frank and considerate in its 
 terms, that I shall venture to say, that should you 
 return hereafter, with my mother's approbation, your 
 coming would be anything but disagreeable to me." 
 
 As these words fell from the lips of the beauty, 
 the noble countenance of Ferdinand was lighted up 
 by a smile of triumphant joy; and there is no doubt 
 the interesting conversation would have been con- 
 siderably prolonged, had it not been interrupted in 
 rather a disagreeable manner. 
 
 The pair had reached the extremity of the woods 
 which surrounded the Schloss, and were standing on 
 the verge of a narrow valley, through which wound 
 a little-frequented country road. A. sound of bois- 
 terous laughter suddenly burst upon their ears from 
 a neighbouring copse, and six or eight young men, 
 with an older one at their head, immediately after, 
 issued from the shade, and advanced rapidly to the 
 
38 
 
 spot where the ladj and her lover stood. Philippina, 
 with a look of intense alarm, hastily informed Fer- 
 dinand that she recognised in the stout, middle-aged 
 jnan who was coming towards them, the Graf Lam- 
 berg, a powerful Austrian nobleman, who some- 
 times lived in a castle in their neighbourhood, and 
 who had once been pointed out to her on the 
 streets of Augsburg. She said that he was a man 
 of abandoned character, who, with his dissipated 
 companions, frequently offered gross personal insults 
 to persons on whom they stumbled in their drunken 
 rambles. The Graf and his companions were now 
 close upon the pair, and the former, suddenly 
 stopping, pulled off his embroidered cap, and bow- 
 ing with a mock solemnity, said, "Allow me to have 
 the acquaintance of so interesting a couple." 
 
 "Sir!" said Ferdinand, addressing the speaker, 
 " if you intend any rudeness, let me warn you that 
 you ai'e on dangerous ground." 
 
 "Hear the crowing of this brisk pullet!" roared 
 the Graf, "danger i' faith. Comrades, I bet you 
 fifty ducats I kiss this lass, whoever she be, before 
 any of you." 
 
 " Villains !" cried the youth, drawing up his fine 
 figure to its full height, and casting a look of digni- 
 fied contempt on the revellers before him, " Dare to 
 
39 
 
 lay a finger upon this ladj — dare to utter a word 
 unmeet for her to hear, and vengeance the most ter- 
 rible shall overtake you. As for thee, Sir Graf ! I 
 know thee — thou hast also a castle in the Linzgau. 
 Stand back, on thy allegiance. Sirrah ! I am Fer- 
 dinand of Hapsburg, Archduke of Austria !" 
 
 The effect of this announcement on the parties to 
 whom it was addressed, was indeed electrical. Act- 
 ing probably on the maxim, " the least said the 
 soonest mended," the drunken poltroons turned 
 round without uttering a syllable, and scampered 
 back in the direction in which they had come, with 
 the most plebeian precipitancy, the fat Graf leading 
 the retreat, as he had headed the advance. 
 
 No sooner were they gone than the Archduke, 
 turning to Philippina, said — 
 
 " Fraulein ! all concealment is now vain ; this 
 accident has betrayed my rank before I meant it 
 should be known, even to yourself You are now 
 aware of the cause of my appearing under a bor- 
 rowed name and character, for your good sense will 
 tell you, that had I come as I should have wished to 
 do, before all the world, and asked your fair hand 
 of your father, that act would of itself have been suf- 
 ficient to annihilate every hope of success — my re- 
 call to Vienna would have been immediate. But 
 
40 
 
 now that I have known you, and shared your 
 sweet society — now that I have learnt that your 
 mind is not less lovely than your face, and ascer- 
 tained, moreover, from your own lips, that I am not 
 disagreeable to you, my resolution is fixed as fate — 
 the ban of the empire should not move me from my 
 purpose. In two months I shall return ; but before 
 parting from you, lady! the question which Fer- 
 dinand Maurer presumed to ask, Ferdinand of 
 Austria ventures to repeat." 
 
 " I am honoured. Prince ! " said Philippina, 
 " deeply, everlastingly honoured by your regard — 
 bvit our union is impossible — it would be against the 
 laws of the Empire. Could I, the child of a simple 
 citizen, become a daughter of the House of Austria ? 
 Oh, no ! it would be madness to indulge the hope — 
 Prince, we must separate now and for ever!" 
 
 " Drive me not to despair, Philippina !" said the 
 Archduke, " I tell you that in your heart lies the 
 possibility of our union ; as to outward obstacles, I 
 despise them. I have sworn in my soul, that you 
 shall be mine, and the Princes of my house are not 
 given to swerving from their solemn determinations. 
 Keep only my secret till I return, and I promise 
 you that all will go well ; and that, with your sweet 
 consent, the loveliest bride will join the House of 
 
41 
 
 Hapsburg that its annals can boast of, since the 
 days of old Father Rudolph." 
 
 Phihppina, pale and motionless, spoke not a word ; 
 but a tear gathered on her long eye-lashes, and it 
 will not, perhaps, be considered inexcusable, in the 
 circumstances, that the Archduke ventured to kiss 
 the teU-tale dry as it trickled from its source. A 
 sound as of persons approaching along some of the 
 neighbouring walks was heard at this juncture, and 
 the loyers, hastily separating, betook themselves by 
 different ways to the Schloss. 
 
 On the following morning the Archduke departed, 
 and Herr Welser, on bidding him adieu, expressed 
 a hope that his knowledge of business had been in- 
 creased by his short visit to Augsburg, and gave 
 him a letter addressed to Conrad Fliigel, which con- 
 tained a series of interrogatories addressed to that 
 gentleman, as to his young friend and his relations. 
 
 Two months elapsed, and the Archduke failed to 
 reappear at the Schloss, as he had promised to Phi- 
 lippina at their last eventful meeting. The Welser 
 family now removed to their mansion in the city, 
 and a third month passed by, but still Prince Fer- 
 dinand did not make his appearance. The Beauty 
 of Augsburg, agitated by conflicting hopes and fears, 
 became seriously affected in health by the pressure 
 
42 
 
 of an anxiety, the more severe in her case, because 
 she "was compelled to confine it to her own bosom. 
 Her mother became uneasy on her account, and even 
 Herr Welser himself remarked that Philippina was 
 looking paler than usual. But one forenoon, shortly 
 after the lapse of the third month since Ferdinand's 
 departure. Bertha Schubert, who had been absent 
 from the Schloss at the period of the Archduke's vi- 
 sit, came rushing into Philippina's room, with a face 
 swoUenwith intelligence, and exclaimed, "Fraulein! 
 the handsome Cavalier with the black mustache 
 who asked me if you were betrothed, and gave me 
 a Spanish dollar when I said 'no,' has just arrived 
 at the house in great haste, and is now closeted 
 with Herr Welser. What can be the meaning of 
 his visit, I wonder. Oh, Fraulein! such a handsome 
 Cavalier as he is, and so splendidly dressed !" 
 
 In a short time Philippina issued from her room 
 and found her father coming hurriedly up stairs. 
 Herr Welser was, evidently, in a state of extreme ex- 
 citement. On arriving at the top of the stairs, he 
 kissed Philippina three times in succession, without 
 speaking a word ; and then, hurrying past her, rushed 
 into his lady's room, shutting the door behind him 
 with such vehemence that the house shook. Philip- 
 pina returned to her own apartment, and paced it to 
 
43 
 
 and fro in an agony of suspense. It was not long, 
 however, before she was apprised of the exact posi- 
 tion of affairs. The young Archduke, after consulting 
 with some confidential friends, had come to the con- 
 clusion that the only way of accomplishing the deter- 
 mination of his heart was, in the first place, to marry 
 Philippina, and trust to the naturally kind disposition 
 of his father to pardon him for contracting a mes- 
 alliance with so lovely and accomplished an inferior 
 in station. Unfortunately he had been despatched 
 to the Tyrol on matters important to the Empire, 
 but immediately on his return he started post-haste 
 for Augsburg ; and, having arrived, had now pro- 
 posed in form to Herr Welser for the hand of his 
 daughter, stipulating, only, that all should be kept 
 profoundly secret, tiU the knot was tied and the 
 union indissoluble. Long and many were the con- 
 sultations in the Welser family for the next two 
 days ; for the sensible Frau Welser, justly alarmed 
 at the dangerous step which her daughter was about 
 to take, was difiicult of persuasion, but at length 
 finding that Philippina's heart was irrevocably 
 engaged, she consented, and the marriage day was 
 fixed. The preparations were conducted with the 
 greatest secrecy, and about a fortnight after, in the 
 presence of the family and a few confidential friends. 
 
44 
 
 Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria, was espoused to 
 Philippina Welser, daughter of Francis Welser, 
 merchant in Augsburg. 
 
 The young and loving pair were thus united in 
 the holy bonds of the church ; but the Archduke 
 had sadly miscalculated the consequences of the 
 step which he had taken. The gentle indiscretion 
 which he had committed was the last which could 
 be pardoned in the Imperial House of Austria. 
 Both his haughty uncle, Charles the Fifth, and his 
 father Ferdinand, were irritated to the last degree. 
 He was forthwith banished from their presence, and 
 deprived of all oflS.cial rank, — and the marriage was 
 declared null and void, and its issue illegitimate. 
 Persecuted and disgraced, Ferdinand, however, 
 found an ever present consolation in the society of 
 the beautiful and gentle woman for whose sake he 
 had braved all these dangers. The fiercer the tem- 
 pest raged, the more closely did the shipwrecked 
 pair cling to each other. Their home was happy 
 though placed under the ban of the Empire. Yet 
 the Archduke felt keenly his exclusion from the 
 public service, for which his active and intelligent 
 mind peculiarly fitted him, — and he was not with- 
 out anxiety as to the personal safety of his beloved 
 Philippina, whose life or liberty he had been com- 
 
45 
 
 pelled more than once to maintain with his sword 
 against the assaults of ruffians, who hoped, doubt- 
 less, to ingratiate themselves with their superiors by 
 dissolving an obnoxious union, however detestable 
 were the means which they might employ. 
 
 Years passed on, and Philippina increased, if pos- 
 sible, in beauty of countenance, in majesty of per- 
 son, and elegance of manner. The Archduke's 
 illustrious uncle, Charles the Fifth, at length ceased 
 to reign, and his father, Ferdinand, became Em- 
 peror of Grermany. The Prince's hopes began 
 once more to revive, for he well knew that his 
 father's heart was naturally gentle and forgiving, 
 and he trusted that time might have removed the 
 heaviness of paternal displeasure. Yearning for a 
 reconciliation — eager for a restoration to those offi- 
 cial duties so suited to his tastes — and, above all, 
 panting for the recognition of his beloved partner, 
 and her advancement to that lofty rank which he 
 weU knew she was so calculated to adorn, Ferdi- 
 nand determined to proceed to Vienna under a 
 feigned name, taking Philippina along with him, 
 and there to endeavour in some way to obtain a 
 mitigation of the Imperial sentence. 
 
 The persecuted couple, after a dangerous journey, 
 took up their residence in an obscure suburb of the 
 
46 
 
 great city of Vienna ; and the Archduke entered 
 into private communication with some of his friends 
 at Court. Philippina, in the meanwhile, unknown 
 to her husband, determined on staking all in one 
 desperate attempt, in which she was to be the sole 
 actor. 
 
 One day the Emperor Ferdinand was on the point 
 of retiring from the haU of audience after a recep- 
 tion of some foreign ambassadors, when an of&cer 
 of the palace intimated that a lady who had a 
 special petition to present, craved admission into 
 the Imperial presence. 
 
 "Admit her," said the Emperor, — and, there- 
 upon, a woman of superlative loveliness and the 
 most graceful demeanour hastily entered the apart- 
 ment, and throwing herself at the feet of the 
 monarch, exclaimed, 
 
 " Great Emperor ! I crave your gracious inter- 
 cession. I, a girl of lowly birth, married a young 
 nobleman, whose father has disowned and disin- 
 herited him for loving me. Outcast and deserted, 
 we know not whither to turn. In the last extremity 
 I have determined to appeal to thee, great Father 
 of Germany!" 
 
 " Rise, Lady !" said the Emperor, with a look of 
 intense admiration, "it is unbefitting that a creature 
 
47 
 
 so lovely should kneel at the feet of mortal man. 
 Who is this hard-hearted father who refuses to 
 acknowledge thee as his daughter-in-law? If the 
 word of the Emperor have any power, your suit is 
 already won, fair lady!" 
 
 " Oh, great Prince ! " said Philippina, again throw- 
 ing her graceful figure at his feet, while the heavy 
 tears ran down her cheeks, "my humble prayer 
 nearly concerneth your majesty! I am Philippina 
 Welser of Augsburg — and the husband for whom I 
 intercede is your own loving son, the Archduke 
 Ferdinand, whom you have banished from your 
 court and favour for the crime of having wedded 
 me." 
 
 "Rise, Philippina, rise!" said the Emperor, cover- 
 ing his face with his hand, to conceal his emotion. 
 
 "Nay, Sire!" said the lady with redoubled ear- 
 nestness, " I rise not till you tell me that my hus- 
 band is forgiven. Restore him to your favour — 
 repose in him once more that confidence of which 
 his noble nature is so worthy — take back his strong 
 arm and his true heart to the service of Austria, 
 and do with me, the cause of all his degradation, 
 what seemeth good to your Imperial wisdom." 
 
 Here the good Emperor rose hurriedly, and gently 
 raising Philippina from the ground, he took her 
 
48 
 
 hand in his, and said in a voice tremulous with 
 emotion, " Doubtless my anger hath been great — 
 but years have rolled past, and the sight of thy 
 wondrous beauty, and this exhibition of thy loving 
 devotion for my son have disarmed my indignation, 
 Philippina! thou hast conquered the Emperor. 
 From this moment thy husband is forgiven, and I 
 acknowledge thee to be my daughter, assured that 
 a woman so lovely and so virtuous can bring no 
 disgrace upon the House of Austria." Then turning 
 to one of his chamberlains, who stood at a little dis- 
 tance from the interesting scene, the Emperor said in 
 a loud firm tone, " Let apartments be prepared for 
 the Archduchess Philippina!" — and, taking her arm 
 in his, he led the trembling and agitated lady, with 
 all the courteous gallantry of the time, towards the 
 private rooms of the Empress. 
 
 Thus were the loving pair at length rewarded for 
 their years of suffering and privation, and long and 
 uninterrupted was their wedded felicity. " The 
 Beauty of Augsburg" carried with her into the Im- 
 perial House all the gentle virtues which had adorned 
 her in an inferior station ; and, by acts of charity 
 and kindness, endeared herself to all classes of the 
 community. She resided with her husband in the 
 Schloss Ambras, near Innsbruck, the capital of his 
 
49 
 
 Vice-royalty ; and when she died, there was hardly 
 a tearless eye in the Tyrol. Of the exquisite beauty 
 of her countenance, the symmetry of her person, 
 and the graces of her manner, the page of history 
 bears a dim but imperishable reflex. Of her private 
 and public worth, we have stiU existent memorials in 
 the beautiful mausoleum which her sorrowing hus- 
 band erected over her remains — in the medal which 
 he struck, after her decease, stamped with her ef&gj, 
 and bearing the inscription " Divee Philippinae; " 
 and, above aU, in her memory so fragrantly em- 
 balmed in the hearts of the hardy peasants of Tyrol, 
 who still proudly point out the Schloss Ambras to 
 the traveller, and say, " There lived the beauti- 
 ful and good Archduchess Philippina." 
 
 Note. — It may be proper to state that nothing in the fore- 
 going tale has the sanction of historical authority except the 
 simple facts that the Archduke Ferdinand fell deeply in love 
 with Philippina, the beautiful daughter of one of the Welsers 
 of Augsburg, — .that, after a pretty long courtship, he married 
 her ■without the knowledge of his father, — and that, some years 
 having elapsed, the wrath of the Emperor gave way before the 
 personal entreaties of the gentle Philippina. 
 
50 
 
 THE SIEGE OF VEIL 
 
 A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME. 
 
 Seven times the shining share 
 Had torn the fertile plain; 
 Seven times the sower's hand 
 Had cast the golden grain. 
 
 Seven times the sickle 
 Had swept the ranks of corn, 
 Since first before the leaguered wall 
 Was heard the Roman horn. 
 
 FuU fiercely blazed the dog-star, 
 All in a copper sky; 
 Seething streams had left their beds, 
 And fountains all were dry. 
 
 The earth lay parched and gasping, 
 From heaven no rain came down, 
 Gaunt famine pressed the country. 
 And death was in the town. 
 
51 
 
 When lo ! upon a morning 
 A portent dark there fell — 
 Beneath the frown of those stern skies 
 The Alban waves began to rise, 
 Began to surge and swell. 
 
 And, in a long dark army, 
 Those furious waters driven, 
 Rolled in hoarse thunder on the shore. 
 And lashed the steep unwashed before. 
 Save by the rains of heaven. 
 
 Above the bounding mountains 
 SweUeth the deep black pool. 
 As when upon a festal night. 
 High-brimming in the goblet bright. 
 The purple juice seems, sparkling up. 
 To stand above the amber cup 
 In jocund revel full. 
 
 Then, in a boiling torrent 
 
 Shot down the further side ; 
 
 Black rocks in vain its course oppose. 
 
 In one vast sheet of surf it goes, 
 
 As down from Vulcan's furnace flows 
 
 The lava's hissing tide. 
 
52 
 
 Wo to the little hamlet 
 Upon the plain reclining; 
 Wo to the stately mansion 
 In pomp of marble shining. 
 
 Before the shock of waters 
 The crashing pine-groves yield, 
 They whelmed the deep rich pasture. 
 They marred the well tilled field. 
 
 The fruitful plain was one wild sea 
 Crested with angry foam, 
 And hope shone bright on Veii, 
 And terror scowled on Rome, 
 
 A mystic dread and deadly 
 Crept o'er each Roman bold. 
 And sturdy knees were slackened. 
 And gallant hearts grew cold. 
 
 But with gay note and sprightly. 
 Rang Veii's trumpet call, 
 And louder swelled the cheering. 
 From Veii's leaguered wall. 
 
 In vain upon the entrails 
 Our baffled augurs gazed. 
 
53 
 
 In vain each glowing altar 
 With fat of bullocks blazed. 
 
 Vain were the suppliants' offerings. 
 Vain the pale matrons' tears, 
 Vainlj the cloudy column rose 
 From hecatombs of steers. 
 
 And omens were not lacking. 
 To blanch the coward cheek ; 
 Twice in the Cattle Market 
 An ox was heard to speak. 
 
 And many a sad bidental 
 Remains this day to teU 
 How thickly, in that season, 
 Jove's blazing arrows fell. 
 
 In Council grave the Fathers 
 
 Met at the Capene gate ; 
 
 Right anxious hearts, I ween, they bore 
 
 Beneath their robes of state. 
 
 They sent three lords of lineage high. 
 Three knights of spotless birth. 
 To where the awful fane girds round 
 The centre of the earth. 
 
54: 
 
 Where erst enormous Python 
 
 Lay coiled in many a fold, 
 
 Where the great lord of light and song 
 
 Breathes in Arabian gold. 
 
 Where princes kneel as vassals, 
 And monarchs bend them down. 
 To him who draws the silver bow, 
 And wears the laurel crown. 
 
 The six have ta'en them swiftly 
 Over the Adrian foam. 
 If they may learn of Loxias 
 The destiny of Rome. 
 
 n. 
 
 Around the leaguered city 
 
 Our languid cohorts lie — 
 
 A short-lived peace had bid them cease 
 
 The stirring battle-cry. 
 
 No more 'mid crash and ruin 
 The mighty Ram struck home, 
 And drooped the bird of conquest 
 Within the lines of Rome. 
 
55 
 
 Up and down the idle camp 
 The listless spearman strayed, 
 Or scoured his dinted buckler, 
 Or proved his shining blade. 
 
 Here two, with loaded gauntlets, 
 Smote fiercely in the ring, 
 Here two their iron sinews tasked 
 The ponderous disc to fling. 
 
 There, in a shady corner, 
 A groupe, at random flung, 
 Grave ear unto the doleful lay 
 A white-haired harper sung. 
 
 How mourned the seven-hilled city, 
 How wept her stately daughters, 
 The gallant band that bled for Rome 
 By Cremera's fair waters. 
 
 But Caius Nomentanus, 
 The bravest of them all. 
 Turned wearied from the pastime. 
 And neared the city wall. 
 
 He stood beneath the battlement, 
 Where sate the prophet hoar, 
 
( 
 56 
 
 Whose eagle eye was trained to scan 
 Etruria's mazy lore. 
 
 Who in the reeking entrails 
 The book of Fate read clear, 
 And drew the secret of the Gods 
 Forth from the dying steer. 
 
 Waved in the evening breezes, 
 The few thin locks he bore, 
 And a lofty look of triumph 
 On his calm brow he wore. 
 
 " Ha! Caius Nomentanus, 
 What news hast thou for me ? 
 What omen of a flowing God 
 Or thunder-blasted tree ? 
 
 When will your laurelled legions 
 Lead us poor captives home, 
 And the lofty towers of Veii 
 Do reverence to Rome?" 
 
 " Old man," quoth gallant Caius, 
 " Know that I grieve for thee. 
 For gory hearth and blackened wall 
 Proud Veii's lot must be. 
 
57 
 
 When drives stern ruin's ploughshare 
 Over her towers laid low, 
 When on her crumbled battlements 
 The barren salt we sow, 
 
 When the black blood flows in torrents 
 That almost quench the flame, 
 When maidens grasp the slaying sword 
 That saves from living shame. 
 
 When ghastly desolation 
 Broods o'er the fallen town, 
 When the warrior's lance is shivered, 
 And cleft the monarch's crown, 
 
 When noble heads are falling, 
 As falls the nameless slave, 
 Say what from impious murder, 
 The weak old man can save ? 
 
 When the tallest pines are blasted. 
 And the stateliest oaks have reeled, 
 How shall the sapless ash remain 
 Upon the fire-scathed field ? 
 
 With hand all slaughter-reeking, 
 And foot that will not stay, 
 
 E 
 
58 
 
 On, on, through wreck and ruin 
 The spoiler makes his way. 
 
 And thou, Asinius Maurus, 
 Friend of my grey-haired sire. 
 Thou like an aged steer shalt fall 
 Before the sacred fire; 
 
 Around thy god's own altar 
 Splashes no hallowed stream, 
 And the might of lordly Veii 
 ShaU vanish as a dream." 
 
 Right grimly smiled the senior 
 
 When he heard the Roman speak. 
 
 And a sneer played round his sunken mouth. 
 
 And o'er his withered cheek — 
 
 " Ye may grapple with the raging bear. 
 The bison overthrow. 
 Forth from the tiger's bloody den 
 Unmangled ye may go. 
 
 Ye may seize the slimy adder. 
 
 And feel no venom 'd pain. 
 
 Ye may clutch the Libyan lion's beard. 
 
 And scatheless rend his mane. 
 
59 
 
 But never to our turret-tops 
 Shall Roman eagle soar. 
 And never through our bursten wall 
 A Roman cohort pour. 
 
 Our wall shall stand unbroken, 
 Our people shall be free, 
 While the fierce waves of Alba 
 Keep rolling to the sea." 
 
 So answered ancient Maurus 
 The great Etrurian seer, 
 And Caius Nomentanus 
 Was filled with grief and fear. 
 
 As pales the startled traveller. 
 When from a grim old oak, 
 He hears in dumb religious awe 
 The raven's boding croak ; 
 
 Or when the hated serpent 
 Shoots swift across his way. 
 Or on his ear thrills loud and clear 
 The sharp note of the jay. 
 
 So troubled was the Roman, 
 At those dark words of doom, 
 
And hied him back unto the camp 
 In silence and in gloom. 
 
 That night upon his pallet. 
 
 All sleepless Caius lay. 
 
 And to and fro his limbs he tossed 
 
 Until the dawn of day. 
 
 Up rose he in the morning. 
 And to the wall he sped. 
 His shining cuirass on his breast. 
 His helm upon his head. 
 
 To give him secret counsel, 
 
 In the dark vale below. 
 
 He hath summoned ancient Maurus 
 
 Forth from the town to go — 
 
 But the Roman asked no question — 
 No word the Roman spoke. 
 When the twain stood together 
 In the lone copse of oak. 
 
 But in his gripe, full tightly. 
 He clutched the trembling seer, 
 And dragged him to the Roman lines 
 Half-dead with rage and fear. 
 
^ 61 
 
 And thence the tribunes sent him 
 To tell the will of fate, 
 Unto the sacred senate. 
 The Fathers of the state. 
 
 III. 
 
 In the majestic Curia 
 Are met the Fathers all, 
 God-like, as when, in after years, 
 They awed the wondering Gaul — 
 
 The Gaul who hushed his frantic shout 
 And checked his furious way, 
 And howed before those grave old men 
 On Rome's disastrous day. 
 
 Out spake Papirius Cursor, 
 
 " Tell now, old man, thy tale. 
 
 As thou wouldst fly the stinging scourge 
 
 And 'scape the loathsome jail. 
 
 Reveal thou all thou knowest 
 Of the stern Fates' decree. 
 And why the Alban waters roll 
 So wildly to the sea." 
 
62 
 
 " Why the white waves of Alba 
 
 Are mingling with the brine, 
 
 The Fates' have not concealed from me- 
 
 To teU, it is not mine. 
 
 Yet this it is allowed to say — 
 While that fierce torrent flows, 
 A curse shall dull your keenest blades. 
 And snap your toughest bows. 
 
 Till Rome shall know the havoc 
 Of falchion and of flame, 
 And the memory shall perish 
 Of the great Roman name. 
 
 But if the raging waters 
 Shall cease to seek the main. 
 And the retiring waves disclose 
 The desolated plain, 
 
 Down shall our gallant banners go. 
 Our warriors shall go down. 
 And wo to fair Etruria, 
 And wo to our proud town. " 
 
63 
 
 Now from the ancient temple 
 Where the mad priestess raves, 
 And the dread fumes come billowing up 
 From subterranean caves. 
 
 The chosen six are sailing, 
 
 And soon in Ostia's bay, 
 
 The burghers mark the sacred bark 
 
 Ploughing her homeward way. 
 
 And a great crowd came flocking 
 The goodly ship to hail, 
 When in the sheltering harbour 
 Loose flapped her empty sail. 
 
 And now before the Senate 
 The sacred Legates stood. 
 To tell the answer of the god, 
 For evil or for good. 
 
 " Hear ye, they said the message 
 Of the far-darting king, 
 Who scatters armies when he weds 
 The arrow to the string. 
 
 See that the pent-up waters 
 No more their bounds o'erleap, 
 
64 
 
 See that they take no more their way 
 Down to the heaving deep. 
 
 But gently ye shall lead them forth, 
 And by this mystic token, 
 The lofty wall shall reel and faU, 
 And Veii's strength be broken." 
 
 Out spake Servilius Prisons, 
 " Since sealed is Veii's fate ; 
 Who shall lead on to triumph sure 
 The soldiers of the state ? 
 
 Many knights of lofty crest 
 Among our squadrons ride, 
 And sheathed in shining panoply. 
 Full many a lord of pride. 
 
 But towering o'er the highest plumes. 
 Dimming the brightest sheen ; 
 With dripping blade and foaming steed, 
 StiU first is Furius seen. 
 
 He burns like stern Gradivus, 
 Before the ranks of Rome, 
 And every sweep of his red right hand. 
 Makes wreck of a hostile home. 
 
65 
 
 Then let him, as Dictator, 
 
 Beat down our ancient foe. 
 
 And mount the car and wear the crown, 
 
 When he hath laid him low. 
 
 So gallant Marcus Furius 
 
 Bore a Dictator's sway. 
 
 And straightway to the Roman camp 
 
 He took his gladsome way. 
 
 No more the turf of Mars's field 
 Is spurned by flying feet ; 
 No idler's foot-fall now disturbs 
 The stillness of each street. 
 
 Hushed is the sound of craftsmen. 
 The Roman gates within, 
 The Roman forum echoes not 
 The rabble's stormy din. 
 
 But in the Alban mountains 
 The crash of metal rang, 
 And in the bowels of the rock 
 Sounded a ceaseless clang — 
 
66 
 
 And still Kome's hardy burghers 
 Relaxed not, night or day. 
 But harder plied the shivering stone. 
 And deeper hewed their way. 
 
 Till through the passage swiftly 
 The sinking waters flow, 
 And spread into the branching rills 
 The Romans dug below. 
 
 And when their hoary crests appeared, 
 Forth issuing from the cave, 
 Wild was the cheer that rent the sky, 
 Loud was every warrior's cry — 
 " Rome is crowned with victory. 
 And Veii stoops her slave ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 And now to head the legions 
 
 The dreaded Furius came. 
 
 And every Veiian heart hath quailed 
 
 At mention of his name. 
 
 He stood on the Tribunal — 
 He bade the trumpet sound, 
 
67 
 
 And all the Roman cohorts 
 Gathered in haste around. 
 
 He bade them doff their harness, 
 And lay their helmets down, 
 No more arrayed with bow and blade, 
 Against the fated town. 
 
 He bade them scoop a hollow mine, 
 An archway dark and dread. 
 As of a ghostly catacomb, 
 Where witches wake the dead. 
 
 And in that gloomy cavern, 
 They wrought with might and main, 
 Till they stood below the citadel. 
 Below great Juno's fane. 
 
 And as the oak that totters 
 Above the subject wood. 
 When rot hath gnawed its vitals, 
 The mighty city stood. 
 
 And wist not of the ruin. 
 That lurked her streets below ; 
 Or that within her walls she held 
 The legions of the foe. 
 
68 
 
 V. 
 
 Along the streets of Veil 
 
 A noble victim goes, 
 
 A stately steer that browsed the mead 
 
 Where sweet Clitumnus flows. 
 
 Fairly shone his gilded horns 
 
 At every lordly tread, 
 
 And proudly glanced above the throng 
 
 The honours of his head, 
 
 Those mighty horns that crowned him 
 The monarch of the plain. 
 And pierced the bellowing rival's heart 
 That dared dispute his reign. 
 
 No more beside his native stream, 
 Their terrors shall he rear ; 
 No more his brethren of the herd 
 Their ghastly wounds shaU fear. 
 
 But the royal head that bore them, 
 
 The shining axe shall feel ; 
 
 And the brawny neck that pushed them home, 
 
 Shall hold the sacred steel. 
 
69 
 
 Slowly paced the silent crowd 
 Behind the sacred train, 
 Slow they climbed the shining steps 
 Of Juno's lofty fane. 
 
 Upon the marble pavement, 
 Upon the temple floor, 
 The gasping victim yields his life 
 In gushing floods of gore. 
 
 The white froth oozing from his jaws. 
 Was streaked with lines of blood. 
 And, while the entrails forth they tear, 
 Fond smiling Hope and dumb Despair 
 Struggled above the altar there, 
 Where Veii's noblest stood. 
 
 "Rejoice, rejoice, king Lautilus," 
 At last the augur cried, 
 a Triumph for thee I read to-day, 
 And death to Roman pride. 
 
 " Fate's iron fringe here hath traced 
 The fixed and firm decree, 
 To Romans dole, to Veiians joy, 
 The laurel-crown to thee — 
 
 F 
 
70 
 
 " Thine be the victor's palm of pride. 
 Thine the loud blast of fame, 
 Thou that shalt place these entrails 
 Upon the altar's flame." 
 
 So heard the augur's words of doom 
 
 Camillus and his men; 
 
 As the fierce forest-monarch hears, 
 
 With bristling mane and quivering ears. 
 
 The carol free and void of dread. 
 
 The homeward traveller's sprightly tread 
 
 Close to his royal den. 
 
 Then forth sprang Marcus Furius, 
 The bravest of his name; 
 He seized the entrails of the steer. 
 He cast them on the flame. 
 
 " And see," he cried, " the issue, 
 The blessed gods have willed; 
 See here, thou hoary dotard, 
 Thine augury fulfilled. 
 
 " Now, Sons of Rome, upon them. 
 Slay, slay, and never pause — 
 Till your lances fly in splinters. 
 And your blades be hacked to saws. 
 
71 
 
 Down with the green, the hoary, 
 For age nor beauty falter. 
 But smite the stripling in the hall^ 
 The priest before the altar!" 
 
 So spake he, as the hunter. 
 When the boar stands at bay, 
 Cheers on with shouts his gallant pack 
 Against their foaming prey. 
 
 Then burst the heaving pavement. 
 Then rocked and reeled the fane, 
 Then dashed forth swarms of slayers, 
 To tread down hills of slain. 
 
 Then rushed our fiery legions 
 Upon the helpless foe; 
 Then pealed the shout of triumph, 
 And thrilled the shriek of wo; 
 
 Then with that ghastly carnage, 
 Was choked the spacious hall; 
 Then warriors dropped in hundreds, 
 Where steers were wont to fall — 
 
 Then red was every broadsword, 
 And purple every spear. 
 
72 
 
 With the life-blood of the noble — 
 The life-blood of the seer. 
 
 The fillets saved not Arcon 
 Upon that dreadful day; 
 The diadem of Lautilus 
 Was reft with life away. 
 
 The breast of brave Balista 
 Was hacked with many a blow; 
 Without a groan grim Barrius 
 Sought the dark shades below. 
 
 Not hell's own horrid magic 
 
 The wizard-seer could save, 
 
 Who by the Red Rocks howled his charms 
 
 Over the troubled grave. 
 
 Fierce rose Bellona's war-scream 
 Above the battle's roar, 
 And king, and seer, and noble. 
 Lay weltering in their gore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Weep, sons of fallen Veii, 
 Weep o'er your ruined town; 
 
73 
 
 Your pride is broke beneath the yoke, 
 Your strength is cloven down. 
 
 But through the Roman Forum 
 Winds the long victor train, 
 With many a mournful captive, 
 And many a loaded wain. 
 
 High in his car of triumph. 
 Above the shouting throng, 
 The bravest son of Romulus 
 Moved loftily along. 
 
 Beside him in the chariot 
 
 The fair young Furii sit; 
 
 Stately and slow the white steeds go. 
 
 Champing the silver bit. 
 
 They have reached the lofty portals 
 Of Jove Capitoline, 
 They have laid the wreath of laurel 
 An offering at his shrine. 
 
 Beneath the pontiff's axes 
 
 The hundred steers have bled, 
 
 And the black wreath of curling smoke 
 
 Has mounted overhead. 
 
74 
 
 Long shall our yellow River 
 
 Remember that glad night, 
 
 When his proud stream gave back the gleam 
 
 Of festal torches' light. 
 
 When from the victor's banquet 
 Our warriors homeward went, 
 Each falchion in its scabbard. 
 Each mighty bow unbent. 
 
 When gentle Peace came smiling 
 Back to the wearied state, 
 When Mars laid down his war-spear, 
 And Janus closed his gate, 
 
 When crowned were aU the Lares 
 Li every Roman home, 
 And the loud hymn of triumph 
 Pealed through the streets of Rome. 
 
75 
 
 THE ACCESSORIES OF LIFE. 
 
 The lives of men differ, not in their continuity, but 
 in their accessories. The life of some men is a 
 mathematical line, drawn from the cradle to the 
 grave. These two points are connected by it, and 
 therefore we are sure that it exists ; but it is length 
 without breadth. No incident varies the line, no 
 accessory widens it. It is bare life : the heart beat- 
 ing — the blood flowing — the man living and moving. 
 It is vegetation : it is the life of a tree likewise. A 
 tree extends through time; and the lives of many do 
 no more. 
 
 Very different is his life, in whom the principle of 
 existence is stimulated, made conscious of its exist- 
 ence, by diversified scenes- and trains of thought. 
 The life which is without accessories turns, by time, 
 into a dream: the man is only half conscious of what 
 he is doing, and entirely forgetful of what he has done. 
 He goes on in the same round that he has trod for 
 years; sees, if he notices them at all, the same scenes, 
 labours in like work, surrenders his mind passively 
 
76 
 
 to the same trains of thought. The run of his mind 
 is fixed; it never breaks beyond a certain barrier. 
 His life is the least thing that can be called life: the 
 least, in that it is hardly a waking consciousness 
 at the time that it is actually passing over him: 
 still more the least, in that when he looks back upon 
 it there is nothing to remember: no salient point for 
 the mind to fasten on: one dead level: below the 
 reach of memory now, as of consciousness past: no 
 time much to be remembered: no spot that looks 
 bright, and stands in relief against the rest. 
 
 The same effect may be produced by uniform 
 brightness, as by uniform dulness of hue: a life too 
 much crowded with accessories, is here on a level 
 with that which has none. The man who never 
 felt strong emotion at all, has nothing particular to 
 remember: all life is alike. The man who has felt 
 constant emotion, is in the like condition: all life 
 is alike: and it is only the particular, the exception, 
 that is remembered. But here we are speaking of 
 the former class. Every person from his own ex- 
 perience, may find how life looks to one of these. 
 Every one has sometimes walked along a familiar 
 path: and on reaching the end of his journey, or a 
 point in his journey, has started to find himself there 
 so soon, and remembered nothing of the way. Yet 
 
77 
 
 he trod it: his getting to the end of it proves so 
 much. So it is when some men come to the close 
 of life. In the pensive hours which precede dissolu- 
 tion, the memory finds nothing to fasten on, till it 
 stretches over mature life, and finds a resting point 
 in childhood, where freshness of feeling made up for 
 want of novel incident. Then it seems but yesterday 
 since the days of chasing butterflies and flying paper- 
 kites: the intervening space has dropt out of recol- 
 lection. Like the sun, which sinking beneath the 
 horizon, shoots its level beams over a dark morass, 
 too low to receive their influence, and finds a resting 
 place for them only on the summit of the mountain 
 that rises beyond. 
 
 What is it then, that makes life first conscious, 
 and then reminiscible ? It is Incident: variety, emo- 
 tion; for these are needed to make strong impression. 
 The mind must be roused from its lethargy, although 
 to do so may need the stimulus of pain. It is above all, 
 companions, friends, that afford these things needful. 
 The solitary must be a day-dreamer. He may 
 think, indeed, that in books, the materialised souls 
 of the greatest men, he can find this companionship 
 which will clothe life in accessories, and take away 
 its absolute tenuity. It wiU not do. The feeling of 
 individuality will creep upon him in his library, and 
 
78 
 
 over his books. Isolation felt, but not realized, will 
 bare his life down to the mere line of his own ex- 
 istence. And the reason of this is, that the minds 
 of men, as given us in their writings, stand to their 
 real living minds, in the like relation as ghosts to 
 spirits clad in flesh. The first are indeed the less 
 material: but then we are half material: and materi- 
 ality is needed to produce human interest in human 
 beings. Therefore we are back again to the dream: 
 the bare life again, which by this companionship we 
 thought to escape. Books, to a solitary, will for a 
 while clothe life in accessories; but after a little, 
 their power diminishes and disappears. No imagin- 
 ation, however strong, can long realize what they 
 tell, as part of its actual life. To human beings 
 things may be too much refined to be useful. A 
 shock is needed to awake our attention thoroughly. 
 There must be something rude: something that jars 
 upon the even run of our mental states. This is 
 given by the Objective. 
 
 The Objective is needful, especially to those who 
 are too prone to live in the subjective ; to stand 
 apart in isolated individuality, — their own world 
 within their own breast. It jars them into sympathy 
 with their fellow-beings. It widens the line of life. 
 It is the Great Accessory of Life, and that which 
 includes all the rest. We call it Incident. 
 
79 
 
 The life of the mere day-dreamer runs ou so 
 evenly and smoothly, that it is a blank, so far as 
 memory is concerned. The mechanism of the mind 
 plays so gently, and trains of thought run into each 
 other so imperceptibly, that time steals away un- 
 noticed. How different the day that we pass from 
 morning tiU night, seated in a quiet room, reading a 
 book, even one that calls for active, not merely pas- 
 sive attention ; and having laid it down, closing the 
 eyes and giving the reins to the mind ; and taking 
 a walk, at the usual time, in the usual path; — from 
 that when we are up at day-break, looking down 
 from a mountain-top on scenes altogether new; 
 at mid-day, tossing on a new sea amid a crowd of 
 strange faces ; and at evening, suddenly entering 
 upon the gas-lit and buzzing streets of a great city? 
 The new scenes force the mind's attention ; lead it 
 into a new track ; break the day into new divisions ; 
 and even the old hours of eight, twelve, and eight 
 again, that appeared so familiar before, take a new 
 aspect. Time itself looks new, and looks longer; 
 not longer, perhaps, while the day is passing, but 
 certainly much longer after it is past. The essence 
 of time is Duration ; the measure of time is Inci- 
 dent. Duration is a matter of degree, and there- 
 fore of opinion ; Incident is a matter of fact, and 
 therefore always remains the same. 
 
80 
 
 If days thus spent diflfer — and who can deny that 
 they do ? — then lives made up of days of either class 
 must also differ. The clerk, who daily at nine o'clock 
 sits down on his stool and resumes the old task, 
 lives. So does the man of wealth, who need never 
 stay in any place longer than he chooses ; and who, 
 when he moves, takes half a village with him in the 
 shape of attendants. The life of the first is a bare 
 fact — a single line : there is but the one tie to life ; 
 and when life ends, only one little thread is broke. 
 The life of the second is a conflex whole. There is 
 in the centre the same line, which was all that was 
 possessed by the other : but round it there are 
 parks and castles, banquets and plate, visits to the 
 opera and presentations at court, music, poetry, 
 painting, history, cheers of the populace, speeches 
 in parliament, Italy, France, Germany, Mont Blanc, 
 crowds of dependents, friends so many that friend- 
 ship is dissipated among them, and very little comes 
 to the lot of each, love, marriage. All these widen 
 the line of life : but they are so many ties render- 
 ing that thread more painful to separate. The 
 Accessories of Life give the terror to Death. 
 
 B. A. 
 
81 
 
 THE MORNING BREEZE. 
 
 Who does not love the breeze of morn, 
 
 When all in sportive play, 
 It wantons with the blooming thorn, 
 
 In the flowery month of May ? 
 When the dew-drop bathes the primrose breast, 
 
 And the lark springs from the lea, 
 They may lie a-bed till noon who list — 
 
 The morning breeze for me ! 
 
 It bears abroad the sweetest song, 
 
 The early songsters sing. 
 The freshest odours float along, 
 
 Borne on its viewless wing ; 
 Its music fills the forest trees 
 
 With whispers soft and low; 
 My blessing on the morning breeze. 
 
 Where'er its breath may blow! 
 
 I watched a village maiden meek, 
 
 A-gathering flowrets fair; 
 It kissed the dimples on her cheek, 
 
 And sported with her hair; 
 
82 
 
 And her eyes with softer lustre glanced. 
 
 Their favourite gems to seize, 
 TiU her little heart with transport danced. 
 
 Light as the morning breeze! 
 
 I watched a drowsy neat-herd boy, 
 
 Who drove his charge a-field ; 
 He yawned a stave, though his blinking eye 
 
 In sleep was half concealed ; 
 But the breezes stirred his flaxen locks. 
 
 And so lusty grew his song; 
 That echo leapt from the beetling rocks, 
 
 As he merrily whooped along. 
 
 The weary exile doomed to roam 
 
 Where scorching sunbeams play, 
 Oft heaves a sigh for pleasant home. 
 
 And its breezes far away: 
 Oh! he would spurn the ruby red. 
 
 The gold and the diamond pale. 
 For one brief hour to bare his head 
 
 In the breeze of his native vale ! 
 
 Go forth thou blessed breeze, and seek 
 
 The captive where he lies. 
 Breathe softly on his hectic cheek. 
 
 And waft to heaven his sighs ; 
 
83 
 
 Bid sleep his flinty couch attend, 
 
 That cares a-while may flee, 
 When happy dreams a glimpse shall lend 
 
 Of friends and liberty! 
 
 Blow on, sweet breeze ! thy priceless freight 
 
 Is wealth without alloy; 
 Thou art the fainting hind's delight. 
 
 The sea-browned sailor's joy. 
 Thy Balmy breath dispels dull care. 
 
 And knits the feeble knees. 
 And langour dies when thou art there — 
 
 Blow on, thou blessed breeze ! 
 
 The breeze of morning blows for all. 
 
 Its streams of freshness flow, 
 Dispensing health round hut and hall, 
 
 To lofty and to low. 
 Who would not prize the breeze of morn, 
 
 A boon so freely given ? 
 Then let our thanks to him be borne, 
 
 Who sends the breeze from heaven! 
 
 J. M, 
 
84 
 
 LETHE'S STREAM. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " PATRICK WELLWOOD. 
 
 Vain world ! small is the debt of thanks I owe to 
 
 thee or thine, 
 For coldly thou hast dealt with me, and colder still 
 
 with mine; 
 The storms of life have swept for aye the sunshine 
 
 from my brow. 
 And hopes and heart have sunk beneath misfortune's 
 
 bitter blow. 
 The bay of youth, late fresh and green, is withering 
 
 fast away, 
 Life's flush is o'er, its spell is broke, and all is dull 
 
 decay; 
 Yet, though desire itself has failed, and hope aban- 
 dons me, 
 I would not drink of Lethe's stream, though sweet 
 
 its waters be. 
 
85 
 
 Oh, early friends, the fast and true, since ye to 
 heav'n are gone, 
 
 The desert path of life I tread, a-weary and alone; 
 
 Yet, though of all I early loved, the wrecks alone 
 remain. 
 
 Each link that lengthens out, it strengthens too af- 
 fection's chain: 
 
 Less bright the setting sun, 'tis true, but sweetest 
 then its beam, 
 
 And sweet, though sad, it is to mark the fire's ex- 
 piring gleam. 
 
 Oh, memory, oh, memory ! thine is the magic 
 power. 
 
 To clothe with grace, to bathe in light, life's darkest, 
 latest "hour; 
 
 Our trials, toils, and tasks, when o'er, with joy re- 
 member we. 
 
 Then give me not of Lethe's stream, though sweet 
 its waters be. 
 
 And christian pilgrim know when thou tread'st on 
 
 despair's dark brink, 
 A fountain God will open, where his own loved child 
 
 may drink; 
 Then rouse thee bravely up, till life's sad pilgrimage 
 
 be past, 
 
86 
 
 And in the holy land of heaven thy soul arrive at 
 
 last. 
 Thy pallid cheek will then give back of living joy the 
 
 gleam, 
 And all the sorrows thou hast known wUl vanish like 
 
 a dream, 
 And aU to swell thy bKss shall live in endless 
 
 memory, 
 Then long thou not for Lethe's stream, though sweet 
 
 its waters be. 
 
87 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF THE BOOKS ; OR, THE 
 TRIUMPH OF THE ALPHABET,* 
 
 I WAS busilj engaged in the composition of an his- 
 torical work, and had been much struck by the 
 shameless manner in which my investigation of 
 authorities shewed me, authors had borrowed and 
 stolen from one another on aU possible subjects. 
 A good idea, I found, might be traced through a 
 dozen volumes, before its birth-place was reached. 
 I happened to fall asleep in the midst of my reveries. 
 Methought the giant blast of a trumpet made a 
 breach in the wall of my chamber, and a tall, im- 
 posing figure, stepping through this breach, took hold 
 of my hand and said, " Arise, and follow me; thou 
 shalt be a witness of the manner in which I am about 
 to judge the dead and the living." In vain did I en- 
 deavour to excuse myself, by alleging that I had no 
 
 * Throughout this paper, the word " Alphabet " is intended 
 to express not merely the A, B, C, but to convey a more ex- 
 tensive idea, viz., & first hook for children, thus including short 
 sentences, &c. Stc. 
 
88 
 
 curiosity whatever to be a witness on the occasion. 
 All my excuses were fruitless; I had to obey. In the 
 twinkling of an eye, I found myself removed from 
 my former dwelling-place. We made a short tour 
 through the air, and when we again set foot on terra 
 firma, we beheld ourselves in a large library of such 
 dimensions as I could not have formed any idea of 
 before. Several hundred thousand volumes were 
 arranged on shelves on all sides, and a thousand 
 manuscripts lay scattered on the floor. "Here," 
 said my guide, as he seated himself solemnly, " I 
 intend to pass in review before me the countless de- 
 parted that lie entombed in this family vault, which 
 men call Library." Saying these words, he beckoned 
 me to sit down at his feet, and exclaimed in a voice 
 at once stern and powerful, " Spirits, I summon ye 
 to judgment !" A violent clatter now pervaded all 
 the shelves: like the feverish patient who in his 
 chillness chatters with his teeth, the volumes rattled 
 against each other, and quaked evidently through 
 terror. After a slight pause the Judge again spoke 
 as follows: — " Ye books, one and all, of every tongue, 
 nation, and department, restore, I command you, 
 each subject of depredation to its rightful owner. 
 Let all borrowed fancies, pilfered ideas, systems of 
 philosophy, copied from or modelled after the an- 
 
89 
 
 cients, second-hand discoveries, in short, whatsoever 
 has been given to the world on false pretences, and 
 in assumed disguises, be returned to the original 
 and lawful possessor." Upon this, much excitement 
 seemed to prevail among the inhabitants of the 
 shelves. Volume after volume ran about in the 
 greatest alarm, howling and sighiag like so many 
 winds let loose from the cavern of ^olus. The 
 scene was truly ludicrous ; entire shelves threw 
 themselves at the feet of other shelves, and these in 
 in their turn succumbed to others. Here a huge 
 folio, there a thick quarto, sneaked off to the abode 
 of some musty pandect, returning thin and slender 
 like a sprat in consumption. From countless 
 volumes whole chapters migrated, taking with them 
 all their substance and utensils of every description; 
 whilst many a system exiled itself from philosophi- 
 cal treatises, and, shouldering its knapsack, was 
 suddenly metamorphosed into some ancient, illegible 
 volume of hieroglyphics. The universal commotion 
 and the terror depicted on the face of every book 
 were totally indescribable; four hundred thousand 
 volumes paced to and fro, wringing their hands in 
 the depth of despair. Only one insignificant little 
 pamphlet was seen standing in a corner, regarding 
 the general book-migration with the utmost calm- 
 
90 
 
 ness and phlegmatic indiflference. This was the 
 Alphabet, Whilst all around was one uninterrupted 
 scene of confusion and tumult, it seemed to survey 
 the general desolation as though it were fully im- 
 pressed with a sense of its own dignity, and me- 
 thought — but this may have been a mere delusion 
 — methought I could discover a sardonic smile play 
 upon its features. Though, as I have said, the scene 
 was one of unmitigated confusion, there were, how- 
 ever, several varieties of events. Superb editions 
 and collected writings of modern poets returned to 
 their shelves as so much blank paper. In other 
 works only a line here and there remained unaf- 
 fected, frequently merely a word, which was bona 
 fide the production of the author's brains; whilst all 
 the intervening pages looked like fields of snow ; 
 the greater part, however, had nothing left but the 
 title and where they were printed; this much they 
 could, of course, conscientiously retain. The ancient 
 Classics were put to the greatest vexation and 
 trouble. Some old Greek or Roman author received 
 on a sudden, as his property, the contents of ten 
 thousand volumes, in the French, Italian, German, 
 and English languages; but in what condition were 
 these stolen articles returned ? misused, falsely po- 
 lished, and disfigured in a thousand ways. In vain 
 
91 
 
 did the Classics exclaim "m A/a," or "Hercle," "I 
 don't recognize those articles as my own, they never 
 were mine ?" Upon this the ten thousand volumes 
 were obliged to change the stolen articles into their 
 pristine form, that the Classics might receive them 
 back as their property. At times it would happen 
 that one book ran to another for the purpose of re- 
 turning some idea it had purloined, when this latter 
 would ejaculate, with looks of horror, "Alas! you 
 have not robbed me, I got it from so and so !" On 
 receiving the idea this last again would cry out, 
 " That is not my property, I stole it from so and 
 so;" and thus, one single idea, conceit, or particular 
 expression had to make a tour of some scores of 
 books before reaching its legitimate master. 
 
 Some remarkable scenes also took place between 
 Translators, Compilers, and Annotators. Many of 
 these did not retain so much as their title-pages, 
 and were not permitted to return to their shelves. 
 Other Translators had terrible disputes with the 
 Originals. Horace with Madame Dacier, and Shak- 
 spere with several Signers. " I did not mean that," 
 exclaimed the indignant Bard ; " Of course you 
 did." replied the Translators; "we ought to know 
 better than you." Horace struggled severely with 
 his hands and feet, but was compelled to pocket 
 
92 
 
 Madame Dacier's version. Poor Shakspere excited 
 no little commiseration in mj own breast, when I 
 saw him accosted by Signer Fornarini on one side, 
 and Monsieur L' Abbe Gros Vent on the other, each 
 of whom was at the same moment endeavouring to 
 thrust a translation with learned remarks on him. 
 A frown rested on Shakspere 's noble brow as he 
 pushed them both aside and added these words in 
 an intense agony of mind : " Those were never my 
 words, nor my ideas ;" the two translators, notwith- 
 standing, pressed closer to him and continued say- 
 ing, "We bring you your own property!" The 
 Bard ran about the room trying to disengage him- 
 self from his odious friends, who, in their turn, 
 were determined not to let him escape till he had 
 accepted their renderings. " A horse, a horse, a 
 kingdom for a horse" now resounded through the 
 library, but in vain ; the translations too were so 
 heavy that they could by no means serve as wings 
 by means of which the harassed Dramatist might 
 have soared through the air ; Shakspere was there- 
 fore obliged to swallow the bitter pill, or, in other 
 words, accept the versions. 
 
 If the book-scene was ludicrous, that of the 
 Music Composers was no less so. The works of the 
 old and new Composers lay extended on the floor. 
 
93 
 
 and the Judge who foresaw that in modern Operas 
 the greater part was borrowed, chose the shorter 
 method, and, brandishing his caducous, exclaimed : 
 " Let all modern compositions send forth that which 
 is really modern in them, and whatever is copied 
 from the old masters, stay behind." Thereupon a 
 great number of compositions rose up the one after 
 the other, the Operas of Mozart, Bethoven, Winter, 
 Salieri, Gretry, Dalayrac, Generali, and Cimarosa 
 alone remaining in their former condition. Ros- 
 sini's forty-three operas looked like so many fac- 
 similes which had robbed each other of form and 
 nature. The Judge now opened a window to let 
 out the actual productions of modern Composers, 
 and by degrees tranquillity was restored. The 
 four hundred thousand volumes had now melted 
 down into a very small company indeed. Tomes 
 which before were stout and good-looking, now 
 had every appearance of skeletons, around whose 
 sides the coverings rattled loosely and disjointed ; 
 just as the ample folds of a dressing-gown sit 
 loosely upon the attenuated person of an invalid. 
 I cast my eyes over to the Alphabet, but could 
 discover no change in its appearance. When 
 all was silent, the Judge uttered these words in a 
 solemn tone : "I have not done with you yet; ye 
 
 H 
 
;94 
 
 remaining books and little Alphabet in yonder cor- 
 ner, now come before me to undergo your last trial." 
 Hereupon all the volumes that had face to appear 
 in their present condition, ranged themselves on the 
 right, and the Alphabet on the left of the Judge ; 
 this arrangement being completed, he who sat upon 
 the seat of judgment, addressing himself to the 
 Alphabet, said : " What hast thou effected, and how 
 comes it that thou alone hast stood the test of this 
 final and searching scrutiny?" The Alphabet, thus 
 addressed, replied modestly, and yet impressed with 
 a feeling of its dignity : " Because, in two columns, 
 I include all human knowledge, and am the essence 
 of whatsoever is left standing in the remnants of yon- 
 der four hundred thousand volumes." The judge 
 then addressing the whole company, said : "Ye 
 books that have survived, come and contend with 
 the Alphabet." The first to enter the lists were 
 the remains of the theological writings of Cicero, 
 Augustinus, Clemens, Eusebius, Petrus Abelardus; 
 these and all sorts of cabalistic and rabbinical in- 
 genuities looked down haughtily on the Alphabet. 
 This latter, however, in no wise discomposed, said: 
 " All that you contain, I teach little children when 
 they begin to spell; viz.: " The-fear-of-God-is-the 
 beginning-and-the-end-of-all-things." The Judge 
 
95 
 
 made a signal, the theological remnants vanished, 
 and the Alphabet coolly took snuff. The company 
 of philosophers next made their appearance: Plato, 
 Socrates, Thales, Pythagoras, Bias, Bacon, Locke, 
 Descartes, Spinoza, Leibnitz, Kant, Wolf, Schel- 
 ling, Fichte, Hegel, etc: who regarded their puny 
 opponent with scholastico-sceptical looks. But the 
 Alphabet said: "All that you contain, I teach children 
 when they begin to spell: "Know thy-self." The 
 Judge again made a sign, the philosophical writings 
 disappeared, and the Alphabet quietly took snuff. 
 A crowd of lawyers now thronged around the seat 
 of justice. Hugo Grotius, Coccejus, etc: the Ro- 
 man law. Canonical law. Common law, the law of 
 fief of the Longobardi, constitutis criminalis Caro- 
 lina, Lynch law, with many others, looked very hard 
 at the Alphabet, which said : " All your wisdom, I 
 teach children when they begin to spell : "Do what 
 is right, and thou needst shun no man." The Judge 
 once more waved his hand, the lawyers fled in dis- 
 may, and Alphabet again took a pinch. Then came 
 the Doctors, one and all, from Galen and Hippo- 
 crates down to the Homseopathists, who cure no- 
 thing with less than nothing. The little champion, 
 not at all disconcerted in so awful a presence, said: 
 "All that you contain, I teach children when they first 
 
m 
 
 begin to read:" " No herb that grows can save from 
 death." Upon the signal being given bj the Judge, 
 the doctors vanished, and the Alphabet took a small 
 homsBopathic pinch. A heap of pedagogic tomes 
 next confronted the heroic little Alphabet: Basedow, 
 Rousseau, and Pestalozzi. The Alphabet, with its 
 usual stout-heartedness, said: "All this I teach chil- 
 dren when the J begin to join syllables: "John will 
 ne-ver learn what John-ny ne-glec-ted." The Judge 
 made a sign, the pedagogues disappeared, and little 
 Alphabet again had recourse to its box. Historical 
 writings now presented themselves, both universal 
 and specific history, but the Alphabet continued as 
 before: "The knowledge you profess to convey, I 
 teach little children when they begin to read: "Peace 
 maintains, war destroys." The usual signal being 
 given, the historical writings were not to be seen; 
 and political miscellanea approached with a smile of 
 security; but the Alphabet again said: "The essence 
 of all your various systems is brought down to the 
 capacity of children when I teach them: " Every 
 one takes most care of number one." The Judge 
 having made the sign, the political pamphlets 
 vanished. Now came Arithmeticians and Algebra- 
 ists; the little Alphabet however said: " All the trea- 
 sures of your hidden wisdom children learn by 
 
97 
 
 heart in this line: " Once one is one." In due time 
 the Arithmeticians vanished, and financial systems 
 and speculations made their appearance; but the 
 Alphabet quietly said: "I teach all your projects and 
 schemes in one simple line of subtraction : " Nine 
 from eight I cannot say, here I borrow, there I'll 
 pay." The Judge again gave the signal, and the 
 finance disappeared. Next came books of culinary 
 instruction; but the Alphabet coolly said : " I teach 
 children a much better recipe than any you afford: 
 "Hunger is the best cook." After the cookery- 
 books, tours and descriptions of travel presented 
 themselves in jack-boots; there were very few in- 
 deed, for the greater part of modern books of travel 
 are mere copying-machines. The Alphabet said: 
 "I teach children the sum of your experience in this 
 line: "When Tom returned from foreign parts — 
 he knew but little of the arts." After the books of 
 travel had vanished, the remaining pamphlets, ma- 
 gazines, and reviews, all came puffing and blowing 
 to the presence; but the Alphabet said: " All that ye 
 contain, I teach children at school: " If once to me 
 untruth you say — I'll ne'er believe you from that 
 day." The fugitive pieces, magazines, etc., having 
 likewise vanished, the saloon had a very empty look, 
 and the Alphabet with a smile of inward satisfaction 
 
98 
 
 once more took snuff. The Judge now looked at me 
 sternly, and I trembled from head to foot; being 
 conscious that I had been guilty of some few com- 
 positions in my life-time. With a considerable 
 effort I mustered up sufficient courage to ask the 
 Alphabet what had become of my works: the an- 
 swer I received was as follows: — " Such works 
 I show children at school by a cypher." My con- 
 sternation was so intense that it awoke me! 
 
99 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED ON THE BANKS 
 OF A ROCKY STREAM. 
 
 BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 
 POET LAUREAT. 
 
 Behold an emblem of our human mind, 
 Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home; 
 Yet like yon eddying bells of foam, 
 Within this whirlpool they each other chase 
 
 Round and round, and neither find 
 An outlet nor a resting place. 
 Wanderer, if such disquietude be thine, 
 Fall on thy knees and sue for grace divine. 
 
100 
 
 THE SEA-KING'S FUNERAL. 
 
 BY W. S. DANIEL. 
 
 [In ancient Scandinavia, the junior Princes of the numerous 
 Royal Houses, among which the country was partitioned, fre- 
 quently equipped fleets and betook themselves to the ocean, 
 accompanied by several of their young nobility. They resided 
 principally on the deep, and assuming the dreaded name of 
 " Sea-Kings," they ravaged the coasts of various kingdoms, 
 carrying off, at times, a vast amount of booty; and on other 
 occasions, forming settlements on these foreign shores. Some 
 of the Sea-Kings of Norway ruled both by sea and land, — and 
 were men of vast strength and indomitable courage. The 
 following stanzas are founded on a strange wild usage, not 
 uncommon among the Scandinavians. When a Sea-King died, 
 his warriors laid the body on a pile of wood, on the deck of one 
 of his war ships, and heaped his principal valuables around him. 
 They then put sail on the vessel, and setting fire to it in several 
 places, they launched it into the ocean, over which it careered 
 before the wind, till the flames having consumed its fabric, the 
 ashes of the Sea-King went down into that great element, over 
 which he had once roved with such terrible daring.] 
 
 Why screams the Awk at midnight hour 
 
 Along the northern sea; 
 Why from her rocky citadel 
 
 Doth the soft-plumed Eider flee ? 
 
101 
 
 What thing of fire comes o'er the deep. 
 
 Before the steady gale, 
 So vast — so high — so bloody red, 
 
 It makes the moonlight pale ? 
 
 It is a ship that, staggering, drives 
 
 In flames before the blast; 
 Borne onward by one blackened sail. 
 
 Upon one burning mast ! 
 
 Like a volcano set afloat, 
 
 She lighteth sky and sea; 
 And sweepeth on with roaring sound, 
 
 'Neath a smoky canopy. 
 
 And round her ocean's monster tribes 
 Rise through the fire-lit spray. 
 
 Writhing and rolling round and round. 
 In their demoniac play. 
 
 That is the Sea-King's funeral bark ! 
 
 Lo ! on the deck he lies, 
 On a lofty pile of costly Avoods, 
 
 Whence clouds of fragrance rise. 
 
 A crown of gold is on his brow. 
 On his breast the shining mail. 
 
102 
 
 And his royal flag on that burning mast 
 Still waveth to the gale. 
 
 Sternly closed are his haughty lips, 
 And clenched his giant hand, 
 
 Glued with his own heroic blood 
 To the hilt of his sheathless brand. 
 
 His cheek is pale, but bears no trace 
 
 Of nature's mortal pain, 
 And his yellow hair streams on the wind 
 
 Like a Lybian lion's mane ! 
 
 He glides along in kingly pomp, 
 WhUe the blazes leap around. 
 
 Like warriors taU in the bright sunshine. 
 In burnished armour bound. 
 
 His last sea-fight is fought and won, 
 
 And a conqueror still is he. 
 Borne in his floating palace home 
 
 O'er the waves of the subject sea. 
 
 Lo ! on yon wild and distant shore 
 
 Stand all his brave array, 
 WhUe the * Scald, upon the briny rock, 
 
 Chants Eric's funeral lay: — 
 * The Scandinavian Bards were named " Scalds." 
 
103 
 
 " Alas ! for * Norge's royal house, 
 
 Alas ! for Bergen's shore, 
 The Sea-King's funeral sail is set, 
 
 He walks the deck no more ! 
 
 No maid of Bergen sings to-night 
 
 Beside her whirring wheel, 
 But the sad mermaiden trills his dirge 
 
 In the foam of his rushing keel. 
 
 Weep, ye virgins of Norway, weep ! 
 
 Ye wives and widows moan, 
 But shout, ye warriors of Norway, shout ! 
 
 For the mighty man that's gone. 
 
 King Eric was born, 'mid storm and strife, 
 
 Upon the gusty deep. 
 And the good sea rocked the kingly boy 
 
 In her mighty arms to sleep. 
 
 Oh ! tall and stalwart was his form 
 
 As Norge's stately pine. 
 And his blue eyes glowed with the haughty light 
 
 Of his old ancestral line. 
 
 * Norway. 
 
104 
 
 Oh ! strong as the crashing levin-bolt 
 Was the glaive in his red right hand, 
 
 And his foot was as firm on the rolling deck 
 As on Scandinavian land. 
 
 Fierce was his soul as the deep-sea wave, 
 When the battle-storm ran high, 
 
 But mild as the blue and breathless * fiord. 
 When Norway's maids were by. 
 
 Wide are the wounds on his manly breast, 
 And red is the blood on his brow. 
 
 And many a foeman kissed the deck 
 Ere Eric fell, I trow. 
 
 " But, gliding like a milk-white swan 
 
 Across the azure sea. 
 The t Valkyr-maiden sweetly sighed, 
 
 ' Dear warrior, come with me ! ' 
 
 * The " fiords" are the long, narrow inlets which penetrate 
 so far into the coasts of Norway. 
 
 f The Valkyrs, in the old Northern mythology, were the 
 beautiful female spirits who were the companions of the de- 
 parted brave in the heaven of Odin. They were supposed to 
 hover over the field of battle and select those who were to fall, 
 and be immediately admitted into their society. 
 
105 
 
 Then fell the king, by countless wounds 
 And countless foes o'erthrown — 
 
 But lo ! his death-light gleams no more — 
 The funeral bark is gone ! 
 
 His flag that waved o'er many a fight 
 
 Lies low beneath the wave; 
 And the gilded prow of his own good ship 
 
 Is *he cairn of his ocean grave. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the streaming * lights 
 
 Gleam in the northern sky, 
 Valhalla's gates are opened wide — 
 
 King Eric walks on high !" 
 
 * The old Northmen believed that the Aurora Borealis or 
 *' The Holy Light" was caused by the gates of the heavenly 
 Valhalla being thrown open to admit the spirits of the brave. 
 
106 
 
 THE RESURRECTIONIST. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM THE MEDICAL PROFESSIOJT. 
 
 It was in the summer of 183 — , whilst making a 
 tour through the picturesque Countj Wicklow, that 
 
 I met with Dr. M . His figure was tall and his 
 
 features handsome, but on them were deeply traced 
 the ravages of care and disease. He had been 
 residing for some time, in order to try the effect of 
 change of air and scene on a shattered constitution, 
 at the Inn situated in the lovely vaUey of Avoca, 
 immortalised to the world by the exquisite lyrics of 
 Moore. 
 
 From the moment of our first meeting, I saw that 
 the mind was waiting against the body, and that 
 ere long the latter must be vanquished. A few days 
 spent together at the Inn, served to place us on a 
 footing of intimacy; and it was on the last evening 
 of my stay, that having invited me into his par- 
 lour, he confided to me the following sad tale: — 
 
 " Although (he began) you meet me here on Irish 
 soil, I am a countryman of your own. The parti- 
 
107 
 
 culars of my birth I care not to dwell upon — they 
 have no connection with my present narrative; suf- 
 fice it to say, that I first saw light in the populous 
 
 manufacturing town of G . My father moved in 
 
 the wealthier circles, and was, if my enfeebled memory 
 serves me aright, more than once a candidate for civic 
 honours in that town. Having passed the period of in- 
 fancy, I was placed at a school in the neighbourhood 
 
 of G ; from which, after six years of study, I was 
 
 removed, and being perched on a lofty stool in my 
 father's counting-house, was at once transformed 
 into a man of business. Three months sufiiced to 
 show, at once, my incapacity and dislike for a mer- 
 cantile life ; and much to my own. joy, though to 
 my father's annoyance, I was removed to the Uni- 
 versity of G • Would to God I had remained 
 
 behind the desk! 
 
 I commenced the study of medicine, and never 
 had that noble science a more enthusiastic disciple 
 than myself. My whole time and attention were 
 engrossed with the duties of my classes and of the 
 dissecting-room. I had been three years at the 
 
 University, when I first met Eleanor D ; she 
 
 was a beauty cast in nature's loveliest mould, and 
 the faultless beauty of her countenance was en- 
 hanced by a divine sweetness of expression which 
 
108 
 
 constantly illuminated it. I had good cause to be- 
 lieve that the love, which within one hour from our 
 first meeting was kindled in my breast, was ere 
 long returned by her with equal fervour. 
 
 A year, hallowed to us by reciprocal affection, 
 glided on, and I had received my Degree. On the 
 recommendation of an eminent medical friend, my 
 father had determined on sending me to Paris to 
 complete my studies. The evening before my de- 
 parture from G was spent with Eleanor, and 
 
 ere I bade her farewell we had ^pledged our mutual 
 troth. In a short time I was in Paris, and pursuing 
 my professional labours with renewed ardour. Night 
 and day I toiled, making myself thoroughly ac- 
 quainted with the mysteries of the human frame — 
 and often amidst my researches was I struck with 
 the force of the expression, 'How fearfuUy and 
 wonderfully are we made.' 
 
 But to return. — At the period of which I speak it 
 was extremely difficult, either in France or in our 
 own country, to obtain subjects for dissection. Na- 
 tional prejudice prevailed against national good, 
 and in neither country would the legislature inter- 
 fere. What could be done? If an operation was un- 
 successfully performed, or ended fatally, blame and 
 abuse were heaped on the surgeon; and yet the 
 
109 
 
 only means by which the requisite knowledge could 
 be obtained, were denied him. Whilst attending 
 the University of G- , I had often joined in ex- 
 peditions for the purpose of obtaining newly buried 
 bodies; and although, at the moment, I have felt a 
 thrill of horror at the act of sacrilege, still I knew 
 that necessity was imperative. In Paris we con- 
 stantly visited the Pere la Chaise, and brought 
 away the corpses which had been most recently 
 interred ; and these, after being mangled on the 
 dissecting table, were again consigned to the earth. 
 Time flew on, and the day of my departure ar- 
 rived; I left Paris and hastened on the wings of im- 
 patience to my native land. In London I received 
 a letter from my father, in which casual mention 
 was made of Eleanor's illness. How I cursed the 
 heartless coldness which could speak with such in- 
 difference, as if it had been a matter of business, of 
 the illness of her who was so soon to be his son's 
 wife ! The news increased my anxiety to reach 
 home, and hurrying on, in two days I arrived in 
 
 G . It was about six in the evening when I 
 
 knocked at my father's door. In a moment I had 
 astounded my parent with hasty enquiries concern- 
 ing Eleanor, The old man stammered (I thought 
 from the effects of age) and replied that she was at 
 
no 
 
 Woodburn, her father's country residence in Ayr- 
 shire. It was too late to start that evening, and 
 though maddened at the delay, I saw there was no 
 remedy. Impatiently, and I fear irreverently, I 
 answered the questions of my father, and then, to 
 pass the time, I sallied out with a view of visiting 
 the dissecting-room. I was soon there, and was sa- 
 luted by the familiar voices of old friends. " We've 
 an expedition to-night," said one, "wiU you join us, 
 
 M ?" "With pleasure," I replied; "I want 
 
 something to pass the evening." The usual prepar- 
 ations were made, and we sallied forth. 
 
 The Hvely conversation of my companions rallied 
 me for a while, but when we stood by the grave, in 
 the churchyard attached to the ancient cathedral, I 
 felt gloomy and depressed. The coffin was raised, 
 and the body, by the light of a lamp, taken out and 
 thrust into a canvass bag. The box was then filled 
 with stones and again let down. In a few minutes 
 the grave was covered over and all traces of the re- 
 cent violation removed. A porter boi-e the sack be- 
 fore us, and after a brisk walk we were again in the 
 dissecting-room. While the body was being laid out 
 on the table I lit a cigar, and, having arrayed my- 
 self in one of the numerous gowns which hung round 
 the room, I proceeded knife in hand to the body. I 
 
Ill 
 
 lifted the cloth which concealed the face — 0, God ! 
 the sight that then met my eyes can never he effaced 
 from memory — it was the body of Eleanor. My 
 head swam round, and with a long, loud shriek I 
 
 feU senseless on the floor. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 When I awoke I was in my own bed in my father's 
 house, a physician, whose face I recognised, was 
 standing near gazing intently on my face, and my 
 father sat beside the bed. " The crisis is past — he 
 is saved," I heard Dr. N. say to my father; "quiet, 
 now, is the only thing necessary." "Tell me, 
 Doctor," I gasped out, "is it true?" "Hush, my 
 good Sir, you must not speak at present," replied 
 the Physician. Exhausted with even that shght 
 effort I fell back in bed. As I lay and tossed to and 
 fro the whole scene rose again before me, and the 
 sight rendered me again insensible. Not to detain 
 you too long, I learned that brain fever had ensued 
 from the shock which I had received. I learned 
 also that, on the day on which I reached home, 
 Eleanor had been buried, having died a few days 
 previously from a sudden attack of fever. My 
 father had intended reserving the news tiU the day 
 after my arrival, fearing the effect of a sudden com- 
 munication. 
 
 Months rolled on and I was still an invalid, and 
 
112 
 
 ever and anon the shade of Eleanor rose before me. 
 From that time till the present I have never enjoyed 
 a moment free from pain, mental or bodily; nay, 
 I am not sure in my own mind that I ought not to 
 be the inmate of a mad-house. Sleep I have none; 
 I am ever haunted by the remembrance of that fatal 
 night. Incessant care saved my life to be a burden 
 to myself, a nonentity or perhaps worse to my fel- 
 low-men. I need hardly add that I gave up my 
 profession and have since lived on my patrimony, 
 which, though small, is sufficient for my wants." 
 
 My unfortunate friend paused, while tears rolled 
 down his pallid cheeks. I attempted to speak con- 
 solation to his wounded spirit, but he was beyond its 
 blessed influence. That night I bade him a hearty 
 farewell, and parted from him with feehngs of lively 
 interest. Next morning early, I quitted Avoca for 
 Dublin. Not a week after, while reading an Irish 
 
 newspaper on board the steam-packet for G , 
 
 I saw with sorrow that Dr. M had committed 
 
 suicide. I have never doubted that the narration 
 of his melancholy tale, by opening afresh the wounds 
 of his spirit, increased his malady so as to impel 
 him to the commission of the rash act that severed 
 him from a world which, to him, had been the 
 theatre of such suflPerings and sorrow. 
 
 C. 
 
113 
 
 LULLABY AT SEA. 
 
 PROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 Slumber soundly, slumber child! 
 Fearful roars the tempest wild, 
 Raging round our trembling boat — ■ 
 Slumber sound, and hear it not. 
 
 Rest, Oh rest! thou angry deep! 
 Break not thou my infant's sleep; 
 Higher still the billows rise, 
 Calmer yet — the sleeper lies! 
 
 Slumber on thy mother's breast. 
 Till the tempest sink to rest; 
 And upon the silent sea 
 Sun and stars shine tranquilly. 
 
 Good night, my child ! and slumber deep- 
 Thy mother o'er thee watch will keep; 
 Amid storms — ^Alas! how blest they be, 
 Who can calmly sleep like thee ! 
 
114 
 
 HYMN TO AUTUMN. 
 
 September, 1846. 
 by robert gilfillan. 
 
 Welcome! Oh, welcome! 
 
 The red rip'ning grain; 
 The glory of harvest 
 
 Returneth again! 
 
 The sun shines in splendour. 
 
 In clear morning skies; 
 Or lovely at nightfall 
 
 The moonbeams arise! 
 
 The sower rejoices — 
 Give homage and praise; 
 
 And food to the reaper 
 Each valley displays! 
 
115 
 
 Welcome! Oli, welcome! 
 
 The red rip'ning grain; 
 The glory of harvest 
 
 Returneth again! 
 
 The world may be old now, 
 But this bear in mind — 
 
 That seed time and harvest 
 You ever shall find! 
 
 The wind in soft breezes 
 Wafts over the plain; 
 
 Away with desponding, 
 'Tis harvest again! 
 
 Oh! why to the Ruler 
 Your trust is so slow? 
 
 The same hand will bless us 
 That blest long ago ! 
 
 The same sun's above us, 
 The same sky's around; 
 
 'Tis only in man's heart 
 Misgivings are found! 
 
 The winter low 'red dreary, 
 The spring leaves were slow; 
 
116 
 
 And summer, loved pilgrim, 
 Came clouded in woe! 
 
 Though blushing in beauty 
 While scattering his flowers, 
 
 Yet aU his loved footsteps 
 Were watered with showers! 
 
 Short, short his glory, 
 
 Brief was his stay; 
 And from a sad world he 
 
 In tears went away! 
 
 AU, aU was sadness — 
 Hearts filled with pain; 
 
 But see joUy autumn 
 Returneth again! 
 
 Welcome his coming. 
 
 Nations and kings; 
 See what a burden 
 
 Of bounty he brings! 
 
 Look from the mountain, 
 
 Traverse the glen, 
 His advent it bringeth 
 
 Glad tidings to men! 
 
117 
 
 The cloud may down gather, 
 The tempest may rise, 
 
 But high o'er the tempest 
 Are bright smiling skies ! 
 
 The whirlwind may waken 
 His storms o'er the main, 
 
 But a smaU voice is heard 
 That soon stills them again ! 
 
 The lightnings may flash 
 And the thunders resound; 
 
 But a sparrow it falls not 
 Unmark'd to the ground ! 
 
 By earthquakes — sad fallen 
 Proud temples may lie — 
 
 But ONE ear is not deaf 
 To the ravens that cry ! 
 
 Then man, puny man, 
 
 In thy little hour 
 Art thou an exception 
 
 To heaven's mighty power! 
 
 Awake with thy singing. 
 Rejoice and be strong, 
 
 K 
 
118 
 
 The voice of the mourner 
 Now bursteth in song. 
 
 Let music and gladness 
 
 Give life to thy lay; 
 The fears of a people 
 
 Have all passed away ! 
 
 The seed fell in sadness 
 'Mid hopes and 'mid fears. 
 
 But see, now the sickle 
 Full laden appears ! 
 
 The strong men went forth 
 
 With a sorrowful brow, 
 But see them returning 
 
 In high gladness now ! 
 
 The maidens were mute 
 
 When the primrose was springing, 
 But the sear leaf it falls at the 
 
 Voice of their singing ! 
 
 There's joy in the uplands, 
 
 There's glory and glee. 
 By forest and meadow, 
 
 By mountain and lea ! 
 
119 
 
 Welcome! Oh, welcome ! 
 
 The red rip'ning grain, 
 The glory of harvest 
 
 Returneth again ! 
 
 East Hermitage, Leith, 
 
 September, 1846. 
 
120 
 
 ON POETICAL GENIUS. 
 
 Some inquiries wear an aspect so repulsive that, if 
 it were not for their relative advantages, few per- 
 sons would be willing to pursue them. They open 
 to us a wild and cheerless waste, possessing scarcely 
 any thing impressive or pleasing; and we enter 
 upon it with feelings resembling those of the tra- 
 veller as he pursues his way through the sultry 
 deserts. There are other inquiries which we are 
 desirous of pursuing for the immediate gratification 
 they afford. As soon as beheld they delight us with 
 their beauty, and leave us conscious of nothing be- 
 sides the power of their charms. 
 
 It would be idle to specify to which of these 
 classes the subject of our present essay belongs. 
 Unless we are mistaken in our anticipation of the 
 reader's feelings, it will have already decided that 
 question for itself We seem, while contemplating 
 it, to be gazing upon the features of an old friend, 
 whose tales delighted us in childhood, and tempted 
 
121 
 
 us at times to fancy him a wanderer from some 
 happier world ; and though that vision is broken, 
 and we have long since learned to cherish towards 
 him a fellow and equal feeling, there is still an 
 anxiety, no less delightful, in wondering what can 
 have made him look so unearthly, and where he 
 caught those glowing inspirations which filled us 
 so strangely with terror or joy. 
 
 On examining the peculiar qualities of poetical 
 genius, we at once perceive among them, exuberance 
 of passion, strong sensibility, and lofty sentiments. 
 The coolest intellect is all that is required for most 
 pursuits, and in many, passion would be detrimental. 
 In the mathematics and the physical sciences, for 
 example, the highest eminence may be reached 
 without any of the qualities just mentioned. But 
 while it is possible to find them in many different 
 varieties of genius, they are essential to the poetical, 
 since nothing that distinguishes poetry from prose, 
 could exist without their aid. That style of com- 
 position approaches nearest the essence of prose, 
 which combines, as much as possible, the qualities of 
 conciseness, rapidity, and precision. But the nature 
 of poetry seems to consist more in a dilation of the 
 subject beyond its natural size, and therefore re- 
 quires the language of amplification and hyperbole. 
 
122 
 
 Prose, as an instrument, is adapted for usefulness ; 
 poetry, as an end, is designed for pleasure. We 
 may sometimes blend them with advantage, but 
 their essential qualities are so obviously distinct, it 
 would be impossible to confound them. In those of 
 the former, the strength and acuteness of intellect 
 are most perceptible; while the latter are chiefly 
 distinguished by the glow of fancy and the fervour 
 of passion. 
 
 But though intellectual strength is not the cha- 
 racteristic of poetical genius, it is naturally, and in 
 a high degree, connected with it. We allow that 
 delicacy of sentiment, and an exquisite susceptibility 
 of what is beautiful, may be found in the absence 
 of mental superiority. But in estimating the degree 
 of intellectual strength, which is natural to poetical 
 genius, we ought to fix upon that which has been 
 united with the highest excellence of its peculiar 
 qualities, and when we remember that these ap- 
 proached perfection the nearest in the mind of such 
 men as Shakspeare and Milton, the truth of our 
 statement will be admitted. It is intellect which 
 frees the mind from the influence of local prejudices, 
 and discloses those scenes of ideal grandeur and 
 beauty, which cherish, if they do not produce, mag- 
 nanimity. It is intellect which gives us an enlarged 
 
123 
 
 acquaintance with nature, sheds a microscopic light 
 upon the various relations of life, and increases the 
 number of objects which are capable of interesting 
 the mind. It is intellect also that renders vision 
 and mystery palpable, and invests the refined, 
 the distant, and the abstract, with an air of reality 
 sufficient to awaken the passions. Thus the highest 
 order of poetical genius is a combination of moral 
 and intellectual elements: they reciprocally effect 
 each other. The former give direction to the latter, 
 and receive expansion, strength, and dignity, in 
 return. Without intellect, passion becomes degen- 
 erate, and tends rather to degrade, than to elevate, 
 its possessor; while without passion, intellect is a 
 mere machine, performing its task with a lifeless 
 regularity, but unable to quicken or vary its 
 movements But when both are united in the highest 
 degree, as in poetical genius, they expand and en- 
 noble each other. The feelings are refined and 
 thrown into a loftier channel: the faculties of the 
 mind are strengthened by the energy of enthusiasm; 
 both are exercised within an ampler range, and in- 
 stead of being influenced by merely local relations, 
 become susceptible of whatever is magnificent or 
 touching in nature. 
 
 It is important, in connexion with the preceding 
 
124 
 
 observations, to distinguish between a vigorous and 
 a cultivated intellect, — between what is natural, and 
 what is acquired. The discipline of education is 
 not essential to poetical genius: on the contrary, it 
 often endangers that simplicity which gives to poetry 
 its principal charm; and often, by fanciful refine- 
 ments, divests nature of that wildness and uncouth 
 majesty which are more adapted to impress the 
 mind than all the embellishments of art. Educa- 
 tion may guard us from natural defects, and lead to 
 the amendment of faults which might otherwise 
 pass unnoticed, but it also gives a wariness to 
 the mind, — a fear of slipping, which often prevents 
 it from venturing to difficult and dangerous places. 
 But the genius accustomed only to the restraints of 
 nature, feels no such timidity. Unconscious of dan- 
 ger, it knows no fear; its movements are reckless 
 and free; it bends its course wherever the inclination 
 leads; carelessly braves the elements, and plays, like 
 the eagle, with the thunder-cloud and tempest. 
 
 The independence of adventitious aid which is 
 thus peculiar to poetical genius, springs from the 
 nature of the material on which it is employed. 
 The object of most of the pursuits of learning and 
 science is to discover, in the popular sense of the 
 word, the reality of things. That which is seen 
 
125 
 
 does not satisfy, the veil must be drawn aside, and 
 the hidden features laid open. Hence it is neces- 
 sary, in order to prosecute such pursuits with any 
 degree of success, that the mind be accustomed to 
 look beyond the exterior of things'; that a close 
 acquaintance be formed with those subjects which 
 are allied to the one designed for investigation; and 
 above all, that habits of patient research and accu- 
 rate reasoning be acquired. Hence, the person who 
 would become proficient in any department of sci- 
 ence, must bring to it a mind previously disciplined 
 for the task; and, other quahfications being equal, 
 that which has received the highest degree of cul- 
 tivation will generally reap most success. But the 
 poet employs himself more in contemplating the 
 appearances, than in ascertaining the reality of 
 things — he distinguishes objects only by the different 
 impressions they produce, and feeling is with him 
 the subject, not of experiment, but experience. 
 He looks upon nature as a consecrated vestal, whom 
 it would be impiety to treat with rudeness, and he 
 therefore forbears to pry too curiously into what she 
 has chosen to keep secret. Instead of stripping the 
 objects of sense of everything which might mislead, 
 he pours over her a stream of imaginary qualities. 
 The charms of music, beauty, and song, powerful to 
 
126 
 
 others, kindle him to raptures, with numberless 
 associations. He dwells in a region of influences, 
 where everything is mystery and wonder, held by 
 a pleasing spell, which certainty would instantly 
 shiver. Hence his genius requires but little assist- 
 ance from art: its characteristic spirit is independ- 
 ent of philosophy and learning, and he who possesses 
 these treasures, must relax the rigour of their pre- 
 cepts, and lay his mind open to the influence of free 
 impression, before he may hope to share in the in- 
 spiration of the muses. 
 
 It is a common and may be to some extent a cor- 
 rect opinion that genius receives its peculiar cast 
 from nature, so that upon hearing of an individual 
 who has distinguished himself in any particular pur- 
 suit, it is commonly said that his qualifications were 
 born with him. Whatever amount of truth such a 
 sentiment may contain, it is certainly no wonder 
 that many have been willing to embrace it; some 
 from a readiness to countenance an opinion which 
 makes them appear the favourites of nature, and 
 others from an anxiety to escape the censures they 
 might incur for not possessing an accomplishment 
 which otherwise would be dependent on their own 
 exertions. The point, however, when considered 
 closely, resolves itself into questions which it is not 
 
127 
 
 very easy to answer. We find that different indi- 
 viduals have aptitudes for different pursuits, and we 
 have to decide whether such aptitudes resulted from 
 an original and inborn bias of the mind, or from the 
 influence of those circumstances which affected it 
 the earliest ; whether peculiar susceptibilities gave 
 to circumstances a superior power to impress, or 
 whether some circumstance, by its own unaided 
 strength, gave the mind a specific direction. We 
 know that circumstaiices are capable of exerting a 
 surprising power in changing the tenor and matur- 
 ing the faculties of the mmd. Many of the great 
 geniuses that figure conspicuously in history were 
 called forth by a series of propitious occurrences, so 
 that all are equally struck with the grandeur of the 
 opportunities they enjoyed, and with the mental po- 
 tency which dared to seize them. And though, in 
 the more advanced stages of life, a considerable 
 power may be required to affect the mental charac- 
 ter, we know that in infancy the smallest incident 
 is sometimes able to change it altogether ; and, per- 
 haps, there is scarcely a trait in the character of 
 matured genius which may not be traced to the 
 secret working of some influence in early years. 
 There is, it must be owned, a difficulty in deciding 
 upon the question, from the want of antecedent 
 
128 
 
 knowledge, and the obscurity which covers the early 
 mental history of every individual, yet sufficient may 
 be gathered to show that we are but doubtfully war- 
 ranted in saying that any particular genius was born 
 so, since all that distinguishes it from another of 
 equal power may have been imparted by the influence 
 of circumstances. 
 
 But, however its subsequent course may be de- 
 cided, we cannot withhold from genius the palm of 
 original superiority. It possesses a native mobility 
 and strength which secure pre-eminence in any pur- 
 suit, and though in many respects it may often be 
 rivalled by successful labour, there are others in 
 which it will ever maintain the ascendancy, beyond 
 the fear of competition ; gaining by a kind of intui- 
 tion what others are obliged to acquire by a toil- 
 some process, it is ever hastening on with accelerated 
 speed to make further discoveries. It perceives and 
 masters relations which others would lose sight of, 
 or be unable to grasp, and thus, by discovering con- 
 nexions between things apparently disjoined, gives 
 a continuity and order to the whole of its know- 
 ledge which increases the value of every part. Thus 
 genius becomes its own preceptor, and reaches per- 
 fection by multiplying its own resources. 
 
 These remarks are especially applicable to poeti- 
 
129 
 
 cal genius, since there is none which, has had to con- 
 tend with a greater number of rivals, or enjoys a 
 more manifest and inalienable superiority over them. 
 Few persons in their course through youth have 
 escaped the danger of imagining themselves poetic, 
 and many an effusion has been dignified with the 
 name poetry, which, to say the least, possessed a 
 very doubtful claim to that distinction. A more 
 respectable class of rivals is composed of those who 
 have unhappily mistaken their forte, and employ the 
 pen in useless attempts at poetry which might have 
 written successfully in prose; while a still higher 
 class is made up of those who condescend to poetry 
 for the sake of exemplifying their rules of criticism, 
 as if to show, in the spirit of a Roman victor, how 
 tamely the conquered muse will pass beneath the 
 yoke. But the genuine poet is distinguishable 
 among crowds of competitors. There is a freedom 
 and fulness in his effusions which no art can imitate. 
 He holds intercourse with nature, and breathes forth 
 the enthusiasm with which she has inspired him. 
 He can scarcely be said to originate. He gazes on 
 the beautiful or the sublime till his own bosom is 
 kindled, and then he transmits the flame to others. 
 His genius resembles the -lEolian harp, which sings 
 only when swept by the passing zephyr.- The reci- 
 
130 
 
 procal association of objects in his mind imparts to 
 everything additional loveliness, so that nothing 
 which meets his eye is devoid of interest. The 
 landscape is covered with a thousand reminiscences; 
 the deep shades of its hills and groves are haunted 
 with mystic beings, and its echoes utter strange 
 voices; every object of terror is invested with a vivid 
 reality; abstract ideas are connected with actual 
 developments, and thus exert a more powerful influ- 
 ence. He struggles with the patriot on the plains 
 of Marathon, and weeps with virtue at the shade of 
 Lucretia. His is the poetry of the soul; it makes 
 language only a medium of expression, and would 
 be just as real in its own nature if no words could 
 be found to express it. It is the idea which charms; 
 this has only to be apprehended, and then language 
 may be dispensed with. It is this kind of excellence 
 which has given celebrity to many poets whose writ- 
 ings are not remarkable for the elegancies of lan- 
 guage, and has raised a few to an elevation so lofty 
 that they remain uneclipsed after the emulation of 
 ages. 
 
 It would be an interesting task to note the secret 
 history of poetical genius, to watch its hidden flow, 
 its serpentine wanderings, and estimate the power 
 of those infl:uences which played upon it at different 
 
13i 
 
 periods and changed its subsequent course. From 
 how many embarrassments should we be relieved if 
 it were possible to detect the causes of those fre- 
 quent aberrations which have drawn down upon 
 genius by turns the pity and the censures of man- 
 kind; and what a melancholy gratification would it 
 afford us to discover the nature of that process by 
 which it extracted sweetness from its sorrows, and 
 gathered fresh vigour from the very misfortunes 
 which seemed to have whelmed and crushed it. We 
 delight in the illusion of supposing that the rare 
 qualities, we can scarcely contemplate but with 
 pleasure, must have brought to their possessor a su- 
 perior degree of enjoyment; and are quite unwilling 
 to think that he whose effusions have a sovereign 
 power in dispelling our sadness should himself be a 
 stranger to joy. The brilliancy of genius, too, is so 
 dazzling that we are often blind to its deformities; 
 and actions which, in humbler individuals, would 
 have drawn forth our instant reprehension, sur- 
 rounded to our view by so much that is beautiful, 
 attract to themselves sufficient comeliness to escape 
 our censure. But, in both these respects, a nar- 
 rower view of the object would probably undeceive 
 us. We should find that the same sensitiveness is 
 an inlet equally to joy and sorrow; and after dis- 
 
132 
 
 covering the dissatisfaction which is thus inseparable 
 from the purest of earthly pursuits, the frailty which 
 attaches to our nature in its noblest form, and the 
 imperfections which too often accompany the loftiest 
 intellectual endowments, feel ourselves ready to sigh 
 that genius should ever have despised that which 
 has the truest agreement with its nature, which 
 sprang from the same source, and, like a sister- 
 streamlet, is hastening on to mingle its waters with 
 the same ocean of supreme felicity and perfect good 
 — the spirit of genuine piety, 
 
 H. D. 
 
133 
 
 TWILIGHT IN ROTHESAY BAY. 
 
 'Tis pleasant, when the gloaming falls, to gaze 
 On the bright cloudlets round the setting sun. 
 To note — as twilight deepens — through their 
 
 haze. 
 Marshalling their hosts — the planets one by one 
 Shine forth, and circling in their mystic maze. 
 Begem the brow of Night. The soul aspires. 
 Kindling and glowing in a glad amaze, 
 When soaring Fancy to night's starry fires, 
 Thus lifts her raptured eye, and dreams what she 
 
 desires. 
 
 And mark where out upon the tranquil sea. 
 Mirrored distinctly in the azure tide, 
 A white saU gleams and quivers. In her glee 
 So shakes the lark the dew drops from her side 
 With fluttering wing. The form and phantom 
 
 glide 
 Noiselessly onwards; but a softened sound 
 Comes like an echo. Do the wavelets chide 
 
134 
 
 The Moon, their mistress, that her brow is bound 
 With clouds: or laugh they thus because their goal 
 is found ? 
 
 And love can make more lovely — (Nay, that start. 
 Was it the throb of pleasure or of pain ? — 
 Must not deter me: for my anxious heart 
 WiU not allow my faltering tongue again 
 To wear of silence the ungentle chain.) 
 True love the beautiful can beautify: 
 Can gild, when clearest falls the summer rain. 
 The etherial bow that spans the spacious sky 
 With added hues, with which its own would vainly vie. 
 
 Darkness has closed around — the glowing west 
 Has doffed her glorious vestments — the far sail 
 That glimmered o'er the gladsome glancing breast 
 Of ocean, has evanished; and the gale, 
 Tho' soft, is now less sweet — but stiU the tale 
 That made us eloquent, detains us here. 
 When love's emotions youthful hearts assail. 
 There is a halo of its truth sincere, 
 And of its beauty, thrown o'er all we see and hear. 
 
 It was a glorious twilight; but it drew 
 
 Part of its charm from sympathies which dwell 
 
135 
 
 Deep in our hearts. The winged moments flew 
 Unwatched away: the gathering shadows fell 
 Unheeded, for a joy ineffable 
 Was ours, and is. And while we both obey 
 Its sacred, its sweet impulses, the spell 
 Which now illumes our path will ne'er decay, 
 But will unchanged remain, and cheer life's onward 
 way. 
 
 R. K. 
 
136 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY ROBERT GILFILLAN. 
 
 Tune. — "Sae Flaxen loere her Ringlets. 
 
 By Allan's winding stream that brings 
 ■ Deep mountain music in its flow; 
 Near loved Blawlowan's woody braes. 
 Where flowers of fairest beauty blow. 
 There straying — surveying, 
 The op'ning sweets of budding May; 
 
 Or hearing — So cheering. 
 The mavis and the blackbird's lay. 
 I met a maid whose lovely form 
 Seemed like a vision given in boon, 
 To teU the verdant spring time o'er. 
 And usher in the flowery June! 
 
 Her eye beamed forth soft glances. 
 The index of a peaceful mind; 
 And o'er her face each feature 
 Displayed the heart both true and kind. 
 
137 
 
 So charming — and warming, 
 
 No inward pride nor outward show; 
 
 But simple — and gentle, 
 As if no beauty she did know! 
 Her voice was like the harmony 
 The grove gives out at evening's close, 
 When nature's parting echo 
 Invites to peace and soft repose. 
 
 Give me thy heart fair maiden? 
 
 And I affection offer thee; 
 
 That during life's long journey 
 
 Shall waken ties of sympathy! 
 
 Enhancing — advancing. 
 
 Our days in peace and bliss wiU glide: 
 
 Extending — and blending 
 The hopes and joys by true love tried. 
 While thus in that fond happiness, 
 Time shall not change — nor chance shall chill; 
 But as we travel onward. 
 Love's deep'ning stream shall deepen still. 
 
 Blawlowan's braes are bonnie. 
 And Allan banks are fair to see; 
 But 'mid their summer splendour 
 A fairer object lives for me! 
 
138 
 
 Her smile then — beguiles then, 
 Loved hours all free, from woe or care: 
 
 No morrow — ^brings sorrow, 
 Lite sunny skies, no cloud is there; 
 The halcyon days run smoothly on, 
 With her of all 'neath heaven the best; 
 Nor ask I more than her on earth, 
 The bonnie lassie of the West! 
 
139 
 
 CONSTANCE MORDAUNT. 
 Chapter I. 
 
 " I remember, I remember, 
 How my childhood fleeted by." 
 
 " Sad vetuere patres quod non potuere vetare." 
 
 How favoured are those happy individuals whose lot, 
 during the time of childhood, has been cast in pleasant 
 places ! What a never-failing source of pleasure is 
 thus afforded them ! If the sky of their manhood 
 has been overcast by shadows, in old age, even though 
 the gloom still overhangs them, they look back upon 
 the sunshine of former days rendered yet more 
 bright by contrast, and gild the clouds among 
 which they walk with a borrowed light, by dwelling 
 upon reminiscences of the past. No burden of 
 misery can block up this perennial fountain of 
 delight. Memory rules man with an indomitable 
 sway. He is her unresisting slave. She binds him 
 with fetters from which there is no escape, Happy 
 are they whose fetters are of gold, and not of iron. 
 
140 
 
 And happy are they, who being entrusted with the 
 care of youth, can console themselves by the reflec- 
 tion, that through their instrumentality, this plea^ 
 sure has been afforded to some, at least, of that race 
 which is born to trouble. Of this fortunate class was 
 Constance Mordaunt, who was passing through her 
 childhood without one pang of grief, — perchance, 
 however, only deferring to maturer years the en- 
 durance of those sorrows, which all must experience 
 in a greater or a less degree, during their sojourn 
 here. She had been born and brought up at her 
 father's seat in the north of England, the very cen- 
 tre of that lovely scenery, the charms of which have 
 inspired such a galaxy of poetic talent. From her 
 infancy she had been taught to feel delight — than 
 which none is more pure or more exquisite — in the 
 contemplation of nature's beauties ; nor had other 
 sources of pleasure been wanting. Her home was 
 charming as a home could be, but yet aU her hap- 
 piness was not found there. She went beyond its 
 bounds in her search after the sweets of existence. 
 
 Her father had always been intimate with Mr. 
 Lennox who inhabited a lovely villa close to his 
 own, almost upon the banks of the charming lake 
 Windermere. Mr. Lennox had spent the greater 
 part of his life upon a small estate that belonged to 
 
141 
 
 him there, deriving his income principally from a 
 property which he possessed in Lancashire, but 
 which he seldom, if ever, visited. An elderly and 
 very decorous maiden sister kept house for him, his 
 wife having died young, leaving him father of two 
 boys. The eldest of these was delicate and unfit for 
 out- door exercise, but the youngest was the inse- 
 parable companion of Constance. Together they 
 walked, rode, played, and studied. Together they 
 rambled over all the country round, exploring every 
 spot where wild fruits or wild flowers were to be 
 found, even at their early age drinking deep draughts 
 of that exalted pleasure which bounteous nature 
 bestows upon her lovers ; investing each spring and 
 grot with its association of peculiar hSppiness ; thus 
 peopling the scene with beings far more enchanting 
 to those who could recognise them, than the naiads 
 and wood-nymphs of ancient fable. And by degrees, 
 so gradual, as to be all but imperceptible, did they 
 change their relation to one another. Gradually 
 the boy came to extend his protection, and prefer 
 his homage to the fair girl who was his constant 
 playmate. A blooming flower, a rare wild fruit, a 
 lately tamed pet, or some such child-like offering 
 was now oft presented, and though he did not ex- 
 claim, with Virgil's Damoetas, 
 
142 
 
 " Parta mese Veneri sunt munera, namque notavi. 
 Ipse locum aeriae quo congessere palumbes," — 
 
 Or with Shenstone's lover, 
 
 " I have found out a gift for my fair, 
 The spot where the wood-pigeons breed." 
 
 Though his feelings were less classically expressed ; 
 yet they were not the less sincere and heart-felt, nor 
 was the gift less acceptable. 
 
 This intimacy was not unperceived by the higher 
 powers ; on the contrary, it was rather encouraged. 
 The delicate state of his brother's health rendered 
 it extremely probable that Henry Lennox would 
 eventually succeed to his father's property, and in 
 that case, the union of the two estates would, of 
 course, be very desirable. Wherefore the old peo- 
 ple would smile approvingly upon the fair young 
 pair, as with their arms wound round each other's 
 necks they sauntered along the lawn ; the middle- 
 aged aunt would remark with a knowing smile, 
 " that they would be more than mere playmates ere 
 long." 
 
 Years passed away. The fair boy and girl, who 
 had lately sought to avow their affection, now became 
 more reserved, though not less loving. The former 
 
143 
 
 went to school. At every vacation lie returned to 
 home and his own dear Constance, with feelings of 
 renewed delight. At last he was to go to Oxford. 
 The day before his departure was spent in revisiting 
 the haunts of former days, and in laying plans for 
 the future, gilded with the rich colourings of hope. 
 The aspirations of youth are ever cheerful — indeed, 
 how can they be otherwise, when the sorrows of life 
 —to use a beautiful and well known comparison, are 
 like the irregularities on distant mountains, softened 
 down by the intervening space, but like them, be- 
 come more rugged and formidable as we approach 
 nearer. Many gifts had these two exchanged, but 
 Constance now bestowed a new one. She had heard 
 of the marvellous properties appertaining to the 
 torquoise, and as she presented Henry with a ring, she 
 whispered in his ear, " Shouldst thou ever forget 
 Springvale — Henry, this ring will lose its lovely 
 blue, and betray thy lack of recollection." 
 
 Of course the gift was received with protestations 
 that its donor and her abode were alike indelibly 
 impressed on his memory. Lennox went to Ox- 
 ford. He never once came home during the three 
 years he remained at College. His father liked 
 young men to be a good deal on the Continent, so 
 every long vacation was spent there, and the shorter 
 
144 
 
 holidays he devoted to visiting his relations in other 
 parts of the country. Besides, for the last two years^ 
 his father kept him away from home with another 
 end. His elder brother's health was becoming more 
 confirmed, and as the chances of his succeeding to 
 the property diminished, Mr. Lennox began to dis- 
 approve of the growing intimacy between him and 
 Constance Mordaunt. When Henry did return, 
 then, he found the aspect of affairs considerably 
 altered. Mr. Lennox took the opportunity of ex- 
 pressing his sentiments upon the occasion of his 
 son's receiving an invitation to dine at Springvale. 
 
 He called him into the library as he was setting 
 off. — "Ever since you were a child, my dear boy, 
 I have observed a friendship between you and Con- 
 stance Mordaunt. I wish now to caution you against 
 allowing that friendship to ripen into a warmer feel- 
 ing. My reasons for this," he continued, noticing 
 his son's look of blank amaze, " must be obvious to 
 you. The improved state of your brother's health 
 renders it very unlikely that you will ever succeed me. 
 Under these circumstances, you will at once perceive 
 the impropriety of disregarding my wishes, and en- 
 gaging a girl's affections when you are unable to 
 support her, well knowing, for I can assure you of 
 the fact, that her parents will never consent to your 
 
145 
 
 union. Besides, whatever your prospects — the junc- 
 tion of our estates has long been desired both by 
 Mr. Mordaunt and myself, and we should therefore 
 much prefer uniting Constance to your elder bro- 
 ther." 
 
 "But, my dear Sir," broke in Henry, "are our 
 wishes not to be consulted ? Is our happiness no 
 object?". 
 
 "I would fain hope," rejoined his father, some- 
 what more gravely ; " nay, I am pretty sure, that 
 her happiness is not yet at all concerned in the 
 matter. As for yourself, I hope, in this aflfair, you 
 will show yourself a man. We are not born into 
 this world to seek for happiness, but to perform our 
 duty, and not unfrequently the paths of happiness 
 and duty appear, at least, to run different ways. 
 Your duty is clear. It is to obey your father, and 
 refrain from tempting Constance to disobey hers. 
 Were your fortune ever so great, the fact that her 
 parents disapproved of the match should be suffi- 
 cient to restrain you, and much more ought this to 
 be the case, when you have no fortune at all. I 
 have mentioned this, Henry, in kindness. I hope I 
 have mentioned it in time. I hope your former im- 
 pressions may not have been very vivid, and that 
 even if they were, a three year's absence may have 
 
146 
 
 gone far to efface them. But, however this may be, 
 your course is clear. If you disobey me, it will not, 
 in my eyes, exonerate you from blame, to say you 
 were in love. I do not belong to the French School 
 of philosophy which considers that plea as an ex- 
 cuse for any folly. I regard love as like all our 
 other passions, and think that like them, it can be 
 restrained. I trust you wiU not disappoint me. Be 
 off now, you're too late already." 
 
 Various were the emotions which agitated the 
 breast of Henry Lennox as he rode over to Spring- 
 vale. What right had any one to dictate to him ? 
 what room was there for dictation on such a subject? 
 was Love — that ever present, and constantly invoked 
 passion to be shackled by the cold considerations of 
 worldly prudence ? no poem, no tale, is complete 
 without it ; nay, each one of them is based upon it. 
 — All read and admire. Shall it then be repudiated 
 only where it should be most cherished — in every- 
 day life ? — Where its softening influences are most 
 needed, shall its existence be denied? away with 
 such sacrilegious thoughts! In all faithfulness I 
 shall bend prostrate at the shrine of that divinity to 
 whom all men have presented their choicest gar- 
 lands — confident that she wiU delight in a happier 
 offering than a blighted and a broken heart. — Yet 
 
147 
 
 amid all these most youth-like meditations, graver, 
 more sorrowful, but more truthful reflections would 
 intrude ; and ere the close of his ride, reason had 
 almost resumed her usurped sceptre. 
 
 But when he entered the drawing-room at Spring- 
 vale, he was greeted by a fair being who completely 
 drove all prudence out of his head. Constance had, 
 in truth, become a surpassingly lovely creature. In 
 three years all her budding beauties had expanded. 
 From a pretty, rosy, laughing girl, she had grown 
 into a lovely fascinating woman. Her bright golden 
 hair, her deep blue eyes, shaded by their long 
 lashes, her coral lips, her transparent skin, 
 
 "Which never hid the blood, but held it in." 
 
 altogether composed a tout ensemble which charmed 
 as soon as seen. 
 
 And her mental culture had advanced in propor- 
 tion to her outward loveliness. It would require a 
 lengthened disquisition rather than a few incidental 
 remarks, to investigate the true nature of intellec- 
 tual beauty in a woman. It does not consist in the 
 possession of the loftier and more scholastic acquire- 
 ments, which are denied to women from the very 
 social position in which they are placed ; and for 
 
148 
 
 being unacquainted with which, they are, with true 
 Jedwood justice, reproached by the weak-minded of 
 the opposite sex. It is an elegant mind, and elegant 
 accomplishments, general, though superficial know- 
 ledge, and above all, a sympathetic power of lively 
 comment, that give to a charming woman the ex- 
 traordinary fascination which she possesses. 
 
 But this may not be now dwelt upon: — Suffice it 
 to say, that the sight of Constance scattered all 
 Henry's prudent resolutions to the winds ; and by 
 the time he had spent an hour in her society, and 
 had listened to her sweet clear voice accompanied 
 by that most lady-like of all instruments — the harp, 
 he was more desperately in love than ever. 
 
 " What a lovely evening ! " said she, as she stepped 
 to the window and drew aside the blind — "what a 
 lovely evening ! Do come out. Papa, and take a 
 walk on the lawn." 
 
 "Why, my dear, I'U rather leave that for you 
 young folks. When people arrive at my time of life, 
 they come to be aware that there is such a thing as 
 dew, and that it is unfortunately connected with 
 rheumatism. However, go you if you choose, don't 
 let me keep you in." 
 
 "I wish you would 'nt talk about dew Papa — I 
 hate it. — However, since you won't come, — will you 
 — Henry ? 
 
149 
 
 "Will I come V 
 
 It was indeed a lovely evening, as these two saun- 
 tered together on the lawn. After talking for a 
 while on indifferent subjects, they sunk into silence, 
 as they gazed on the bewitching scene. The moon 
 was careering high in the heavens — a few light fleecy 
 clouds, "like cars for gods to journey by," were 
 chasing each other over the deep blue vault. A bat 
 would now and then dart swiftly across their path, 
 and then vanish into obscurity ; the moths flickered 
 to and fro under the silvery light. Not a breath of 
 wind rustled the leafy boughs of the neighbouring 
 trees. All was stillness, and the quaint adornments 
 of the lawn, the queer old statues ranged upon ter- 
 races of green turf, together with the rich flower- 
 beds interspersed, all looked more lovely than ever 
 beneath that cold and refining light ; while the air 
 was loaded with the perfume ascending from the 
 sweet scented flowers of evening. And thus they 
 strolled on, awed into silence before this revelation 
 of nature's beauty, until Henry, from the loveliness 
 around him, turned his gaze upon that yet more per- 
 fect loveliness that beamed by his side. 
 
 "Constance," murmured he — "My Constance." 
 She turned towards him, and reading his feehngs in 
 his eye, trembled with agitation. Oh ! it was a 
 
150 
 
 moment to be seized. He poured into no unwilling 
 ear, all his hopes, and doubts, and fears, and pains, 
 confessed his own unworthiness, blamed his precipi- 
 tation, but pleaded his ardent and unextinguishable 
 love ; until sinking upon a bank, she hid her face 
 in her hands and whispered, " Oh, Henrj ! we have 
 been too imprudent." 
 
 Then his conscience smote him. Then his father's 
 warning rose up within to condemn him. He stood 
 rebuked before himself. But why allow this weeping 
 girl to think so ? why not rather banish her sorrow? 
 So he spoke to her words of comfort ; spoke of his 
 high hopes and aspirations — of the position he would 
 win for himself and her — of the great deeds for 
 which his energy and her love would fit him — of the 
 future bliss that was in store for them, which their 
 present sorrows would but enhance ; and upon this 
 last theme he dealt with such impassioned earnest- 
 ness, that soon the fair face of Constance, beaming 
 with affection, was turned towards his, and her lips 
 parted with an assenting smile, claimed such thanks 
 as best became them. 
 
 "Your saunter has been a long one," said Mr. 
 Mordaunt, as Lennox re-entered the drawing-room, 
 "where is Constance?" 
 
 " She has just gone to her room — she says she'll 
 be down presently." 
 
151 
 
 But presently a maid appears with "Miss Con- 
 stance's compliments, and she would remain in her 
 own room that night as she felt rather chilled." 
 
 "I thought so," said her father, "that's what 
 comes of romantic walks by the light of the moon. 
 I knew how it would be." 
 
 These observations were, of course, very gratifying 
 to Lennox — who now found himself doomed to spend 
 the rest of the evening in a most disagreeable man- 
 ner — listening to the harangues of a somewhat prosy 
 old gentleman, about draining and the corn-laws, 
 game-preserving and Ireland, and still worse, bound 
 to seem interested in these same harangues ; while, 
 in truth, his thoughts were far enough away. This 
 latter part of his task, however, we are afraid he 
 performed very ill, for after he had taken his leave, 
 somewhat earlier than was quite decorous, Mr. 
 Mordaunt remarked to his wife. "I don't think 
 Henry Lennox has been at aU improved at College. 
 He has got a vile self-conceited way with him, that 
 makes him never seem as if he cared what one was 
 saying." 
 
 Of course his wife dared not hint that perhaps he 
 really did not care, much less state the cause of 
 such indifference, which with all a woman's quick- 
 ness she had already divined. 
 
152 
 
 Why was it that both these young lovers, when 
 alone, felt, as it were, a cold undefinable dread 
 chill their hearts when they thought on what had 
 passed ? Was it only Prudence admonishing them 
 that they had too recklessly defied her dictates, and 
 that they must abide the consequences? or do 
 "coming events" really "cast their shadows be- 
 fore ?" and are mortals, while stumbling in the gloom 
 of ignorance through this world, really warned by 
 presentiments of future evil, to prepare themselves 
 for the danger ! — Why was it that in the petitions 
 offered up that night by Constance, there was more 
 of deprecating future suffering, than of thankfulness 
 for present joy ? 
 
 " Even thus the dark and bright will kiss — 
 The sunniest things throw sternest shade, 
 
 And there is even a happiness 
 That makes the heart afraid." 
 
153 
 
 Chapter IL 
 
 ■ The maid that loves 
 
 Goes out to sea upon a shattered bark, 
 And puts her trust in miracles for safety.'" 
 
 Much time had not been allowed these two to pro- 
 secute their hidden love, when a sudden change was 
 effected by the arrival of a visitor to Mr. Lennox, 
 in the shape of a brilliant dashing niece of his from 
 London, who had often played with her cousin 
 Henry in the days of yore. Emma Courtenay was 
 not what is commonly called a beauty, but she was 
 one of those creatures that, to gentlemen, are pecu- 
 liarly fascinating, lively, having seen a great deal of 
 society, with much superficial information, with 
 bright black eyes, and long dark ringlets, she was 
 generally the gayest of the gay ; while, if she de- 
 sired it, she could assume an air of pensive reflec- 
 tion, which formed a most attractive relief to her 
 more excited moments. Mr. Lennox had invited 
 his niece with the express purpose of detaching his 
 son from Miss Mordaunt. His wishes were com- 
 pletely gratified. Miss Courtenay was exceedingly 
 
154 
 
 fond of gentlemen's attention ; in short, the pre- 
 vailing fault in her character was an inordinate love 
 of admiration. Love of admiration in a woman I 
 what a theme for a moral essay ! how many heart- 
 burnings has it occasioned ! how many miserable 
 instances of its evils might be given ! but the one 
 narrated in the following pages must for the nonce 
 suffice. This feeling or rather passion, for a passion 
 it was in her, caused Miss Courtenay entirely to 
 monopolize the attentions of Henry Lennox. His 
 elder brother was in the south of England, so he 
 was the only gentleman with whom she could flirt. 
 
 "Well, what's to be done to-day?" Mr. Lennox 
 would inquire, as soon as breakfast was over. 
 
 " To-day — Oh ! I want Henry to ride with me 
 over to C . I wish particularly to see it." 
 
 "I'm very much honoured," says poor Henry, 
 " but I am engaged to go to Springvale to-day." 
 
 " Pah ! never mind Springvale. You can go there 
 any day, but you can't always ride with me to 
 C ." 
 
 " I am duly sensible of the truth of your observa- 
 tions, but I have some flowers I promised to bring 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, and I really must go." 
 
 " That's only a pretence. The groom can take 
 them. However, if you have any flowers to take 
 
155 
 
 to Mrs. or to Miss Mordaunt which you would prefer 
 •delivering yourself — don't let any engagement with 
 me detain you." 
 
 " Oh, not at all ; I should be most happy to ride 
 with you, in fact, I would prefer it." 
 
 "Then John can easily take the flowers," inter- 
 rupted his father — at the same time ringing the bell 
 and ordering the horses. 
 
 Henry had not courage on proposing calling at 
 Springvale first, which was in a totally different 
 
 direction from C , and getting Constance to ride 
 
 with them; and neither Emma nor his father seemed 
 to dream of such a plan. 
 
 In this manner, then, was poor Henry constantly 
 tormented. Once when he ventured to take his own 
 way, he received such a lecture from his father on 
 the duty of endeavouring to amuse his guests, that 
 he never again attempted resistance. 
 
 Of course Constance was not long insensible to 
 this change. She perceived it at first only in the 
 prolonged absence of her lover, for which she readily 
 found an excuse. But as these became more fre- 
 quent — as longer and longer intervals elapsed be- 
 tween the times of his appearing at Springvale, even 
 her forbearance began to give way. It was unkind, 
 she thought, to leave her thus. He might easily 
 
156 
 
 get away some times ; his father might escort his 
 cousin on some occasions. The poor girl little fan- 
 cied that the father was the prime cause of this 
 estrangement, and that what he certainly might, he 
 would not do, in order that the duty might devolve 
 upon his son. But Constance did not know this, and 
 the melancholy reflections which consequently be- 
 set her, began to pale her blooming cheek, and check 
 her mirthful smile. Meanwhile the charms of Emma 
 Courtenay were producing their due effect upon 
 Henry. He certainly did not love Constance less, 
 but still he came to be less troubled with the society 
 of Emma ; and while he longed to see Springvale, 
 he did not therefore wish to avoid riding with his 
 cousin. Don't fly into a rage with him, and shout 
 out, "the inconstant wretch. " He was not incon- 
 stant — his affections had never changed — those new 
 feelings had grown up within him unconsciously to 
 himself, and moreover it is not in nature for a young 
 man to resist the softening influence of a pretty 
 woman's smiles. But the reader may settle the 
 point as he pleases — disputation would take up too 
 much time. 
 
 The three principal actors had never yet been 
 brought together, but the time was coming when 
 this was to be accomplished. Mr. Lennox received 
 
157 
 
 an invitation for himself and family to dine at 
 Springvale. 
 
 When they entered the drawing-room, Henry was 
 startled by Constance's pale cheeks and cool recep- 
 tion of him. He did not at first understand the 
 cause, and a comparison was for a moment instituted 
 between them and Emma's frank manners and ani- 
 mated expression. But it was only for a moment — 
 in the next he divined the cause of her depression, 
 and determined that night to allay it. But Hell, 
 they say, is paved with good intentions. 
 
 During dinner there was not much room for ex- 
 clusive attention, but when the gentlemen came up 
 stairs he forthwith devoted himself to Constance. 
 Emma, however, could not let this go on long. 
 " See, Henry, I have arrived at a knotty point in 
 the working of your shppers. I don't know what 
 colour to choose next. Pray come here and look at 
 my worsteds." 
 
 There was no help for it, so he went. She's 
 making him slippers — thought Constance. It was 
 a trifle in itself, but he had gone to speak to her^ 
 and he would stay with her, and — and — and alto- 
 gether she became very unhappy. Mr. Lennox 
 leaving a fat squire to play the agreeable (?) to 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, came and sat by her, talked as 
 
158 
 
 amusingly as he could, led her to the piano, and, in 
 fact, remained by her almost the whole night ; 
 while Miss Courtenay continued to engross his son. 
 
 It was a fine autumn evening, and as the eye of 
 Miss Courtenay wandered through the half-closed 
 curtains, and caught a glimpse of the beautiful 
 scene beyond, lit up by a fine harvest moon ; she 
 was at once seized with a desire for a stroll. " Oh, 
 do let's go and have a walk, before we return home, 
 it will be so delightful!" 
 
 "Certainly," said Mr. Mordaunt, "though my 
 selfishness would make me oppose the motion, for I 
 am too much afraid of cold to accompany you," 
 
 " Oh, Henry will chaperon us," replied Mr. Len- 
 nox, " and thanks to your kindness, he knows the 
 grounds well." 
 
 "Now I'm ready, Henry," laughed his cousin, as 
 she wrapped a shawl round her neck, " give me your 
 arm." 
 
 This was not exactly what Henry Lennox had in- 
 tended. He had intended to enjoy a walk with 
 Constance ; but he saw his father's eye fixed upon 
 him — he coloured, hesitated, and — consented. 
 
 Both the blush and the hesitation was seen by 
 Constance, but with the usual perversity of jealousy, 
 she attributed them to a wrong cause — to a feeling 
 of conscious guilt. 
 
159 
 
 They stepped out upon the lawn. It was a fine 
 evening — just such another as that formerly de- 
 scribed. The events of that night rushed vividly into 
 the mind of at least one of the party, as she walked 
 on, leaning on Mr. Lennox's arm. She thought 
 of the impassioned words he had whispered in her 
 ear — of his vows and protestations — of his bright 
 prophecies for the future ; and now, even when he 
 was standing on that very bank, whereon she then 
 had leant — the comparison was too bitter ; and a tear 
 of mingled grief and anger trickled down her cheek. 
 What Lennox felt, we cannot exactly take upon 
 ourselves to say ; we don't believe he thought much 
 about the matter, for Miss Courtenay was amusing 
 him extremely, and had been very entertaining all 
 the evening. 
 
 They re-entered the house, and soon rose to go. 
 Henry was the last to bid his hostess good night. 
 She detained him a little to ask about some rare 
 plant he had sent her. His father had left the 
 room ; he was growing very impatient, for he wanted 
 to speak to Constance ; at last Mrs. Mordaunt re- 
 leased him. His father was in the carriage— he 
 turned to Constance, but she was gone, and he 
 caught sight of her white dress, as she left the room 
 by an opposite door." 
 
160 
 
 " You can't have any coleur de rose recollections of 
 your party, Henry," said his cousin as they stepped 
 out of the carriage, " for you've been unusually dull 
 during the drive home. I don't think you've spoken 
 one word the whole way." 
 
 Oh ! the bitterness of self-reproach ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "I do not blame you, Henry," said Constance, 
 speaking low and quick, as the tears fell fast from 
 her eyes. " I do not blame you, I was perhaps 
 foolish to expect it otherwise ; but I have a right to 
 demand that your attentions to me should hence- 
 forth cease." 
 
 "Nay, but listen to me — my own love." 
 " No, Henry ; it is due to myself that I make this 
 painful interview as short as possible. I do not 
 reproach you. I rather reproach my own folly — and 
 I do not desire your exculpation. 
 
 " But you have not heard me. My father." — 
 " Your father may not have approved our engage- 
 ment, it would have been surprising if he had ; but, 
 as a gentleman, he would have expressed his dis- 
 pleasure openly ; he would have sent his son from 
 home, forbid intercourse ; done anything rather than 
 attempt to steal away your affections thus — to make 
 one woman the instrument of accomplishing the 
 misery of another." 
 
161 
 
 Ah! too trustful, yet too suspicious! 
 
 " Besides," continued she, " your father may have 
 forced you to give me up ; but he could not have 
 forced you to do so without an explanation to me^ — 
 he could not have made you love another, and that 
 you did so love, my eyes bore witness. — Do not plead 
 an excuse, the very mention of which is a second 
 violation of truth." 
 
 "But, he did force everything." 
 
 " Lennox, Lennox, your conduct has caused me 
 the greatest misery, such defences but excite my 
 contempt. We must part now, for I see my mother 
 on the avenue, and she must not find us thus. 
 Farewell! I wish for your happiness, though you 
 have for ever blighted mine." 
 
 " Constance, Constance, I beg — I implore you to 
 hear me !" 
 
 But it was too late, with a fresh burst of agony, 
 the unhappy girl had hurried from the room. 
 
 Some days after the dinner at Springvale, Lennox 
 had ridden over to have an explanation with Con- 
 stance. He found her alone, and a conversation 
 ensued which terminated in the manner described. 
 
 His reflections as he rode homeward were by no 
 means to be envied. He reproached himself with 
 pusillanimity ; with having too implicitly obeyed 
 
162 
 
 his father ; with having neglected to enlighten Con- 
 stance ; with every thing, in fact, except that in 
 which he was really to blame. He never once re- 
 proached himself with having concealed his engage- 
 ment from his indulgent parent ; he never once 
 reflected that if his father had known of its exist- 
 ence, he would probably not have broken off the 
 match at all, or at all events would have taken 
 more open and decided means of doing so. But 
 though he did blame himself, though he felt that 
 his heart had not been altogether true, yet he 
 blamed Constance even more. He blamed her for 
 leivty, suspicion, and injustice. " She never can 
 have loved me," he cried, "or she would not so 
 readily have cast me off." 
 
 " Alas ! how light a cause may move 
 Dissension between those who love !" 
 
 But was this a light cause ? Had he given only a 
 light cause why Constance should esteem him false ? 
 Are many of the causes really light which seem 
 so? Are not men too prone to think that women 
 should take them as they find them ? to think that 
 they are well had on any terms, and therefore to be 
 careless of putting any restraints on their conduct ? 
 
163 
 
 to assert their lordship of the creation by aUowing 
 their actions to run at variance with their protesta- 
 tions, and then demanding that the latter alone 
 should be accredited ? 
 
 They had parted in anger, but a reconciliation 
 might soon have been effected, had it not been for 
 the repeated folly of Lennox. He had derived 
 most of his ideas of women, of young women at 
 least, froin novels ; so guided by these monitors, he 
 thought the best way of regaining Constance's affec- 
 tion, was to pique her by redoubling his attentions 
 to Miss Courtenay. With a silly woman — are we 
 wrong in saying with many ? — this might have suc- 
 ceeded, but upon one of such high principle and 
 pure education as Constance, aU these arts were 
 entirely thrown away. She attributed his con- 
 duct to its ostensible motive — admiration of his 
 cousin and indifference towards her ; and it was 
 perhaps fortunate for him she did so, for had she 
 penetrated his real design, her only emotion would 
 have been one of increased contempt at his having 
 formed so low an estimate of her character. Thus 
 the breach was becoming every day wider, and alto- 
 gether things were in a very hopeful way. 
 
 While everything was thus tending towards the 
 accomplishment of Mr. Lennox's wishes ; that gen- 
 
164 
 
 tleman suddenly chose to interfere, and ruin the 
 whole affair. Had he but left matters to go on as 
 they were, he would have been quite successful, but 
 he thought fit to alter them, and the alteration he 
 adopted was the very worst possible. He took it 
 into his head that his son was becoming attached to 
 Constance, and that he should take him away from 
 home. Accordingly, happening to receive a letter 
 from his eldest son, saying that he had been some- 
 what unwell, he declared it necessary to set off at 
 once. Henry petitioned for a day's reprieve ; and 
 he got off with a promise that he would follow his 
 father next day. 
 
 He took the carriage round by Springvale, and 
 called there to pay his adieu. Only father and 
 mother in the room. Wishes for a pleasant jour- 
 ney. Looks like fine weather, &c., &c. 
 
 Then — " Susan, tell Miss Mordaunt that Mr. Henry 
 Lennox is on his way to Devonshire, and has called 
 here to say good-bye!" — A pause — rather stiff and 
 chilly. 
 
 "Miss Constance's compliments, and she is en- 
 gaged in her room, but hopes Mr. Lennox will have 
 an agreeable journey." 
 
 " She might have come down to bid her old friend 
 good-bye, I think," growls the father — " Susan go 
 and say." — 
 
165 
 
 " Oh, never mind, never mind, don't disturb Miss 
 Mordaunt on my account, and besides, I must be 
 off; I've delayed too long already," says Lennox, 
 jumping up. 
 
 " WeU, weU, as you like ; only I think it's rather 
 odd — hope you'U find your brother better!" 
 
 One spring down stairs — into the carriage, and as 
 he sank back among the cushions, a deep groan 
 bursts from his lips, and a tear starts from between 
 his hands fast clasped over his face. 
 
 Could she have but known it ? or could he have 
 but known that she gazed through her window till 
 his carriage disappeared among the trees ; and then, 
 with a deep sob of anguish, sank half-fainting into a 
 chair. 
 
 Meanwhile he was hurrying on to the bedside 
 of his sick brother, comforting himself, after the 
 first pang of sorrow, with the reflection, that all 
 difiiculties would be removed upon his return home. 
 
 Ah ! when was that return to be ? 
 
166 
 
 Chapter IIL 
 
 " And ■well do vanish'd frowns enhance 
 The charm of every brighten'd glance ; 
 And dearer seems each dawning smile, 
 For having lost its light awhile." 
 
 In consideration of her aunt's delicate health, 
 Emma Courtenay had consented to exchange, until 
 her uncle's return, the pleasures of the town for the 
 charms of the country. No sooner had she taken 
 this resolution, than she also formed another, viz : 
 to become very great friends with Constance Mor- 
 daunt. Constance at first shrunk from the proffered 
 intimacy, regarding Emma as the cause of all her 
 misery ; but Mrs. Mordaunt, with the view of dis- 
 sipating her daughter's melancholy, warmly en- 
 couraged it, and by degrees, as Emma's compara- 
 tive innocence was made manifest, and her good 
 qualities (for she had many), came to light, a sincere 
 friendship was formed. From this Constance de- 
 rived much comfort ; and, moreover, it served to 
 open her eyes regarding a great many points. In 
 the first place she became aware that there had 
 never been anything like love-making between 
 
167 
 
 Henry and his cousin, and further, that Mr. Lennox 
 had always encouraged the latter in exacting every 
 possible attention from his son. Also as they be- 
 came more intimate, Emma learned the hidden 
 secret of her friend's heart, and at once informed her 
 that Mr. Lennox had never known anything about 
 the engagement. Emma was very much shocked 
 at the consequences of her vanity, and, among other 
 desperate remedies, proposed writing to Henry and 
 letting him know the real state of matters. Upon 
 this sagacious plan, however, Constance put a de- 
 cided negative, and obtained a promise from Emma, 
 though rather unwillingly given, that she would never 
 aUude to these circumstances in any intercourse she 
 might have with her cousin. 
 
 But she had learned a good deal ; and after she 
 parted with Emma, not without exchanging presents 
 and vows of eternal friendship, reflection taught her 
 a good deal more. She began to have some glimpses 
 of the truth. She began to see that Mr. Lennox, 
 unaware of anything but a boyish fancy, as he sup- 
 posed, on his son's part, might have adopted, with 
 the view of removing this fancy, the very means 
 which she had at first regarded as unworthy of him. 
 From these meditations, she came to sympathise 
 with Henry's situation ; to think on all he must have 
 
168 
 
 undergone ; to dwell upon the nobler qualities of 
 his nature which had been for the time forgotten ; 
 to cherish the memory of the happy days she had 
 spent in his society; until she ended by being as 
 much in love with him as ever, and in longing 
 eagerly for his return. 
 
 At last they were coming. They came — Mr. 
 Lennox and his eldest son, whose health was now 
 quite recruited, but — without Henry. The recovery 
 of his elder brother had rendered it necessary that 
 he should do something for himself, and accordingly 
 his father got him appointed attache to the legation 
 at Constantinople. 
 
 There was, of course, no message to her. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Years rolled on — Time — that great physician that 
 alone can "minister to a soul diseased," passed 
 away, producing all those changes that ever follow as 
 attendants in his train. Sorrow to some, joy to others 
 — Lethsean waters of more or less potency to all — 
 does this great teacher and tamer of the human heart 
 bring. A strange medley of woes and blessings con- 
 tinually wait upon him. Over all men does his 
 dreaded scythe, and his never-ceasing hour-glass 
 rule. Yet there may be passions which, in some 
 bosoms, defy even his power. If there be any such, 
 
169 
 
 it must surely be the first — the last love of an 
 affectionate heart. 
 
 They had parted, if not in anger, at least without 
 any pledges of affection, and yet they confided in 
 each other's love. Upon looking back, the mists of 
 feeling which had blinded them were cleared away, 
 and they saw things in their true light. All their 
 former misunderstandings vanished, and they did 
 but wonder how they could have been so foolish. 
 Constance, we have seen, had been aided by her 
 friend, but on the other hand, Lennox had less to 
 get over. He held the key to the whole mystery in 
 his own hands, and a little thought enabled him to 
 use it. Thus they went on, trusting in each other, 
 and in Time. Meanwhile, the beauty of Constance 
 had not wanted admirers. Mrs. Mordaunt, under- 
 Stood — at times regretted the discouragement they 
 all met with, but she confined herself to regrets, and 
 her husband, though perhaps he wondered, never 
 troubled himself with checking it. 
 
 There are instances, even in this selfish world, of 
 noble individuals, thus confiding in a mutual inter- 
 change of hearts, though prudence had forbade 
 them to express it ; trusting in each other's love, 
 though that love had never been spoken ; living on 
 in hope, patiently abiding that time when their 
 
170 
 
 probation is to end, and their happiness commence. 
 It might perhaps tend to increase the happiness of 
 this world were there more such. 
 
 Shortly after her return to town, Emma Cour- 
 tenay had been married. She had not suffered this 
 event to interfere with her friendship for Constance, 
 but had kept it up by writing regularly, and now 
 she paid her a long promised visit. Struck by her 
 friend's pale cheek and wasted figure, she instantly 
 proposed that Constance should accompany herself 
 and her husband, during a short tour they projected 
 on the Continent. Mrs. Mordaunt at first declined 
 the favour, but afterwards yielded to Emma's solici- 
 tations, upon condition that when they arrived at 
 Naples, Constance should be handed over to an aunt 
 of her own who had been staying there some time. 
 
 Constance benefited greatly by the change. Don't 
 be afraid, reader, at the word Continent. You shall 
 not be bored with a single description of scenery. 
 So we must skip over their journey to Naples, which 
 was more than they did ; for Emma being loath to 
 lose her friend, tarried much by the way, and be- 
 fore she got to Naples had contrived to spend a 
 suflRcient number of weeks, to have taken her there 
 five or six times. The dreaded aunt was not there 
 after all, having gone to Rome, so congratulating 
 
171 
 
 themselves on their good fortune, they continued to 
 enjoy each other's society a little longer. 
 
 Constance loved the water, every lady should — 
 and boating excursions were their constant amuse- 
 ment. As they were returning to the town, at the 
 close of a true Campanian day, the sun just sunk to 
 his rest; a rich glowing purple exhalation, rising 
 slowly from the ground, and overhanging the vine- 
 yard of Italy ; the gorgeous splendour of the land, 
 relieved by the chaste and majestic loveliness of the 
 sea ; — gazing on all the glories of a sunset in the Bay 
 of Naples, scene unsurpassed and unsurpassable ; — • 
 but no descriptions, if you please. We bow to your 
 rebuke — the rather that such beauty is indescribable, 
 for who can paint a Campanian twilight ? 
 
 As they thus glided through the waters, a boat 
 darted across their bows, with a tall figure reclining 
 in the stern. Constance's heart beat quick. " Can 
 it be he ? How came he here ?" She was just be- 
 ginning to think, when Emma's husband commences 
 to expound the charms of all the elements as revealed 
 before them, and interrupting her incipient reverie. 
 
 " Thank you ; I'U not accompany you this fore- 
 noon ; I'm rather tired, and I would prefer staying 
 in the house for a day." 
 
 Such was her answer next morning, when her 
 
172 
 
 travelling companions asked her if she would like a 
 walk. 
 
 Why did she remain at home? was she really 
 tired? or had she the faintest possible hope, that 
 she had seen him last night, that he had also 
 seen her, and that he would caU this morning ? 
 
 He had not seen her ; but scarcely had Emma 
 left the house when she met him, and — whose foot 
 sounds so quickly on the stairs, though not so 
 quick but that her heart can keep up with it ? 
 
 The door opens, and he stands before her. 
 
 Oh ! the perverseness of the human heart ! How 
 she had longed for this ; and yet she meets him with 
 a cold " how do you do ;" and a regret that " Mr. 
 and Mrs. Grey have just gone out." 
 
 When our tale commenced, this would have re- 
 pulsed him, but he knows better now. "I met 
 them, but I wished to speak to you, Constance. I 
 wished to tell you," continued he, growing more 
 earnest, " of all my repentings and all my sufferings, 
 to clear up all misunderstandings, and if I could, to 
 regain your heart." 
 
 Did she listen with an unwilling ear as he told a 
 tale, already half known, half guessed ; or did she 
 deem the recital tiresome ? 
 
 She gave one glance of half distrust, — repented 
 of as soon as given. 
 
173 
 
 He raised his finger — " Constance, the torquoise 
 is unchanged and so is my heart." 
 
 "Forgive me," murmured she, as she sunk upon 
 his bosom ; overcome by the recollections of former 
 happiness which the sight of that ring evoked. 
 
 That moment, when he strained her to his heart, 
 was a meet reward for aU their sufferings ; then was 
 
 their probation ended, their happiness begun. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Once more upon the lakes. Where our tale com- 
 menced, there must it end. Mr. Lennox, still in 
 mourning for his eldest son, sits with his sister in 
 the parlour, anxiously awaiting some arrival. Henry 
 Lennox, summoned home upon the death of his 
 brother, visited Naples on his way, and from thence 
 he returned not alone. 
 
 Now past the village, and the noisy gratulations 
 of its inhabitants, sweeping up the long avenue — 
 comes their carriage. For a moment before entering 
 the house, they pause upon the step to gaze upon 
 the scene. The sun was fast setting, his last rays 
 stiU flashing upon the highest peak of Ecclefrig — 
 like hope, which only lightening the present, reserves 
 its brilliant gilding for the distant future. The sky 
 had not yet begun to weep the loss of day, nor did 
 aught betoken the triumph of night over its de- 
 
174 
 
 parture. Far stretched that green lawn skirted by 
 those sombre trees ; over which, mid rich pas- 
 tures and waving corn-fields, curled the blue smoke 
 from the peasant's cottage up to heaven, as if a 
 grateful incense returning thanks for heavenly bless- 
 ings. O'er the whole was heard echoing the note 
 of day's last songster, as he trilled his lullaby to the 
 sun, from the neighbouring grove ; and farther yet lay 
 the calm waters of Lake Windermere sleeping beneath 
 the rays of Cynthia, even now bright in the sky, 
 and sparkling like a sheet of sUver ; while these 
 same rays full streaming on the fair young faces of 
 the lovers, like a mother smiling on a cherished 
 child, read there a passion so holy and so pure, as 
 need have called no blush even to the cheek of 
 Dian. 
 
 They gazed, and as they gazed the memory of 
 when last thus linked together they looked on such a 
 scene, came fresh upon them ; that time when those 
 vows were spoken which had never been forgot ; 
 and with a sigh and a tear, they turned to meet the 
 embraces of a father. 
 
 Years have again passed, and we look upon the 
 same lawn. How is it peopled now? What fair 
 children are these tumbling over it ? Is that hand- 
 
175 
 
 some mother at the low open window bending over 
 her last-born — the fair-haired girl at her feet, and 
 teaching her to lisp her morning orisons, while the 
 father looks smilingly on — is that our old friend 
 Constance ? Oh ! loveliest of all sights, a lovely 
 mother performing her holiest duties. It seems as 
 if the Deity yet loved to purify and exalt his fairest 
 work ; as if those shining ones that watched the 
 couch of Eve, protect Eve's daughters still. It is a 
 precious picture of domestic bliss — is it also a rare 
 one ? 
 
 Thus, then, with the merry laugh of these youth- 
 ful gamboUers yet ringing in our ears ; with the hea- 
 venly countenance of the mother, and the delighted 
 smile of the father, yet dwelling in our minds, let 
 us look our last upon them. 
 
 H. H. 
 
176 
 
 THE NEREID'S HYMN AT THE BIRTH 
 
 OF VENUS. 
 
 BY W. S. DANIEL. 
 
 Sma ! ye Nymphs of Ocean! sing — 
 
 Gliding o'er the Cyprian main; 
 Join your hands in mazy ring, 
 
 And, wheeling, chant the joyful strain: 
 Aphrodite, queen divine, 
 
 Is born to-day — 
 Lo! where she riseth, smiling, from the brine, 
 
 A daughter of the spray! 
 Henceforth Love, the victor, reigns. 
 Never more from Life to part, — 
 But with soft touch to thrill the veins 
 And gently agitate the heart. 
 Sing, sisters, sing 
 In festive ring; 
 Thetis, Mera, Thoe bright. 
 Your tresses lave 
 In the purple wave. 
 
177 
 
 And clap your hands so white : 
 Grlauce, Arethusa fleet ! 
 Skim the sea in union sweet, 
 And plunge in wild delight, — 
 Then, diving where the coral bed 
 Tints the deep with lustrous red, 
 Bring from Amphitrite's bower 
 Your golden harps of melting power, 
 Embossed with pearl and ruby rare, — 
 
 And, in the hush of rising day. 
 Fling heavenly music from your fingers fair 
 Along the opal breast of Amathusia's bay. 
 Great Poseidon ! raise thy head. 
 Smiling, from thine ocean bed — 
 Triton ! with thy mighty voice 
 Bid the briny caves rejoice. 
 And tell the water^, with thy wreathed horn, 
 The silver-footed maid — the Queen of Love — is born ! 
 
 Sing, too, aU ye Powers of Earth ! 
 At the heavenly maiden's birth; 
 Raise the song, ye holy Nine, 
 Throned on Delphi's cliffs divine, — 
 Shout, thou universal Pan, 
 Tell the tale to new-born Man; 
 Charge the roving' winds to sweep 
 
178 
 
 The tidings blest to Ida's steep, 
 
 And bid young Zephyr waft it o'er 
 
 To every scented nook of Cyprus' shore. 
 
 Satyrs of Idalian glades — 
 
 Nymphs, and -white-armed Bacchic maids ! 
 
 Wave the vine-wreathed thyrsus round, 
 
 To the merry cymbals bound; 
 
 Crush the unreluctant wine, 
 
 From the Cyprian grape divine; 
 
 Wreathe with apple-bloom the cup, 
 
 To Aphrodite quaff it up ; 
 
 Quaff, and dance, and sport, and sing. 
 
 Your Island-goddess welcoming ; 
 While, from the Dryad's cave, the Nymph* forlorn. 
 Tells to the listening hills the Queen of Love is born ! 
 
 The sunny glades of Cyprus' isle. 
 
 Are bright with more than earthly dyes. 
 
 For long-haired Phoebus, with a radiant smile. 
 Throws on its Queen divine a lover's eyes; 
 
 The Olive whitens in the dallying breeze — 
 Its laden boughs hang low ; 
 
 * Perhaps it may be considered something like an anachro- 
 nism to make the love-sick Mythological Echo older than 
 Venus ; but poetic licence may be pled in extenuation, when 
 the subject is mythic, not historical. 
 
179 
 
 And through the green depth of the *Orange trees, 
 The fruits, all golden, glow; 
 The meads are bright 
 With heavenly light, 
 And the rife wild flowers flash their tints abroad. 
 As if a star in every calix glowed — 
 Rose and sweet Anemone, 
 And waxen Hyacinth, so fair to see — 
 Crimson, yellow, white, and blue, 
 The loveliest forms of earth in every gorgeous hue ! 
 The creatures of the field and wood. 
 That freely fare 
 In open air. 
 Look blither in their solitude; 
 The Deer leaps nimbler from the brake, — 
 The Swan more proudly skims the lake, — 
 The tiny Sparrow chirps with glee 
 Her Queen's approaching light to see, — 
 The velvet-plumaged Turtle-dove, 
 
 Flitteth by the forest springs. 
 Opes its heart to coming love. 
 
 And flutters its expectant wings, — 
 
 * As I have supposed the Island to be invested with a 
 supernatural splendour on this occasion; I have also made a 
 tree indigenous to its soil, which, of course, came originally 
 from lands much further to the East. 
 
180 
 
 Glad through the golden air, the wild bee flies. 
 Lord of a flowery Paradise, — 
 From bough to thymy beU he sweeps along. 
 And hummeth as he goes his endless honey-song ! 
 
 Lo ! where the new-born Queen advances. 
 Bright as sunny beams her glances — 
 
 Venus, Victorious, 
 
 The smiling, the glorious ! 
 
 Nymphs glide before her. 
 
 Sweet shapes hover o'er her; 
 She floats on the sea-shell to Paphia's strand; 
 
 Glad voices are singing, 
 
 Gay cymbals are ringing. 
 And the chorus of Ocean rolls on to the land ! 
 
 Round about the pageant proud 
 Hippocamp* and Dolphin crowd; 
 Snorting, plunging, diving, racing, 
 Rearing, bounding, struggling, chacing, 
 Churning into foam the sea. 
 In the madness of their glee, — 
 
 * The fabulous Sea-horses of the ancients, which had heads 
 and fore-legs fashioned like those of the horse, but whose 
 bodies ended in a long fish-like tail. The Poets have yoked 
 them to the chariots of the Marine Deities. 
 
181 
 
 And Ocean bears for many a mile the trace 
 Of their fond gambols on his ruffled face ; 
 But where the shell-bark floats along the deep, 
 The flood is crystal-smooth as beauty's brow; 
 The winds lie buried in a stony sleep, 
 
 And Zephyr only breathes a loving vow ; 
 While Iris twines her scai'f of many a hue 
 Round the young goddess on her pathway blue. 
 Lo ! the graceful shape reclineth 
 
 On a bed of lilies bright, 
 And through their snowy bells a lustre shineth, 
 
 Shed from her form of glowing white; 
 Skin so fair was never seen, — 
 Eyes so blue have never been, — 
 Put the coral near that lip, — 
 
 Place the pearl between those teeth, — 
 In her mouth new honey drip, — 
 Lay by her cheek a rosy wreath; 
 And these, to sight and scent though dear, 
 Are worthless aU when she is near ! 
 
 The gods above 
 Gaze down with looks of love. 
 And follow the bright vision with glad eyes ; 
 From high Olympus' head 
 Great Zeus the maid espies, 
 And gracious smiles flit o'er his features dread. 
 
182 
 
 Like sunny gleams on some vast hill-top shed, 
 Through the rent coverture of cloudy skies : 
 Even grisly Pluto on his sulphur throne, 
 By the sad-sobbing wave of Acheron, 
 Lifteth up his heavy eye, 
 And heaves an unaccustomed sigh 
 When he views that goddess bright, — 
 Then grimly smileth o'er his realm of night, 
 
 Smoothes his rough locks, and leaves his drear do- 
 main, 
 
 And turns his sparkling glance to Enna's flowery 
 plain ! 
 
 Through coming time, 'mid human haunts, I trace 
 The glorious shadows of yon form and face — 
 I see, I see, when Man grows wise 
 In art's creative mysteries, 
 A * shape in Cnidus. There She stands. 
 The wonder of admiring lands — 
 In marble grace she charms the Dorian air, 
 And braids with lily hand her long and silken 
 hair! 
 
 Again I look, with prescient glance, 
 And view a youth of Cos advance, 
 
 * The unrivalled statue of Praxitiles. 
 
183 
 
 Thoughtful Apelles. 'Neath his cunning hand 
 The colours gather life, the beauteous forms ex- 
 pand — 
 
 The goddess breathes — she moves — yes, yes, 
 
 I see 
 Thyself, Anadyomene ! 
 Thou risest, glowing, from the frothy brine, 
 And Hellas bends the knee and lauds the shape 
 divine. 
 
 Once more the hidden things I trace 
 
 That in the cloudy future lie. 
 And view the thraUs of Cypria's face. 
 
 The captives of her eye. 
 See ! the new-born Child of Love 
 
 Nestles in her breast of snow. 
 Now battles with the pecking dove. 
 Now gambols with his untried bow, — 
 Then to his mother's ivory neck he clings, 
 And fans her glowing cheek with his soft, downy 
 wings. 
 
 Young Eros grows at length 
 To boyish size and strength, — 
 He grasps his tiny arms — 
 And where the golden arrows fly 
 Love fires the heart and lights the eye. 
 
184 
 
 And strength submits to softer charms, 
 
 A gentler nature throbs in manly veins, 
 
 And Beauty, the triumphant, reigns : 
 
 Mars owns a conquering foe — 
 For, with the lily in her snowy hand. 
 Fair Woman smites his slaughtering brand, 
 
 And lays the victor low. 
 
 I mark the love-sick Dardan boy 
 On Ida's breezy top at dawning day, 
 And nest behold, 'mid smiling warriors grey. 
 Majestic Helen pace the wall of Troy; 
 Lo ! where the mightiest man of all, 
 
 By turret-crowned Persepolis, 
 Fires Darius' Palace hall. 
 
 For the sweet guerdon of a woman's kiss: 
 
 In the shade of Attic hills. 
 
 By the pash of Attic rills, 
 'Neath the bloom of Attic trees, 
 'Mid marble colonnade and sculptured frieze. 
 See the proud Athenian bow. 
 Before the Ionian girl, his lordly brow; 
 Then rush to arms and storm the Samian land. 
 At the light wave of fair Aspasia's hand ! 
 
 O'er Ambracian waters see 
 
 The fleeing prows of Anthony — 
 And, floating down luxurious Nile, 
 
185 
 
 With silken sail unfurled, 
 Behold him for a Beauty's smile 
 Content to lose the world ! 
 
 Sisters ! raise the joyous lay — 
 Shoot like sunbeams through the spray, — 
 Zeus reigns no more alone — 
 A goddess halves his throne. 
 And binds in rosy bands 
 His thunder-bearing hands — 
 The eagle flees before the dove. 
 Mars kneels before almighty Love : 
 Doris, Proto, raise the song. 
 And, bright-haired Panope. the strain prolong ! 
 Venus skims the deep no more — 
 Her silver feet are on the Paphian shore; 
 Rejoice, oh, happy isle — 
 Earth, sky, and ocean, smile ! 
 Sing, sisters, sing I and tell the blessed morn, 
 The all-subduing maid — the Queen of Love— is born! 
 
 It ■would appear that the fabled Nereids have not yet alto- 
 gether forsaken the Grecian waters. Their present character, 
 however, is rather of an equivocal description. In a recent 
 work, written in German by a modern Greek, I find that, 
 among various other usages and superstitions ascribed to the 
 ancient Hellenes, still extant among the inhabitants of the 
 country, there exists a belief that the Water-Nymphs have a 
 
186 
 
 vicious propensity for kidnapping children who happen to ap- 
 proach their domains. For evident reasons the water-spirits 
 have borne this child-stealing character in the traditionary 
 fables of all nations. From the following passage it appears 
 that, in Greece, it is the daughters of Nereus to whom this 
 loose notion on the subject of meum and tuum is mainly attri- 
 buted. " It is not against the blighting influence of the 
 Phthiarmos (or ' Evil-eye') alone that these amulets are called 
 into requisition, and that the aflfectionate mother carefully 
 hangs them on the cradle of her infant. Another danger im- 
 minently threatens children at the hands of the Nereides, who 
 are believed to have a fond longing after pretty children, and 
 eagerly seize any opportunity, when such lovely playmates 
 are brought near their waters, of taking them to themselves.* 
 — " Neuffriechisches Lehen verglichen mit den Altgriechischen, 
 von C. Bybilakis." Berlin, 1840, p. 11. 
 
187 
 
 THE CONNECTION BETWEEN SCIENCE, 
 LITERATURE, AND RELIGION. 
 
 BY GEORGE GILFILLAN, AUTHOR OF "A GALLERY 
 OF LITERARY PORTRAITS." 
 
 The subject of the following lecture is one which 
 may probably be counted too wide and vast for a 
 short and single lecture. A volume might be wor- 
 thily occupied in treating of the various and inti- 
 mate relations in which Science, Literature, and 
 Religion, stand to each other. I propose, simply, 
 to bring before you, to-night, a few of the more 
 general aspects of the subject. 
 
 Science, Literature, and Religion, are connected 
 in nature. They are connected in tendency and 
 effect. They are connected, to a certain extent, in 
 the Word of God. They have been connected in 
 many illustrious personal examples already. The 
 greatest evils have been produced by their partial 
 severance, and there is the prospect of a yet more 
 entire and permanent union between them. In the 
 first place, they are connected together in nature. 
 
188 
 
 They are all, in one view, various phases of the 
 human mind. Science is the mind enlightened by 
 intellect, contemplating Nature as a vast series of 
 phenomena dependent on each other, and linked 
 together by forces and principles, which is her part 
 to discover and disclose. Literature is the human 
 mind enlightened by genius, surveying Nature as 
 a great collection of beautiful and sublime objects, 
 corresponding with the beautiful and sublime ele- 
 ments which exist in the mind of man, and its part 
 is to reproduce and combine those twofold classes of 
 elements into new and noble forms. Religion is the 
 human mind, enlightened by faith, contemplating 
 Nature, neither simply, as a series of successive 
 changes, nor merely as a magnificent apparition of 
 loveliness, but as it reposes in the shadow, rises up 
 towards the throne, declares the existence, proclaims 
 the glory, and is illustrated and supplemented by the 
 Word of God. All three are thus the one mind, 
 under different aspects of contemplation, and under 
 different degrees of light. Science stands under a 
 dry light — clear, stern, and searching. Literature 
 is shown in a softer and warmer effulgence ; but 
 the light of Religion is of that kind " which never 
 was on sea or shore ;" it has come to us from above 
 the Sun, I am reminded of the three fair graces 
 
189 
 
 described by Paul— Faith, Hope, and Charity. Here 
 standeth Faith, with eagle-eye, contemplating the 
 invisible ; there Hope, looking as beautiful and 
 happy as if a breeze from Heaven were blowing 
 round her temples and stirring her golden hair ; 
 and there again Charity, weeping over a perishing 
 world — and all the more lovely for her tears. So 
 Science, Literature, and Rehgion, figure themselves 
 to me as three fair sisters. One is arrayed with severe 
 simplicity, her eye is piercing, her air masculine— one 
 hand rests upon a terrestrial globe, the other uplifts 
 a telescope toward the stars : her name is Science. 
 Another is more gaily and gorgeously attired ; her 
 cheek is tinged with a finer bloom ; her mouth is 
 radiant with a sweeter dimple ; one hand rests upon 
 the open page of Milton ; the other holds a pen 
 which seems to drop sentences of gold : her name is 
 Literature. A third is a more matured and ma- 
 tronly figure — "grace is in all her steps, heaven 
 in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love ;" a 
 dark but transparent veil envelopes her majestic 
 form ; her eye is raised upwards in contemplation of 
 regions higher than those sidereal Heavens, to which 
 her sister Science restricts her gaze ; one hand 
 holds the blessed book of God ; while the other, as 
 it is lifted up on high, appears to " allure to brighter 
 Q, 
 
190 
 
 worlds and point the way " : her name is Religion, 
 Which would you choose ? seems Paul to ask about 
 those holy three in the sisterhood of Grace, and to 
 add, as his preference, "But the greatest of these 
 is Charity." So here, which would you choose ? 
 All are beautiful, aU. are noble ; and better still, the 
 choosing of the one does not imply the refus- 
 ing of the other : aU may be equally and eternally 
 3^our own. 
 
 2dly. They are connected together in tendency 
 and effect. There are, indeed, notoriously many, 
 even still, who frown upon Science and Literature, as 
 if they necessarily interfered with the higher claims 
 and nobler attractions of that wisdom which cometh 
 from above. Such, in my judgment, act most un- 
 wisely. They separate what God hath not sundered. 
 They establish barriers which God hath never 
 erected. They throw a stain on the character of 
 Christianity, as if it were a thing of darkness — a 
 monster of the night, which, when dragged from its 
 congenial glooms, would perish in its detection. So 
 far from this, true Religion has not only an amiable 
 aspect to Science and Literature, but the objects, 
 tendencies, and effects of all three are in various 
 measures identical. What is the real design of true 
 scientific culture ? It is not to supply simply a cer- 
 
191 
 
 tain amount of naked knowledge ; it is not merely 
 that it assists us to unlock some of the secrets of 
 Nature : the amount of knowledge acquired, how- 
 ever great, is, after all, but a drop in the bucket, 
 compared to the vastness and variety of truth ; the 
 secrets unlocked would only tantalize us with the 
 others which remained and multiplied at every 
 step. The principal value of Science is that thirst 
 for truth in which it tutors its votaries — a thirst 
 which approaches as nearly to a virtue or grace as 
 any thing not immediately derived from the Spirit of 
 God can do. And, therefore, I admire (in spite 
 of Dr. Chalmers,) that saying of Lessing, "If the 
 Almighty held the truth in one hand, and the search 
 after it in the other, it is the latter that I would 
 prefer ;" intimating, that though truth was precious, 
 the search after it, as enlarging the mind, disci- 
 plining it to habits of patience and chastened curi- 
 osity, is a pearl of yet greater price ; inasmuch as a 
 true being must be more valuable than many or all 
 true things. Dr. Chalmers may, indeed, say that 
 truth is too sacred a thing to be sported with — but 
 not surely to be sought after ; and while it is the 
 glory of truth ever to retire before us like the 
 horizon or the thought of eternity, it is the glory of 
 the genuine truth- searcher always to follow after, 
 
192 
 
 and, even if baffled in what he seeks, to find 
 something more useful, like the money-diggers 
 who found not the treasure hid in the field, but 
 found instead, health, food, and habits of industry — 
 better than all. This, then, is the value of Sci- 
 ence — to excite in us a thirst for truth — a feeling not 
 always produced, indeed, by scientific researches; for 
 as Cuvier told a friend of mine, who studied under 
 him, that among the hundreds of his pupils, the num- 
 ber was almost incredibly small — four, I think, — 
 in whom he had found this at once strong and un- 
 sophisticated, simple and uncontaminated with mere 
 curiosity ; or the yet baser mixtures of self-display 
 or preconceived opinion. Still, it is frequently pro- 
 moted by Science, and it is in itself the exceeding 
 great reward, even of those upon whom that severe 
 mistress does not smile to the extent of their hope 
 or desire. And what is the grand object of Litera- 
 ture ? It is not to minister to vanity or selfish 
 luxury ; it is to excite a desire and a passion for 
 intellectual beauty ; for that high loveliness which 
 dwells enshrined in Nature — which shines in the 
 light of setting suns — in the pale splendour of the 
 starry sky — but which has its chosen abode, glim- 
 mering like moonshine over the ruined arches of the 
 human soul ; and which is thence, in part, trans- 
 
193 
 
 Iferred to the pages of Literature. "Poetry," says 
 Coleridge, has taught me to seek for the good and the 
 beautiful in everything around me." Yes, but this is 
 the mild mission of all true and pure Literature — 
 to excite in us a desire and a delight in the excel- 
 lent, in the fair, in the amiable, in the magnificent, 
 and to teach us, as we pursue our sad pilgrimage, 
 to have our eyes opened to the beautiful sights 
 which diversify the wilderness, and our ears attuned 
 to those melodious strains which are heard sometimes 
 amid all its confused or lamentable sounds. Is this 
 not eminently a purifying and ennobling purpose ? 
 and does it not itself prove a strong afiQ.nity between 
 Literature and Faith ? For what is the grand pur- 
 pose of Religion ? It is not mean time to satisfy us 
 with Grod's likeness ; it is not to make all mysteries 
 plain ; it is not to satiate us with the beauty of the 
 Lord, as the eye of the Eagle seems to prey upon 
 the glory of the sun ; but it is to excite in us the 
 burning, the believing, the unquenchable desire 
 after the lost image of God ; the thirst which David 
 felt for the living God, as the hart for the brooks of 
 water, and which made him say, as often baffled, 
 often fallen, but still rising and renewing the race, 
 " My soul followeth hard after Thee ;" The thirst felt 
 by Paul when he cried out, as if panting in the pur- 
 
194 
 
 suit, "I press toward the mark," &c. Thus it ap- 
 pears, that, rightly understood. Science, Literature, 
 and Religion, are kindred. In all, the objects 
 are high and pure ; and in all, the pursuit is valuable, 
 as well as the object pursued. They differ, indeed, in 
 this : in the first place, the object is different — in the 
 one it being truth, in the other beauty, in the third 
 moral perfection. And again, they differ in this, 
 that the gift of this desire unquenchable, while in 
 two the sovereign gift of God in Nature ; in th 
 third it is the sovereign gift of God in Grace. 
 
 • It is true that here I must meet the common objec- 
 tion, that many men of Science and of Genius have 
 been void of, or opposed to Religion. But, in the first 
 place, it is of affinity in the things that I spake, 
 and not, at least, as a universal rule of conformity 
 in the men. There must be exceptions to every 
 rule. And is it not the fact, that the general cause 
 of Christianity, and of Science, and of Letters, have 
 gone on hand in hand ? "^Vliat matters it, when I 
 am told that La Place was an atheist, and Byron 
 a scoffer, and that Humboldt, in a recent work, 
 expressly avows himself to be nothing at all, because 
 he has no subjective understanding, i. e. no turn for 
 mental philosophy ? I go back, and I find that the 
 Reformation and the Revival of Letters were nearly 
 
195 
 
 contemporaneous events — forms, at least, of the 
 same movement — successive shocks of the same 
 great earthquake quivering through different streets 
 in the same City of Destruction. I go back 
 again, and find that the Reformation was the herald 
 to the discovery of the true theory of the Heavens, 
 and that within a short interval, while Galileo lifted 
 his telescope to the Moon, Luther turned his German 
 Bible to the Sun of Righteousness. In the cases 
 thus adduced against me, I find only particular 
 instances ; in those I have adduced, I find great 
 general facts. Which am I required to sacri- 
 fice — the individual case, or the general principle ? 
 Surely the former. If Science and Literature had 
 been irreligious things, would they with Rehgion 
 have slept — with Religion have awaked — with Re- 
 ligion paused — and with Religion advanced and tri- 
 umphed ? If they had been essentially abandoned 
 and shameless, why have they been so often found 
 in company with the Bride of Heaven ? 
 
 But, secondly, the particular instances in question 
 may be, and many of them at least are accounted 
 for, without recalling or modifying our definition of 
 Literature or Science. These have had their false 
 as well as their true votaries — by false, here under- 
 standing men who had perhaps the love, and per- 
 
196 
 
 haps the power, but not the religion of their art ; 
 for in every high art there is, to say at least, a low 
 religion, who had perhaps the love, power, and prac- 
 tice of their art or of their science, but blended with 
 sucli baser elements or darker affinities, as at once 
 neutralized them in part in their own field, and 
 made them recoil in abhorrence, or fear, or con- 
 tempt, from the Religion of Jesus. Such an one 
 was Byron. His genius was unquestionably of a 
 high, if not the highest order, but became rather 
 the morbid and furious outflow of passion, than the 
 calm, deep, solemn voice of Poetry ; and rather 
 passed over our heads like a thunderstorm, dreaded 
 and admired, than abode with us — like a long 
 bright day of sunshine, as dear as it was beautiful — 
 as regretted as it had been enjoyed. And although 
 from Christ's religion he did not at all turn abso- 
 lutely or angrily away, but held often parley with 
 it, and sometimes seemed inclined to turn aside and 
 see this great sight, yet he could never induce 
 himself to take off his shoes from his feet, and be- 
 cause the ground was holy, the unhappy man came 
 not nigh, and perished in that gloomy wilderness, 
 which his passions had scorched into bareness 
 around him. I am not, indeed, prepared to say 
 that no man who has worthily prosecuted his art, 
 
197 
 
 or faithfully followed the footsteps of his science, 
 has been an unbeliever ; but in general, I believe it 
 to be true, that such stern fidelity to a high object 
 shows that those who practise it are not very far 
 from the kingdom of Heaven. 
 
 But, thirdly, they have been united in many sig- 
 nal instances. We can appeal not only to general 
 principles, but also to individual cases of such a kind, 
 as not only illustrate, but glorify the rule. I do not 
 speak of the many eminent divines who have ex- 
 celled in the walks of Science or of Literature — 
 although these have been numerous — because their 
 testimony in favour of Religion might be considered 
 interested and worthless, however high their au- 
 thority otherwise. I do not say it ought to be 
 so counted, for the men who might have, and 
 have shone in other walks, and yet have voluntarily 
 attached themselves to this, are surely standing 
 evidences at least of the reality of their own convic- 
 tions, if not of the truth of that faith in which their 
 convictions centre. But it is far safer to adduce in- 
 stances of another kind, and to which no such objec- 
 tion can be made. When illustrious laymen come 
 forth from their laboratories, or observatories, or 
 their painting rooms, or the desks where they have 
 been inscribing their immortal words, and deliver 
 
198 
 
 distinct, deliberate, and eloquent witness in behalf 
 of gospel truth, it is as though the earth again were 
 to help the woman; and the thunder of a Bossuet, 
 a Massillon, a Hall, or a Chalmers, coming from 
 the pulpit, does not speak so loud in the cause of 
 Christianity as the still, small voice which proceeds 
 from the studious chamber of a Bojle, an Addison, 
 a Bowdler, or a Cowper. Yes, we can speak of 
 great names, which, if they do not add lustre 
 to Religion, it is only because its own glory so 
 far excej-leth, that even the brows and the bright 
 wings of angels, stooping over and desiring to look 
 into it, may catch splendour from, but can add 
 none to, it; and how much less the faces — however 
 noble and however pure — of earthly admirers. 
 Galileo, the starry sage, who first unravelled the 
 map of the sky, was a Christian. Michael Angelo, 
 the greatest painter that ever stamped his strong- 
 soul in canvass — the greatest sculptor that ever 
 wrought his terrible conceptions into marble — the 
 greatest architect that ever piled and suspended the 
 thought of genius between earth and heaven, was a 
 Christian; and some of his sonnets, written in his 
 old age, breath the purest spirit of Christian resigna- 
 tion and Christian love. Lord Bacon, the prince of 
 modern philosophers, was a believer. And need I 
 
199 
 
 speak of John Milton — he that laid the brightest 
 crown of earthly genius meekly at the foot of the 
 Cross, and sprinkled the waters of Castalia on the 
 roses in the garden of God ! Isaac Newton passed 
 through the same suns and systems with La Place, 
 and with yet a bolder wing ; and yet, from the ut- 
 most verge of Creation, from those dim regions — the 
 dust of which is worlds — came back to the little 
 Hill Calvary, and never rejoiced more than when 
 worshipping in that scene of suffering and shame. 
 He was a little child at the feet of Christ, as well 
 as a little child beside the great ocean of unexplored 
 immensity ; for he knew right well, that the spirit of 
 reception for the Gospel of Nature, and the Gospel of 
 Grace, was in some measure the same. Except we re- 
 ceive both as a little child in the spirit of obedience, 
 faith, humility, and love, we shall in no wise enter 
 into either. Science says, " off ye proud," as dis- 
 tinctly as Religion says, " off ye profane." And not 
 to multiply examples, and to keep by names of ab- 
 solutely the first rank, I need only farther mention 
 the name of Coleridge, who stood almost alone in 
 the commencement of this centui-y among philoso- 
 phers and literary men in his firm faith on Chris- 
 tianity — who in the latter part, at least, of his days, 
 illustrated his belief by his life, and who died with 
 
200 
 
 all his salvation and all his desire expressed in the 
 words of the Publican, " God be merciful to me a 
 sinner." Why, it is asked, ^ do I bring forward 
 such names in this matter at all ? Is it that I hold 
 that these are the pillars of our Christian faith ? 
 No ! Christianity stands on her own evidence, on 
 her own simplicity, beauty, purity, and grandeur. 
 These names are not her pillars, but the decorations 
 of her temple — the embossed ornaments of her gir- 
 dle : not the staves on which she leans, or the limbs 
 by which she walks. But such names are valuable, 
 in the first place, as they serve to neutralize — and 
 more than to neutralize — those which are often 
 produced and paraded on the other side. This, 
 indeed, is the principal use in many controversies of 
 quoting names on either side. But again, such 
 names show that the theory of Science, sanctified, 
 and Literature, laid down before the Lord, has been 
 proved and incarnated in living examples ; and 
 does not, therefore, remain in the baseless regions of 
 mere hypothesis. And, thirdly, these names incon- 
 testably evince, that even if Religion be an im- 
 posture and a delusion, it is one so plausible and 
 powerful, as to have subjugated the very strongest 
 minds of the race ; and that it will not do, there- 
 fore, for every Sciolist in the School of Infidelity 
 
201 
 
 to pretend contempt for those who confess that it 
 has commanded and convinced them. 
 
 But I remark again, and here I speak rather as an 
 advocate of Science and Literature, than of Religion, 
 that we find them connected together in the Word 
 of God. The Bible is not indeed a scientific book, 
 nor does it profess or display a scientific method, 
 even when it treats of religious topics. And yet it 
 cannot be remarked, with too much admiration, that 
 it has never yet been proved, reaUy, to contradict 
 any scientific truth. It has been subjected, along 
 with many other books, for ages to the fire of the 
 keenest philosophic investigation — a fire which has 
 contemptuously burned up the Cosmogony of the 
 Shaster, the absurd fables of the Koran, nay, the 
 husbandry of the Georgics, the Geography of the 
 Iliad, the historical truth of Livy, and the authority 
 of many a book of pure Science. And yet there the 
 Bible lies unhurt, untouched, without a hair on its 
 head singed — without the smell of fire on its glorious 
 robes: its cosmogony, as properly understood — its 
 mythology, if I may use the term — its geography — 
 its historical authenticity, remain untouched ; and 
 though, to vary the figure, the Lord Rosse telescope 
 of German observation is still turned towards it, 
 yet there are no signs of its breaking up. And are 
 
202 
 
 we not justified in concluding that it is, and shall 
 ever remain, an irresolvable nebula in the firmament 
 of truth — a thing unparalleled and alone. With 
 regard, again, to the connection in the Scriptures 
 between Literature and Religion, we find an un- 
 questionable sanction given there to almost every 
 form of literary composition. Has not eloquence 
 advocated God's cause ? Poetry sung his praise ? 
 History recorded his deeds ? Elegy deplored his ab- 
 sence ? Ode cried aloud for his return ? Drama 
 exhibited the patience of one of his servants ? Pro- 
 verb condensed the wisdom of another ? the romantic 
 story of Joseph described the true adventures of a 
 third ? Yes, even Fiction, as the shadow and noble 
 alias of eternal truth, flowed in music from the lips 
 of Jesus himself And at the Literature of the 
 Scriptures, criticism has always stood dumb. Sci- 
 ence has dared to cast her plummet down to her 
 deep foundations, and they have not been found out 
 wanting. Earthly Literature, as it saw the summits 
 of a higher than its own rising toward the skies, 
 could only wonder, or imitate, or envy in silence. 
 Homer had his Zoilus, Milton his Lauder, Pope his 
 Dennis ; but Moses and Isaiah have, as Poets, been 
 assailed by the wretched Paine alone, whose want of 
 taste was increased by vanity and vice ; and whose 
 
203 
 
 attempt to underrate the merit of the Bible seemed 
 to Hall as ineffably weak and ridiculous, as though 
 a mouse were to try to nibble off the wing of an 
 Archangel. I come, in the next place, to speak of 
 the evils connected with the separation of things so 
 noble and so near. And this, I think, I may best 
 illustrate by considering the following three distinct 
 motions, which I imagine to perceive in the present 
 age. First, the resistance on the part of certain 
 Christians to the progress of the ages — Literature 
 and Science. Secondly, to a certain neutrality in 
 reference to Religion on the part of a large propor- 
 tion of the scientific and literary world. And, 
 thirdly, of certain overtures, safe and dignified, 
 which are making, or soon to be made, on the part 
 of some of both ranks, toward a permanent and 
 progressive alliance. 
 
 There is, first, a motion or rather a vis inertice of 
 resistance on the part of some to the progress of 
 Science and Literature. The number of such, in- 
 deed, is becoming every day less ; but such do still 
 exist, like dark spots in the blaze of surrounding 
 civilization. And this, we think, on their part, in* 
 stead of proving stronger faith, argues an infirmity 
 of conviction as well as an entire ignorance of the 
 position in which Christianity stands. I think I 
 
204 
 
 may pronounce it as an axiom, that nothing can 
 destroy Christianity except itself, by forfeiting its 
 true character and losmg that divine life which is 
 its power, or else the arrival of a higher and purer 
 faith ; which seems impossible, or which surely, at 
 least, Science and Literature are unable, and do not 
 seek, to bring. And Christianity is fast becoming 
 more alive than ever it was, save in the first century. 
 To feel terror, therefore, at the advancement of the 
 age, involves a supposition as absurd as though we 
 should tremble lest the scythe of a mower, plying in 
 the summer meadow, should shear the sun of his 
 beams. Such an absurd terror it was that for a 
 long time made a bugbear of the modern geology, as 
 if any material researches could tear up the roots of 
 Sinai and Calvary, which stand on the moral con- 
 science and heart of man. I remember when, some 
 years ago, I stated in some speech or lecture my 
 convictions on this subject, some were grievously 
 offended; some even left my church for sentiments 
 which, within a year afterwards, . the Synod of my 
 Church sanctioned by a deliberate and unanimous 
 vote. And I was astonished to find even Moses 
 Stewart so far compromising his reputation as, in a 
 work on this subject, absolutely to rave at the suppo- 
 sition of God permitting the earth to be tenanted so 
 
205 
 
 long by enormous reptiles, as if lie had aright to die* 
 tate to Deity in what order or in what time he should 
 create his works; as if Sahara were made in vain, be- 
 cause there still the lion is the lone lord; as if Coto- 
 paxi were made in vain, because the vast wing of the 
 condor is there the sole sceptre; as if the depths of 
 the ocean were made in vain, because the shark is 
 the ruler there, and man they never even see tiU 
 he descends into their awful realms a corpse; as if 
 the heights of the air were made in vain, because 
 tenanted only by the storm and the eagle — by the 
 meteor and the thunder-stone ; as if the very vast- 
 ness of the ages which preceded the coming of man 
 were not proof of his dignity; as if the fossilized re- 
 mains were not gems in his crown. Such attempts 
 to roll back the tide of advancing intelligence will 
 only end in overwhelming those who make them in 
 the current, while the mighty stream of tendency 
 continues to move on in its proud and careless mag- 
 nificence. 
 
 But there is a second motion, or rather stoppage, 
 in the way of Christianity. I refer to the neutrahty 
 observed by a large portion of the literary and sci- 
 entific world, particularly in the popular journals of 
 the day, in reference to Religion. Why, it is not 
 even neutrality ; for neutrality implies a recognition 
 
206 
 
 of the existence of the thing to which we are neu- 
 tral — it is silence — profound, systematic, contemp- 
 tuous silence. I would defy you to gather, from 
 certain journals, during myriads of issues, and long 
 years, that such a thing as Christianity exists. I 
 call this an unphilosophical silence. It is not philo- 
 sophical to remain silent on what has exerted such 
 a modifying power on society, which touches man at 
 so many points, and which makes such high preten- 
 sions. I call it a cowardly silence ; for cowardly it 
 is to utter no certain sound on a subject so vital and 
 so vast ; cowardly to exhibit the worst spirit of 
 Infidelity, but to shun and shy the dreaded name of 
 Infidel — for I call it again an Infidel silence. Its 
 desire is to pass Religion bye, as if it were a detected 
 imposture — one long ago disclosed, and that should, 
 therefore, be cast aside, as german to no matter that 
 was likely to come across their intellectual way. 
 Its tendency is to exorcise Christianity from that 
 sphere where it has been especially useful — the 
 sphere of every day life. Its tendency is to supplant 
 the sublime laws of our spiritual religion, by the cold 
 maxims of earthly expediency, and for the golden 
 rule of Christ to substitute some leaden rule cuUed 
 from Franklin or Bentham. I call it a dangerous 
 and ominous silence. I do honestly declare, that I 
 
207 
 
 believe that such writings as those of George Combe, 
 and certain popular journals, are more pernicious in 
 their ultimate tendency, than the works of Voltaire, 
 Volney, or Paine, because they sap Christianity 
 by a subtler process — they put men off their guard 
 — they inculcate, in amusing shapes, principles 
 directly, though not ostensibly, opposite to those of 
 Jesus Christ — it is poison wrapt up in jelly, and ere 
 their victims know what they are about, they are 
 infidels — they are dead — they are undone. Listen 
 not to them when they tell you that they are not 
 bound to issue evangelical magazines. Nobody 
 wants them to do this. But we want them to ex- 
 plain, if not to give up, their obstinate, and provok- 
 ing, and pernicious silence on such a subject, and to 
 bend their great mechanical and popular power to 
 the occasional and unsectarian enforcement of the 
 great general principles of moral and religious 
 truth. How much, for example, would the intro- 
 duction of the idea of futurQ retribution into their 
 pages do to point their lame and powerless moral 
 advices. 
 
 But I turn, 3dly, to a hopeful movement toward 
 union between the higher minds on both sides of the 
 question. I had often fancied that I could per- 
 ceive in the school of Thomas Carlyle in Britain, 
 
208 
 
 and in that of his friend and follower, Emerson, in 
 America, a tendency toward vital Christianity — the 
 first virgin blush of a dawning affection for the 
 mild, the true, the earnest, the progressive faith of 
 Jesus. In this, however, I had sometimes misgiv- 
 ings, fearing that my partiality for them as writers, 
 and for one of them as a personal friend, had mis- 
 led me. I am glad now, however, to find that my 
 faltering conviction is supported of late by no less 
 an authority than Dr. Chalmers — a man who, with 
 all his errors, I hold to be indisputably the foremost 
 living man in the Christian world. In the leading 
 article of the last North British Review — an article 
 in which I know not whether more to admire the 
 eloquence, or the consummate ability, or the tran- 
 scendant charity, or the glowing zeal — a zeal so 
 glowing, that you imagine that it will burn on in his 
 very ashes — he takes occasion to pass a fervent 
 panegyric upon Thomas Carlyle, part of which I 
 quote, as containing the outline of the overtures — 
 the first feeler of the great alliance in which I hope. 
 He says — "Mr Carlyle idolizes, not the dogmata 
 of Germany, but the lofty intellect, the high-souled 
 independence, and above all, as most at one with 
 the aspirings of his own chivalrous and undaunted 
 nature, the noble-heartedness of Germany. There 
 
209 
 
 lies an immense responsibility on professing Chris- 
 tians, if such men as he, with their importunate and 
 most righteous demand for all the generous and 
 God-like virtues of the Gospel, are not brought to 
 the obedience of the faith. There must be a most 
 deplorable want amongst us of the light shining 
 before men, when, instead of glorifying our cause, 
 they can speak — and with a truth the most humili- 
 ating — of our inert and unproductive orthodoxy. 
 These withering abjurations of C&rlyle should be 
 of use to our churches." And then, in language for 
 which I have not room in whole, and will not muti- 
 late by quoting in part, he tells us how such men 
 are to be gained, and are willing to be gained, — 
 namely, by showing them such a version of Christi- 
 anity, translated into life and action, as shall prove 
 to them that Christ is still walking with steps of 
 unstraitened strength and undiminished majesty in 
 the midst of the golden candlesticks. And as to 
 Emerson, the American Carlyle, and, I think, some- 
 thing more — the most earnest, child-like, amiable, 
 intelligent, and rapt enthusiast at present breathing, 
 — whose beautiful words, both in prose and verse, 
 move to the breath of his inspiration as sweetly and 
 as musically as the pine cones to the breeze, I am 
 convinced, that what principally prevents his acces- 
 
210 
 
 sion to our ranks, is the deadness, or, worse, the 
 galvanised life of the church in his own country, 
 and that thus not only the blood of the Negro, but 
 the soul's blood of one of the bravest and most 
 gifted of men may ultimately rest upon the worldly, 
 inconsistent, hypocritical, canting, money-loving, and 
 slave-holding churches of America. Hear himself, 
 from a volume of poems just published : — " Who is 
 he that prates of the culture of mankind — of better 
 arts and life ? Go, blind worm, go ! Behold the 
 famous States, harrying Mexico with rifle and with 
 knife. Or who, with accent bolder, dare praise the 
 freedom-loving mountaineer. I found by thee, 
 rushing Contoocook ! and in thy vaUeys, Agiochook, 
 the jackals of the Negro-holder. Virtue palters — • 
 right is hence— freedom praised, but hid — funereal 
 eloquence rattles its coflSn lid." 
 
 What wonder that from such a state of things as 
 this, where Mammon — not Moses — is the lawgiver, 
 cant — not Christ — the God, the disappointed noble 
 spirit has betaken himself to the woods, feeling that 
 they are true amidst a Continent of falsehood. 
 
 Such overtures may or may not speedily be ac- 
 cepted, but sooner or later they must. Between the 
 spirit of genuine Science, genuine Literature, and 
 true Religion, there is affinity, too close and too old 
 
211 
 
 not ultimately to form an everlasting alliance. In 
 those happier days which lie before the church and 
 the world, excellence of every kind shall be bundled 
 up into one blessed bundle; "learning shall amass 
 her stores, and genius emit her splendour : but the 
 former shall be displayed without ostentation, and 
 the latter shall shine with the softened effulgence of 
 humility and love." The entire earth shall be 
 lighted up with the light of Science, and beautified 
 by the smile of genius, at the same time that it is 
 covered with the glory of the Lord. And in a 
 higher clime, to resume a former figure, Science, 
 Literature, and Religion, already daughters in one 
 family, shall be dwellers in one home. Science 
 shall drop her torch and stoop her telescope before 
 the throne of the Eternal, Literature shall pursue 
 her studies and dream her dreams in the magic 
 atmosphere of Heaven's own day, and Religion shall 
 take her two younger sisters by the hand — shall 
 smile on them with the serene and majestic love of 
 a superior nature — shall introduce them to the pre- 
 sence chamber of the King of Kings — and in a 
 threefold cord, not easily broken, shall be united 
 with them for ever. 
 
212 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF A MIND. 
 
 Round a mountain's base there spreads 
 
 To the sky a lonely mere ; 
 Tall old pine-trees cast their shades 
 
 O'er the waters clear. 
 Trips away a rustling stream, 
 
 Flowing from the silent lake ; 
 
 Flowing on, by copse and brake. 
 Shaded from the garish gleam. 
 
 In a cottage home there dwelt, 
 
 By the lake, a thoughtful youth : 
 Feeling aU that men have felt; 
 
 Knowing little of sad truth. 
 Often by the lake he played, 
 
 Gazed towards the mountain's top ; 
 Wondered where the streamlet strayed, 
 
 Which ran on when he must stop. 
 Once upon a springtide eve. 
 
 Straying by the murmuring brook, 
 Hearkening to the cuckoo's stave. 
 
 Heard from many a flowery nook ; 
 
213 
 
 Gazing on the hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Gazing on the fresh green field, 
 First he felt a something more 
 
 Than the scenes to sense revealed; 
 Till, as by a new found sense, 
 
 Beauty darted on his soul ; 
 Kindling dreams and thoughts intense, 
 
 Something added to the whole. 
 
 Yet the busy mind of ma,n, 
 
 Finds such beauty not enough; 
 And the sky grew pale and wan. 
 
 And the woods seemed " idle stuff*," 
 When, upon a summer day. 
 
 Rising, like a glowing star, 
 Other Beauty claimed a sway, 
 
 Than the earth's more lovely far: 
 Then the world would fade away, 
 
 As the youth his journey took, 
 
 By the waters of the brook, 
 With a gentle maiden gay. 
 'Twas the Perfect that he loved, 
 
 And the Perfect is not here; 
 Soon he saw, but all unmoved. 
 
 Beauty's smile and tear. 
 
 * Shakspere. 
 
 S 
 
214 
 
 Sternly did he shake him free, 
 
 From the thrall that chains the mind 
 Casting off all sympathy, 
 
 With the most imperfect kind. 
 Yet the youthful dream of love, 
 
 Felt too much, and, rudely broken. 
 Hovered still his soul above, 
 
 Felt and dreamt, but never spoken. 
 Yet his mind "was less than right, — 
 
 Not as it had been before: 
 As the eye, one moment bright, 
 Gazes on too dazzling light. 
 
 Then can see no more. 
 
 Now within himself retired. 
 
 Pores he on the mystic page, 
 Writ by sages half-inspired. 
 
 In the dreamy olden age: 
 Searching out the truth of things. 
 
 Looking, with a spirit keen, 
 
 Up into the deep serene. 
 Where the sphery music sings. 
 In sufficient strength of mind, 
 
 Or what might sufficient seem, 
 Gazed he on all human kind, 
 
 Like the phantoms of a dream : 
 
215 
 
 Things that may, or may not be ; 
 Thoughts without a spirit free ; 
 Passionless, and all unmoved, 
 Loving not, and not beloved. 
 
 But the clear cold air of Truth, 
 
 Is not fit for such as men ; 
 So the Mind, not now a youth, 
 
 Backward shrinks to earth again. 
 Feeling now, though love may be 
 
 Far within a spirit's span, 
 'Tis the whole felicity 
 
 Which may here be felt by man. 
 Therefore loves the old man hoar, 
 Not so fondly as of yore: 
 Not so much he now expects ; 
 Less he marketh small defects ; 
 Calmly waits, when life is spent, 
 For his soul's development. 
 
 B. A 
 
2ie 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF MAHLMAN. 
 
 Along the Heavens' heigM 
 Wander the stars of light — 
 
 Holy their path, and still. 
 Uplooking, man surveys 
 The goodness all displays, 
 
 And quiet thoughts him fill. 
 
 Breaks through the clouds of night 
 A great and shining light 
 
 On the earth-world beneath : 
 Who once that True Light sees. 
 Recks not life's miseries : 
 
 Calmly he waits for death. 
 Then steps — a hero brave — 
 Into the silent grave ! 
 
217 
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 
 
 Now Cometh the Spring with a speedy wing, 
 
 Which the joyous zephyrs fan ; 
 She smiles in the sky, as she draweth nigh 
 
 To tell her approach to man. 
 She smiles in the sun when his course is ruii; 
 
 And he sinks in the glowing west ; 
 She smiles in the flush of the orient blush, 
 
 As he rises from his rest. 
 
 Old Autumn's cheer to the youth is dear. 
 
 And they love the falling leaf ; 
 For it gives to their joy a sweet'ning alloy, 
 
 And mingles their pleasures with grief. 
 But thoughts of decay, his passing away, 
 
 Awakes in the old man's breast ; 
 And well I trow, hs has sorrows enow 
 
 To give to his pleasures a zest. 
 
 But all men rejoice with united voice, 
 When cometh the season of spring ; 
 
218 
 
 Their hearts respond to the welcome fond, 
 
 Which nature's choristers sing. 
 To each thing that lives it happiness gives, 
 
 Fair nature all blooming to see ; 
 When brilliant and gay from old winter's sway 
 
 Spring joyfully setteth her free. 
 
 The lively delight they feel at this sight 
 
 To the sorrowing brings relief ; 
 When nature is glad, man may not be sad, 
 
 Or continue to cherish grief. 
 Our mother's bright smile our woes can beguile, 
 
 Like a woman's kind sympathy ; 
 In grief's darkest hour it possesseth a power 
 
 To disarm the heart of a sigh. 
 
 H. H. 
 
219 
 
 THE MERCHANT'S WARD. 
 
 Helen Rivers was an orphan. Her mother had 
 died in giving her birth, and her father, who was at 
 that time a flourishing merchant in Liverpool, 
 having some six years later involved himself in an 
 unsuccessful speculation, was found one morning 
 lying lifeless on his bedroom floor. A phial labelled 
 laudanum, found on his table, afforded a jury a pre- 
 text for a verdict of "temporary insanity." His 
 effects sufficed to pay but a small portion of the 
 claims against him, and Helen being of no value to 
 his creditors, was transferred to the guardianship of 
 her uncle, the only brother of her mother. Mr. 
 Robert Morris was a bachelor — staid, sober, and 
 methodical — whose name was good on 'change, and 
 whose character, as a man of business, was unim- 
 peachable — good-natured in the main, but of some- 
 what limited ideas ; these being chiefly concentrated 
 on the important subject of cotton. He discharged 
 his duties to his orphan niece by allowing her the 
 unrestricted run of his house, under the charge of 
 an old housekeeper who had nursed her mother. 
 
220: 
 
 It occurred to him, more than once, that it was 
 unlucky she had not been a boy; and he had 
 exerted himself for her improvement during his 
 leisure evenings with such success that, by the time 
 she was nine years old, she was thoroughly ac- 
 quainted with the rules of arithmetic as applicable 
 to pounds, shillings, and pence. He had even at- 
 tempted to enlighten her mind on the mysteries of 
 the cotton trade, but these proved beyond her capa- 
 city, and he was obliged to relinquish the subject 
 for the present. 
 
 " Do you not think of sending your little niece to 
 school, Mr. Morris?" asked the lady of a merchant 
 prince, one evening, as he sat beside her at dinner. 
 It had never struck him in that light, but now that 
 the idea was brought before him, it certainly ap- 
 peared a natural one. But what did he know of 
 girls' schools? and again he thought how provoking 
 it was that Helen had not been born a boy. How- 
 ever, this difficulty was easily got over by his fair 
 questioner, whose eulogy of the virtues of the Misses 
 Parkinson, and account of the rapid progress in 
 her daughter's accomplishments effected at their 
 establishment, completely relieved his embarass- 
 ment. To the charge, then, of the Misses P. was 
 Helen consigned after the next midsummer vaca- 
 
221 
 
 tion, and at Minerva House she remained seven 
 years — holidays included — for Mr. Morris saw no 
 reason for bringing her home at these intervals, and 
 her own reminiscences of Liverpool, were not such 
 as to make the exile a very severe trial. Nor did 
 her time pass unhappily — Miss Parkinson had in- 
 deed a spice of the dragon in her nature, and the 
 rigid propriety of the house was sadly at variance 
 with Helen's vivacity and love of freedom. She un- 
 derwent, too, the usual amount of misery in the 
 acquirement of the various accomplishments which 
 she was doomed to learn. But these were minor 
 trials, and left no trace on her elastic nature ; and 
 when, at the age of seventeen, she was pronounced 
 "finished," and orders came for her transmission 
 back to Liverpool, she certainly did not leave Mi- 
 nerva House without tears. 
 
 Helen had, of course, a bosom friend among her 
 school-fellows, with whom she had long ago ex- 
 changed vows of eternal attachment, which had now 
 to be confirmed by solemn promises of frequent 
 correspondence. Laura Mowbray had entered the 
 school at the same time with Helen — and on the 
 very first day of their noviciate, when as yet 
 neither of them had found a friend among the 
 strange faces around them, Helen, under the im- 
 
22^1 
 
 pulse of her impetuously affectionate heart, made an 
 offer of her childish affection to the gentle retiring 
 little girl, whom, stranger and friendless like herself, 
 she found sitting alone weeping for the home she had 
 left. Though Laura did not respond to this outburst 
 of feeling with such vehemence as Helen might have 
 liked, yet her heart was won, and as months and 
 years rolled on, a lasting friendship was confirmed 
 between the two girls — the bond becoming stronger 
 in proportion to the dissimilarity of their characters. 
 Helen was all life and buoyant gaiety — the creature 
 of impulse — and if unchecked by the gentle, modest, 
 and thoughtful Laura, would often have been carried, 
 by the current of her exuberant spirits, beyond the 
 bounds of strict young lady-like decorum, as esta- 
 blished by Miss Parkinson. Laura was the only child 
 of a clergyman whose living lay in one of the most 
 beautiful parts of Yorkshire. At the rectory more 
 than once had Helen's holidays been spent. More 
 than once, too, had the happiness of these holidays 
 been enhanced by the presence of Laura's cousin 
 Charles, at that time a hard-reading, but not, there- 
 fore, dull and disagreeable Cambridge student. On 
 the contrary, during his intervals of study, Charles 
 Mowbray was nearly as gay and lively as Helen 
 herself, and was moreover the best of good-natured 
 
223 
 
 cousins, in increasing the happiness of Laura and 
 her little friend. Like Helen, he was an orphan, 
 brought up hy his uncle, and this similarity in 
 their position naturally created a mutual interest 
 in each other ; but while Helen was such a child, 
 (they had not met since she was fifteen) no thoughts 
 of anything so serious and grown-up as love ever 
 entered either of their minds. Charles, indeed, 
 might occasionally picture to himself what she 
 would be at the time he should be called to the 
 bar ; wonder if he should meet her when he was on 
 the northern circuit ; then, if he could afford to 
 marry, Helen would be a nice merry little wife, and 
 — perhaps — but Charles's visions, at this time, al- 
 ways terminated at the woolsack ; and to this im- 
 portant object, love and matrimony were very 
 secondary indeed. As for Helen, she was very fond 
 of Charles, as much because he was Laura's cousin 
 as for the good nature with which he joined in their 
 rambles, rides, and amusements of all kinds. 
 
 The parting from Laura was her most severe trial 
 in leaving Minerva House ; but after reiterated in- 
 junctions to write constantly, and a promise to visit 
 the rectory next summer, if uncle Robert had no 
 objection, she received Miss Parkinson's benedic- 
 tion, and was whirled away from the den of that 
 
224 
 
 estimable Griffin in a post chaise and a flood of 
 tears. 
 
 The seven years of her absence had passed over 
 uncle Robert's head pretty smoothly. The diameter 
 of the bald circle on the top of that head had, in- 
 deed, increased ; and so had the circumference of 
 the subjoined waistcoat ; but he looked hale and 
 vigorous, and hkely to preserve the integrity of 
 Wiggins, Morris, & Co., as far as he was concerned, 
 for years to come. Miss Parkinson's half-yearly 
 reports of Helen's progress, and receipts for her 
 school fees, had been gradually accumulating among 
 his papers, but he had hardly seriously considered 
 the change which seven years must have made on 
 the child who used to sit on his knee, after dinner, 
 while he taught her the multiplication and pence 
 tables. — So that, when a tall, good-looking, and 
 graceful young lady bounded into the room, and 
 kissed him "affectionately before he could rise from 
 his chair, he was somewhat taken aback. 
 
 Helen was no beauty of romance, but she was 
 much better. Her whole mind shone in her face, 
 and it needed but to look into those deep hazel eyes, 
 so full of light,and yet so full of tenderness, and hear 
 that merry silvery-ringing laugh, to thaw the heart 
 of the most confirmed old bachelor in existence. 
 
225 
 
 Long ringlets of the richest auburn (her bitterest 
 enemy, if she could have had such a thing, could 
 not have called it otherwise) -which glanced golden 
 in the sun-light, shaded a face ever radiant with 
 smUes ; and if her nose was "retrousse," it only 
 added a piquancy to her face which made it all the 
 more irresistible. The old housekeeper, as she sur- 
 veyed her through her spectacles, pronounced her 
 the model of a fairy queen ; and uncle Robert would 
 sit regarding her, as she sat opposite to him after 
 dinner, with a fond admiration ever and anon per- 
 plexed by some of her lively sallies. 
 
 The year passed by, and the month of August 
 found her on the promised visit to her kind friends 
 at the rectory. Charles was not there, but he was 
 expected to join them. — He had completed his 
 course at the University, and entered on his legal 
 studies. There was, however, another visitor at the 
 rectory, who was introduced to Helen as uncle Hugh. 
 Uncle Hugh was Mr. Mowbray's elder brother, a 
 wealthy merhant from Calcutta, who bad accom- 
 panied his wife home only to see her carried off by 
 fever. Though some of his friends were disposed to 
 regard this dispensation rather in the light of a 
 relief, inasmuch as Mrs. Mowbray deceased had, on 
 the strength of an aristocratic connection and a sup- 
 
226 
 
 posed delicacy of constitution, lorded it with a very 
 high hand over uncle Hugh, during the twenty years 
 of married life through which her enfeebled consti- 
 tution had supported her ; yet he, poor man, missed 
 and lamented his lady exceedingly. His newly 
 recovered freedom was strange and irksome, and 
 though only nine months had elapsed since Mrs, Mow- 
 bray left him, yet he would not have been startled at 
 the idea of supplying her place by a new tyrant. He 
 was exceedingly soft-hearted, and, withal, suscepti- 
 ble to female charms : indeed, his attentions to some 
 of his young lady acquaintances, innocent and pla- 
 tonic as they were, had more than once afforded 
 his departed lady opportunities for curtain lectures of 
 great severity, and predictions as to the certainty of 
 his breaking her heart some day. — Whether because 
 Helen reminded him in any degree or manner of 
 that worthy lady, as she had been before she became 
 Mrs. Mowbray, or for some other reason unknown — 
 as he sat opposite to her that day at dinner he sighed 
 constantly as he looked at her, and in the course of 
 the evening became extremely attentive to her. This 
 he did for two days more, at the end of which period 
 Charles presented himself, and welcomed Helen as 
 an old friend. Three years had made a wonderful 
 change, and as Charles looked at her he thought of 
 
227 
 
 the days when he had joined her and Laura in their 
 childish pastimes. It was natural that Helen's 
 thoughts, as she looked on his open manlj face, 
 should travel in the same direction ; but surely it 
 was unnecessary — when their eyes met — to turn 
 away and blush so deeply as she did. 
 
 " Were you thinking of old times, Helen — Miss 
 Rivers?" said Charles, correcting his first address. 
 
 "Yes, Charles — Mr. Mowbray;" said Helen, in 
 exactly the same style — " the ponies and the ram- 
 bles in the Grill — Laura and I were talking of them 
 only this morning — I do so long to clamber about 
 the dear old rocks again." 
 
 Charles no doubt thought it would be pleasant, 
 and said so ; but uncle Hugh making his appear- 
 ance, these interesting reminiscences were stopped 
 for that occasion. 
 
 The consequences of this visit were the most 
 natural possible. Though Charles's visions still 
 pointed to the Woolsack, Helen Rivers now always 
 appeared beside it ; and in the course of a fortnight 
 her image was by far the more prominent of the 
 two, and of every airy castle he built, she was the 
 lady. Helen began to love Charles for some other 
 reason than because he was Laura's cousin, and 
 thus, though not a word had been spoken on the 
 
228 
 
 subject, they were speedily approaching the same 
 point. Meanwhile, love had not been less busy with 
 uncle Hugh's susceptible heart — and his sighs had 
 become more frequent and more tender — and his 
 attentions more affectionate every day. Neither 
 he nor Charles ever dreamed of the other as a rival. 
 He regarded his nephew as a boy, a mere child, and 
 his fifty years would have made Charles reject the 
 idea as absurd if presented to him, and effectually 
 prevented it from ever occurring spontaneously. 
 Laura's father, however, observed them both — and 
 while amused at uncle Hugh — was not disposed to 
 treat his nephew's attachment so quietly. The con- 
 sequence was, that Charles received a summons from 
 his uncle, one morning after breakfast, to attend 
 him in the study. 
 
 "Charles," said Mr. Mowbray when he had shut 
 the door, " I may as well come to the point at once 
 — to the point on which I wished to speak to you. 
 I have observed your attentions to Miss Rivers, and 
 can guess pretty nearly, I dare say, at the state of 
 your feelings towards her. Now, though I would 
 desire no better wife for you, still there are many 
 reasons to prevent you from thinking of such a 
 marriage. You have no means of supporting a wife, 
 and the profession you have embraced affords you 
 
229 
 
 no prospect for years to come. Your fellowship, 
 which is necessary to enable you to prosecute the 
 course on which you have entered, would, of course, 
 cease on your marriage. Helen, indeed, has expec- 
 tations from her uncle, but these depend entirely on 
 his pleasure ; and you may rest assured he would 
 never consent to his niece's marriage with one who 
 had nothing better than love and hope to offer her. 
 Besides, it is not impossible, that ere long, Helen 
 may stand in a different relation to you than the 
 one which your youthful ardour suggests. You 
 must have noticed your uncle Hugh's attentions to 
 her, (Charles started, and stared in amazement — 
 uncle Hugh ! the absurd old fool ! impossible ! were 
 the words which naturally rose to his lips — but 
 were there checked) and you must have also seen," 
 pursued his uncle without regarding his excitement, 
 " that she has never shown any inclination to check 
 these attentions. But, however, this may be — you 
 must never, for a moment, think of a union with 
 Miss Rivers. There — go now, go, (as Charles pre- 
 pared to remonstrate) I will not listen to a word of 
 expostulation on the subject :" and, taking him by 
 the shoulder, Mr. Mowbray pushed him gently out 
 of the room and shut the door. 
 
 Charles was quite bewildered. — Uncle Hugh in 
 
230 
 
 love with Helen Rivers! It was too absurd — but 
 he would watch him — and Helen too. 
 
 A party of young friends were assembled to pass 
 the evening at the rectory, and during the course of 
 it Charles kept a nervous eye on uncle Hugh. 
 There was no doubt of it — none whatever. He' kept 
 beside Helen and paid her all manner of attention, 
 and she certainly showed no inclination to dismiss 
 him, but listened with a look of interest to all he 
 kept saying ; while ever and anon her face was 
 hghted with one of her bright smiles. After supper 
 Charles was in attendance to see some of the young 
 ladies home through the glen. 
 
 "Oh! how I should like to go too," exclaimed 
 Helen, " would 'nt you Laura ? It is such a lovely 
 night, and the waterfall wiU look so lovely in the 
 moonlight !" 
 
 Laura quite approved of the plan, and so did 
 Charles ; and though prudence and mamma said 
 no, and talked of damp feet, and colds in prospect, 
 they carried their point and were soon at the door 
 equipped for the walk. Here they found an unex- 
 pected addition to the party, in the shape of uncle 
 Hugh, who was waiting for them — hat in hand. 
 
 " Why, uncle Hugh, you are not going, surely?" 
 said Charles. 
 
231 
 
 "And why not, master Charles?" said uncle 
 Hugh, who had been filling his glass rather often 
 during supper ; and he gave his arm to Helen with 
 an air of determination which settled the matter, 
 leaving Charles to escort one of the strangers. 
 
 The night was lovelj, and as the path wound 
 along the Gill, the light of a glorious autumn moon, 
 breaking at intervals through the overhanging trees, 
 showed the stream beneath brawling along over its 
 rocky channel ; while the sound of the waterfall 
 came to the ear in one continued murmur softened 
 by distance. Uncle Hugh, whose motions were not 
 of the steadiest, and who had gone through a very 
 strange gymnastic performance in getting over a 
 stile near the house, walked on with Helen some 
 distance ahead of the rest of the party. He sighed 
 a good deal and seemed to be labouring with some 
 sentiment which he wished to express, but could not 
 find words for. 
 
 " What a beautiful night," said Helen, wishing to 
 help him. 
 
 " Lovely!" he exclaimed, turning suddenly round 
 and looking into her face, " but not half so lovely 
 as her I see beside me ; Oh ! Miss Rivers, words 
 cannot express how I love you. I cannot live with- 
 out you. Will you refuse to make me happy for 
 
232 
 
 life? — Say, lovely Helen, you will be mine. — Say 
 you will be Mrs. Mowbray." 
 
 Helen's first impulse was to laugh heartily, but 
 checking her rising mirth she replied : — 
 
 " I appreciate the honor you pay me, Mr. Mow- 
 bray, but though I shall always remember your 
 kindness to me and regard you as a friend, I must 
 decline the distinction you would offer me." 
 
 Poor uncle Hugh ! — Whether the shock was too 
 much for his tender heart— or whether it was the 
 champagne — or that the apparition of his deceased 
 lady presented itself reproaching him for this infi- 
 delity to her memory — he suddenly stumbled, and 
 had it not been for the friendly trunk of an old 
 tree which they were passing, must inevitably have 
 fallen. The tree, however, saved him, and propped 
 against it he remained speechless till the rest of the 
 party came up, 
 
 "Charles," he gasped out, "you were right — I 
 find the walk will be rather much for me — you must 
 give Miss Rivers your other arm, and I will wait 
 your return here." 
 
 The party proceeded, and after parting from their 
 young friends, and viewing the waterfall, the cousins 
 and Helen returned homewards ; but on arriving at 
 the tree, no uncle Hugh was visible. They looked 
 
233 
 
 round and called him, but receiving no answer, con- 
 cluded he had become tired of waiting, and gone 
 home ; where, on reaching the house, they found he 
 had actually arrived some minutes before them, and 
 had instantly departed to his room. This conduct 
 of his, joined to certain unaccountable fits of merri- 
 ment in which Helen had indulged during the walk 
 home, excited suspicion in Charles's mind, but Laura's 
 presence checked him, and he was obliged to reserve 
 his enquiries for a future opportunity, and he retired 
 to dream of Helen, with occasional interruptions 
 from visions of uncle Hugh. 
 
 "Why, uncle Hugh, what became of you last 
 night," was his inquiry next morning at breakfast ; 
 " why did you not wait for us as you promised ?" 
 
 " Well, so I did ; but you were so long, I set out 
 to come home, but somehow I lost my way and got 
 into a jungle." "A jungle," was the general ex- 
 clamation. "Yes, a jungle," retorted uncle Hugh ; 
 "confounded long reeds, nearly up to my waist, 
 which I waded through for about half a mile." 
 
 "Really, Hugh," said Mr. Mowbray, "I cannot 
 think what you mean, unless you got into farmer 
 Willet's corn field." 
 
 Uncle Hugh was indignant, and protested he had 
 lived long enough in India to know a jungle when he 
 
234 
 
 got into it ; but loud was the laugh against him that 
 day, when on proceeding to the suspected spot, they 
 found a broad and most irregular track all round the 
 field of standing corn ; and not less loud was the 
 wrath of farmer Willet at the unknown trespasser on 
 discovering the damage. 
 
 " Tell me, Helen," said Charles, the moment they 
 were left alone, " what was uncle Hugh saying to 
 you last night ?" Helen blushed and began to laugh. 
 " Nay, but Helen, tell me — my happiness depends on 
 it — did he — did he — propose to you?" 
 
 " Well, since such a stake depends on it — he did." 
 
 " And you — you Helen — ?" 
 
 " I respectfully declined the honor. I had no am- 
 bition," continued Helen, laughing outright, " to be 
 your aunt, Charles." 
 
 " No, no, dearest ; I would have you in a very 
 different relation" — and then, utterly regardless of 
 his uncle's admonitions, he proceeded to pour forth 
 the tale of his love. Helen was no ways displeased, 
 and it was not until they had bound themselves to 
 each other by mutual plight, that she began to ques- 
 tion herself and Charles as to the probability of Mr. 
 Morris giving his consent. 
 
 "He must — he shall," exclaimed Charles;" I 
 will go to him this very day and demand it — but no 
 
235 
 
 — I have yours dearest, and that is enough. I will 
 make myself worthy of you ; and when he sees me 
 rising in my profession he will not refuse, whatever 
 his proud monied notions might do now." And with 
 this assurance and the bright hopes with which young 
 lovers constantly delude themselves, they agreed to 
 remain contented for the present. 
 
 We must pass over an interval of some months, 
 and follow Helen back to Liverpool. The scene is 
 Mr. Morris' dining room, and the persons present 
 that worthy gentleman himself, and another about 
 the same period of life, with a jolly rubicund face, 
 but shrewd and business-like withal, whose whole 
 appearance betokened a man flourishing in the 
 world. This gentleman bore the aristocratic name 
 of Sheepshanks, and he and Mr. Morris held each 
 other in great mutual respect as men of business. 
 The two were sitting over their wine, Helen having 
 quitted the room some minutes previously. 
 
 "What do you think of that girl for a niece," 
 asked Mr. Morris in a triumphant tone, after they 
 moved their chairs and the decanters to the side of 
 the table next the fire, and settled themselves com- 
 fortably. Mr. Sheepshanks conveyed an immensity 
 of admiration into his face. " A treasure of a girl, 
 Mr. Sheepshanks ; he'll be a lucky man who marries 
 
236 
 
 her. You have a son, Mr. Sheepshanks." Mr. S. 
 nodded in the afl&rmative. "What," pursued Mr, 
 Morris, " is to prevent his being the lucky man ? 
 An excellent young man I know he is ; his prospects 
 are sure, and I have no heir but Helen, and all things 
 considered, I do not see what could be better for 
 both houses. Bring him with you to dinner here the 
 day after to-morrow, and let him speak for himself. 
 I'll prepare Helen for it in the meantime ; and now 
 let us drink to the happiness of the young couple." 
 
 Thus was this important business arranged with- 
 out consulting either of the principals, and stiU less 
 with any thought of Charles. When it was com- 
 municated to Helen, to her uncle's astonishment, 
 instead of being delighted, she wept and remon- 
 strated ; but when she urged her engagement to 
 Charles Mowbray, he became quite angry. 
 
 " Nonsense, girl," he exclaimed ; " a childish en- 
 gagement like that, made without my consent, is 
 never to be regarded ; besides, how can you suppose 
 I would allow you to refuse the son of one of the 
 richest men in Liverpool for a fellow without a 
 penny. Come, dry your eyes, and think no more of 
 such folly, but prepare to receive this young man 
 to-morrow as your husband to be ; I tell you he is 
 worth twenty such as Charles Mowbray." 
 
237 
 
 Though Helen resolved firmly to remain faithful 
 to Charles, she was obliged to obey her uncle so far 
 as to receive Mr. Sheepshanks and his son the next 
 day pretty calmly. 
 
 Mr. Sam. Sheepshanks was a long, gawky, shamb- 
 ling fellow of four and twenty ; shy and awkward 
 as it was possible for a man to be. His legs were 
 loosely hinged at the knee, and as a result of this, 
 his style of locomotion was remarkable — being, when 
 he was in a hurry, as he usually was in the street, a 
 species of skating movement, which in a room he 
 exchanged for a peculiar shuffle, which gave him the 
 appearance of running on castors. He had a very 
 small head, garnished with large ears and a snub 
 nose, with which he snored perpetually on whatso- 
 ever occupation he was engaged. Altogether he was 
 not the man a young lady would be apt to select for 
 a bridegroom : but Mr. Morris wisely judged that 
 the proposed marriage was not so much with him 
 as with his father's share in the firm to which he 
 belonged. The dinner was dreadfully heavy, despite 
 the attempts of Mr. Morris and Mr. Sheepshanks^ 
 senior, to be jocular. Mr. Sam ate and drank vora- 
 ciously, said little, and snored without intermission. 
 Helen, too, was silent, but for very different reasons, 
 and retired as soon as she could. How long she sat 
 u 
 
238 
 
 in the drawing-room with her head resting on her 
 hands, as if she could thus stop its throbbing, she 
 did not know, but she was roused from her reverie 
 by the entrance of Mr. Sam. His face was flushed 
 from the effects of a quantity of Mr. Morris' old port, 
 and having been stimulated by the two gentlemen 
 below to the point of going up stairs to pop the ques- 
 tion, he skated into the I'oom, with an evident feel- 
 ing in his mind that he must come to the point at 
 once, or he would never be able to do it at all. He 
 was disconcerted on Helen's raising her face, to see 
 it bathed in tears. 
 
 " What, what," he stammered, speaking to himself 
 as much as to her, " crying — is that the way girls 
 go on when they are going to be married ? Don't, 
 Miss Rivers, now, don't cry; (gad," he soliloquised, 
 I don't like it. I'm sure I shall break down ; but 
 the old governor told me I had nothing to do but ask 
 her to fix the day,) "Lovely Helen," he continued 
 blurting out the words rapidly, as if they were a les- 
 son he had learned by rote, and was afraid of forget- 
 ting, "when shall the day be? When shall I have 
 
 the happiness of leading you to the — the — d e 
 
 I forget the word — hymeneal altar?" He tried to 
 take her hand, but she indignantly, almost contemp- 
 tuously, repulsed him. 
 
239 
 
 "My uncle, sir," she exclaimed, "has, I know, 
 undertaken to dispose of my hand to you, but that 
 hand is not his to dispose of. My obligations and 
 duty to him can never avail to make me give away 
 that which belongs, by solemn right, to another ; 
 and you, sir, if you are a gentleman, if you are a 
 man, wiU forbear to urge a suit I cannot for one 
 moment listen to." And, bursting afresh into tears, 
 she passed from the room. 
 
 Sam was thunderstruck. He remained with his 
 ©yes vacantly fixed on the door through which she 
 had disappeared, whence they revolved slowly to 
 the fire, and there rested, while his snoring became 
 alarming. The small quantity of common sense 
 which he possessed was completely muddled by the 
 wine and the scene in which he had just been an 
 actor, and he could do nothing but stare at the fire, 
 and shake his head at intervals, till roused by a tap 
 on either shoulder from his father and Mr. Morris. 
 
 " Why Sam, how is this ; where 's your lady ? We 
 expected to find you here as loving as a pair of 
 turtles. When's the day fixed for, Sam ? Eh, Sam. " 
 
 "Eh," said Sam wakening up, " why, she refused 
 me. Upon my honour, Mr. Morris," as he observed 
 the blank look of his host, " it was'nt my fault, sir ; 
 why did'nt you tell me she was engaged, instead of 
 
240 
 
 saying the coast was all clear ? And by Jove, father, " 
 said Sam, with sudden energy, " if she wo'nt have 
 me, I wo'nt have her. I'll marry no girl against her 
 will." 
 
 Persuasion was vain. Sam remained obstinate, 
 and thereby entitled himself to Helen's forgiveness, 
 though Mr. Morris denounced him as a fool, and 
 Helen as the most provoking girl that ever existed. 
 
 A full recital of this affair in a letter blotted with 
 tears to Laura, was speedily transmitted to Charles, 
 and brought him to the determination of proceeding 
 instantly to Liverpool, demanding her hand, and 
 rescuing her for the future from such trials. This 
 resolution he lost no time in putting in practice, but 
 was rather sobered by the cool business-like manner 
 in which Mr. Morris received his ardent protesta- 
 tions, and his " Pray, what, Mr. Mowbray, do you 
 offer my niece along with this valuable hand and 
 heart?" 
 
 " It is true, sir, I have at present no fortune to 
 lay at her feet, but my hopes, my profession — " 
 
 "Listen to me, Mr. Mowbray, don't talk to me 
 of hopes ; will they pay your tradesmen's bills ? I 
 give my niece down on her wedding day ten thousand 
 pounds, provided she marries a man of whom I ap- 
 prove ; if not, not one penny does she get. Bring 
 
241 
 
 me an equivalent, sir, to her portion, and then, if the 
 girl really cares for you, and I suppose she does, or 
 she would not have refused one of the best matches 
 in Liverpool for your sake, you shall have my 
 consent." 
 
 Charles would have expostulated, but Mr. Morris 
 was firm, and with this sole result of his journey he 
 was obliged to depart without being allowed even to 
 see Helen. 
 
 Three years passed by without any prospect of their 
 hopes being reaUzed. Helen did not want for suitors, 
 but they each and all failed to shake her fidelity to 
 Charles. Laura was their friend and adviser ; and 
 though the prospect seemed almost interminably 
 long, she with them always hoped for the golden 
 vision in the distance being some day brought 
 within reach. Nor were they disappointed. Not 
 that Charles rose with supernatural rapidity to the 
 heights of his profession. Even the fact of his fate 
 being linked with Helen's could not work such a 
 miracle for him. The law is a very poor inheritance 
 for a youthful lover. Nor did Mr. Morris relent. 
 dear, no ; he was much too sensible and business- 
 like for any such weakness. But a good genius rose 
 up for the lovers in another quarter. Uncle Hugh, 
 after his disappointment, had returned to India, but 
 
242 
 
 his widowed heart longed to be with his relations in 
 England ; and accordingly, after arranging his affairs 
 in India, he set out on his final voyage home. Dur- 
 ing the voyage, he finally matured a plan which had 
 been suggested to him by the contents of Laura's 
 late letters, and which, on his arrival in London, he 
 hastened to communicate to Charles. 
 
 " Charles," said he, " I intended to have left you 
 ten thousand pounds at my death, but as there is 
 no saying when that may happen, and I understand 
 the want of money is the only obstacle to your mar- 
 riage with Helen, you shall have it at once, without 
 waiting to see me out of the world." 
 
 To represent Charles's delight and thanks in any 
 coherent form of words capable of being transcribed 
 on paper, would be a hopeless task. Uncle Hugh 
 undertook, moreover, to manage matters with Mr. 
 Morris, leaving to Charles the duty of communicat- 
 ing the tidings to Helen. Uncle Hugh succeeded to 
 admiration in his mission to uncle Robert, in whose 
 eyes he obtained extraordinary favour, being not un- 
 enlightened on the great subject of cotton, though 
 he would undeniably have been more at home ©n 
 that of Indigo. Mrs. Mowbray came from York- 
 shire to superintend the festivities incident to such 
 occasions, and if Laura had not come to be 
 
243 
 
 bridesmaid, I should like to know who could have 
 been. 
 
 At length the aU-important day came, when Mr. 
 Mowbray bound Helen and Charles to each other 
 for better for worse. Sam Sheepshanks was of the 
 party, and to his honor be it said, without one feel- 
 ing of jealousy or ill will. His snoring was unpre- 
 cedented, the motions of his legs about the house 
 almost supernatural, and the quantity of cake which 
 he made to disappear, to say nothing of etceteras, 
 incredible. He was far happier than on the event- 
 ful day, when his prospects were so fair of being a 
 principal in this very transaction. But of all the 
 happy party assembled that day, not one was happier 
 than kind good-hearted uncle Hugh, for, as he whis- 
 pered to Helen at parting, " he had made her Mrs. 
 Mowbray after all." 
 
 A. E. A. 
 
244 
 
 MELODIES AND MYSTERIES. 
 
 BY CHARLES MACKAY. 
 
 Would 'sT thou know what the blithe bird pipeth 
 
 High in the morning air ? 
 Would'st thou know what the bright stream singeth 
 
 Rippling o'er pebbles bare ? 
 Sorrow the mystery shall teach thee, 
 
 And the words declare. 
 
 Would'st thou find in the rose's blossom 
 
 More than thy fellows find ? 
 More in the fragrance of the lily 
 
 Than odours on the wind ? 
 Love Nature — and her smallest atoms 
 
 Shall whisper to thy mind. 
 
 Would'st thou know what the moon discourseth 
 
 To the docile sea ? 
 Would'st hear the echos of the music 
 
 Of the far Infinity ? 
 Sorrow shall ope the founts of knowledge, 
 
 And Heaven shall sing to thee. 
 
245 
 
 Would'st thou see through the riddle of Being 
 
 Farther than others can ? 
 Sorrow will lend thine eyes new lustre 
 
 To simplify the plan : 
 And love of God and thy kind shall aid thee 
 
 To end what it began. 
 
 To Love and Sorrow all Nature speaketh : — 
 
 If the riddle he read, 
 They, the best, can see through darkness 
 
 Each divergent thread 
 Of its mazy texture, and discover 
 
 Whence doth the ravel spread. 
 
 Love and Sorrow are sympathetic 
 
 With the earth and skies : 
 Their touch from the harp of Nature bringeth 
 
 The hidden melodies ; 
 To them th' eternal chords for ever 
 
 Vibrate in harmonies. 
 
246 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF HOELTZ. 
 
 How happy he whose shoulders round 
 
 The boyish cloak yet flies ; 
 Of evil times he ne'er complains — 
 
 Unclouded are his skies ! 
 
 Give him to-day his -wooden sword, 
 
 His top to spin to-morrow, 
 And let him ride his hobby-horse — 
 
 He laughs at care and sorrow ! 
 
 In the wide world nought troubles him ; 
 
 Of grief he ne'er shows token ; 
 Save when his ball in water falls, 
 
 Or when his sword is broken. 
 
 Oh, happy boy ! run on and play 
 Your long, long, loving day ; 
 
 And chase the butterfly among 
 The meadows while you may ! 
 
247 
 
 THE FOREST HUT. 
 
 A TALE OF THE VENDEAN WAR. 
 
 Britanny is one of those out of the way spots of the 
 earth, that few hear of, and fewer care to visit : and 
 yet, strange to say, it aflfords matter of greater in- 
 terest than many of the beaten continental paths 
 frequented by our travel-loving countrymen ; for 
 what can be more extraordinary than the history 
 of its people ? clinging tenaciously to their old 
 language, customs, traditions, and masters; un- 
 changing for centuries, whilst aU Europe has been 
 progressing around them. To Englishmen these 
 circumstances should be fraught with twofold in- 
 terest, when they remember that the Bretons are of 
 the same origin as themselves :* that whilst, in point 
 
 * The Bretons were successively governed by kings, counts, 
 and dukes ; the first of these (according to the most authentic 
 accounts) seems to have been Conan, surnamed Meriadec : he 
 came over from Great Britain in 383. In many parts of 
 Britanny Celtic names are still retained in all their original 
 purity ; and the Bas Breton language is so similar to the "Welsh, 
 that a Welshman is at once understood and welcomed amongst 
 them. 
 
248 
 
 of fact, they are governed as French subjects ; still 
 they retain, even at this distance of time, much in 
 their character that we consider peculiar to our- 
 selves. The strange history of this remote province 
 shows that its inhabitants have never cordially 
 amalgamated with the people to whom they were 
 united three hundred and fourteen years ago. 
 
 This slight sketch being necessary to make what 
 follows understood ; we will at once conduct our 
 readers to the Forest of Kernes, situated at a con- 
 siderable distance from the capital of that name : — 
 whilst we endeavour to describe some of the strange 
 scenes enacting there during a bright sunny after- 
 noon late in the summer of 183 — . 
 
 Much of the forest consisted of thick stunted 
 brushwood, cut down at distant intervals for fuel ; 
 whilst large and stately trees marked the outlines of 
 the roads traversing the depths of the wood. On a 
 spot where four of these paths met, stood a group 
 who had evidently travelled far, and by the vexation 
 stamped upon their countenances, seemingly bent 
 upon no pleasurable errand. The party alluded to 
 consisted of six gendarmes, armed from head to foot 
 in the striking uniform peculiar to that body : their 
 horses were jaded and travel-worn, whilst their 
 riders were bespattered with mud, apparently no 
 
249 
 
 less fatigued than the sorry cattle they bestrode. 
 Notwithstanding this, they were evidently picked 
 men, well fitted for the dangerous service for which 
 they had been chosen. 
 
 Arriving in parties of two and two, from opposite 
 directions, they reached the given place of rendez- 
 vous in silence. After a pause a gay-looking fellow 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " This will never do ! — It is enough to kill any 
 man with vexation and fatigue — to toil on, day after 
 day, tracking these men to their very haunts ; 
 within an inch of grasping them when they elude 
 us, as if by witchcraft ; were not these obstinate 
 peasantry in league to a man against us, we would 
 have captured every Carlist in the country long 
 ago ! I lose all patience. Those stupid clowns 
 pretending not to understand questions in plain 
 French ! But tell me, M. Guichard, why you 
 never address them in Bas Breton, you speak it 
 easily, do you not ?" 
 
 This was addressed to one somewhat superior in 
 rank, apparently the leader of the party. 
 
 " Because by so doing I should awaken greater 
 caution and suspicion ; whereas when silent, they 
 may imagine that we do not understand what they 
 communicate to each other ; thus I may obtain 
 
 X 
 
250 
 
 information that they would never willingly give — 
 for poor fellows, they would sooner die than betray 
 one another." 
 
 These words produced a powerful effect upon his 
 hearers, every man's brow became dark and thought- 
 ful — even the first speaker — a passionate kind- 
 hearted fellow, replied in a very different tone from 
 that which he had used of late. 
 
 " You may well say so ! — I feel half ashamed of 
 this work we are about. Are we not hunting those 
 brave royalists down like wild beasts, because they 
 refuse to submit to the new order of things, con- 
 vinced that their old master (or rather the young 
 Henri*) is the rightful heir to the throne? Desperate 
 as their cause seems to be, I respect them ; they are 
 our fellow-countrymen. I hate the office of leading 
 them to prison. How those faithful Bretons must 
 detest and despise us all!" 
 
 "Hush, hush, (replied his chef ;) give not way to 
 such useless and treasonable thoughts ! Remember 
 we are servants of the state, having no choice ; 
 bound to do what we are ordered. Moreover, we 
 live in times when the less a man utters his opinions 
 the better. We have sworn to abide by the charter. 
 
 * Due de Bordeaux, styled Henri V. by bis party, 
 
251 
 
 Would you break your oath? Away, comrades, 
 we must move on." 
 
 He ceased, and the attention of all was suddenly 
 attracted by the sound of voices singing in chorus, 
 faintly rising upon the breeze. In another instant 
 the party had dismounted, and fastening their horses 
 to the trees, made their way as noiselessly as possi- 
 ble through the thick brushwood, in the direction 
 whence the sound proceeded. 
 
 Ere long they halted, exchanging rapid signs with 
 one another ; they had reached a large open space, 
 covered with bright green sward ; although as yet 
 effectually screened from observation behind the 
 thick foliage, through which they observed what was 
 passing about a hundred paces before them. There 
 reposed a group that a Salvator Bosa might have 
 chosen for a study ; strange indeed, even to eyes so 
 accustomed to wild scenes. 
 
 Large, long pits, perforated at equal distances in 
 the ground, met their view ; some filled with smould- 
 ering wood, others with glaring charcoal ; whilst 
 here and there, reclining in various attitudes, were 
 men listening in wrapt attention to a young man 
 singing a martial Breton air, with striking emphasis, 
 each voice being taken up in full chorus ; the latter 
 first attracted the gendarmes towards the singers, 
 
252 
 
 all of whom appeared to be charcoal burners ; their 
 strongly marked features rendered doubly striking 
 by the inky hue acquired in their calling ; their 
 loose garbs were coarse but picturesque ; and the 
 strong lurid light cast upon their countenances from 
 the deep furnaces beneath, gave them an almost un- 
 earthly appearance. A long line of small horses 
 laden with bags containing charcoal ready for the 
 market, had just left the spot ; and the silver toned 
 bells attached to the leader, chimed in with the wild 
 woodland song. 
 
 We give one verse alone of the 
 
 VENDEAN PEASANT.* 
 
 1st Verse. 
 
 Shall we bow our forehead tamely to injustice ? 
 Shall such crimes be suffered to go unpunished ? 
 Shall we leave without struggle or sacrifice 
 Our crosses in the dust! and our princes banished? 
 No ! No ! we depart — In the seclusion of every cottage 
 "Women, children, old men, pray — pray for us. 
 
 Chorus. — This last line is repeated three times 
 over. 
 
 Faithful to the ^var cry of our fathers. — We have hut one God 
 — hut one King. 
 
 * Limited space prevents our copying the whole of this 
 curious war song : we translate it literally, as versification 
 would deprive it of its originality: we have heard it frequently 
 sung by Carlists in 1 83 — . 
 
253 
 
 As the animated singer ceased, Guichard advanced 
 to his side, his comrades obeying the latter's sign, 
 surrounded the party ; none of whom, however, 
 evinced any alarm or inclination to fly. A visible 
 change certainly had come over the countenances 
 of the dusky assemblage ; those very faces that had 
 been lit up by enthusiasm an instant before, became 
 dark, dogged, and gloomy. They looked upon the 
 gendarmes in cold disdain, as if already prepared for 
 their unexpected intrusion. Guichard who had nar- 
 rowly watched them all, from his hiding-place, with- 
 out finding the person he sought, turned at once to 
 the singer. 
 
 " You sing well, young man ; but choose a strange 
 subject for your song ! Yours may prove a dan- 
 gerous trade, if followed up : I know you not ; but 
 what if you be one of the very Ohouans* I am bound 
 to seek ; and thank your stars that you are not 
 already marked on this list : — but there is one, 
 hiding in this very forest, whom we are determined 
 to find ; resistance is now useless, whereas a word 
 from either of you, will ensure gold and favour ; 
 speak, then, without fear." 
 
 * Chouan ; literally screech-owl : this name was given to the 
 Vendeans from their using the cry of that bird for a signal ; 
 the most watchful were frequently deceived by it, so perfect 
 was the imitation. 
 
254 
 
 They all gazed upon the speaker with looks of 
 stupified indifference as if they neither cared for, or 
 understood the purport of his speech. The singer's 
 lip curved slightly at its close, it might be in dis- 
 dain ; but as Guichard ceased speaking, he looked 
 up in assumed stupidity, expressing by signs and 
 broken French, that he comprehended him not. 
 
 Whilst this was going on, one of the charcoal 
 burners addressed an old man near him, in the 
 Breton language, in a suppressed voice — glancing 
 his eyes towards a low hut, partly hidden by trees, 
 distant about a quarter of a mile. — His words were : 
 
 " Shall we warn him now ?" 
 
 The old man turned his back towards Guichard, 
 pressing his finger across his lips in token of silence ; 
 seemingly stupid and silent as before ; yet a close 
 observer might remark that the question had vexed 
 him. 
 
 Low as were these words, and slight the action, 
 Guichard had perceived them both. Without an- 
 other word of inquiry, he drew his men off in 
 the direction of the hut, proceeding at a rapid 
 pace. 
 
 The poor Bretons eyed each other in dismay, the 
 young singer, in a whisper, rebuked the incautious 
 speaker thus : 
 
 Holy Mary, preserve him ! what if through your 
 
255 
 
 folly Monsieur le Comte is lost? As he spoke, 
 he laid himself flat upon the turf, when raising 
 his head sufficiently to see the retreating party ; 
 and then uttered the shrill piercing cry of the 
 Ghouatis. 
 
 Within that low woodland hut, (composed of loose 
 planks alone, and apparently scarcely wind and 
 weather tight,) was enacting another scene. 
 
 A young man was sitting beside a smouldering 
 wood fire, his face half concealed between his hands, 
 whUst tears were fast trickling through, his fingers. 
 A band of crape bound a military cap beside him — 
 the rest of his dress was composed of various colours 
 and materials, ill adapted to each other ; over all, 
 he wore a large loose coat, composed of goat skin, 
 such as those in use amongst the peasantry ; but 
 in spite of this incongruous costume, he bore that 
 peculiar stamp of nobility that strikes the eye at 
 once. Such was Raoul de Leon, the person of whom 
 the gendarmes v/ere there in pursuit. Young, and 
 the last scion of an old and noble family, he had 
 more than once bled for (and devoted the greater 
 part of the property he had inherited,) the cause he 
 deemed the rightful one. A deep sabre cut dis- 
 figured his countenance — it was scarcely healed, 
 and added to the pallor of his countenance. 
 
25Q 
 
 iit the other end of the room stood a girl, of 
 about thirteen or fourteen years of age, busily en- 
 gaged in scooping out small blocks of wood ; she 
 was making sabots :* but, in spite of her employ- 
 ment, now and then turning a thoughtful and 
 sad look towards her companion. She sometimes 
 stopped in her work, in order to take a survey, 
 through the half open door, of what was passing 
 without. Her form had not yet reached its full 
 stature — her face could not be termed beautiful ; 
 but she possessed a pair of large dark blue eyes 
 that sparkled with intelligence when raised to those 
 she addressed ; so that, when once seen, the little 
 rustic was not easily forgotten. 
 
 Such was Jeanne Ploernel, the only child of an 
 old soldier of the Empire'; who, on returning to his 
 native place, had married a daughter of one of the 
 charcoal burners. Three years after Jeanne's birth 
 her mother died, leaving her to the sole care of the 
 sorrowing widower. There had she been brought up 
 in this lonely forest hut. From early childhood she 
 had, through choice, assisted her father in his calling 
 of sabot maker, and had soon become very ex- 
 pert : and probably the constant movement of the 
 
 Sabots : the wooden shoes worn by the peasantry. 
 
257 
 
 arms required in scooping out the blocks, served to 
 promote her growth and vigour. 
 
 When startled by the thrilling cry of warning 
 before alluded to, the young girl instantly sprang 
 to the side of her companion, who had also risen in 
 alarm— exclaiming in a trembling voice : 
 
 " Oh ! Count Raoul, the gendarmes are near, I 
 have seen them coming through the trees : you 
 cannot fly now — they would see you — what shall we 
 do ? — Oh ! that I could save you !" 
 
 Suddenly a ray of hope seemed to lighten her 
 speaking eyes, for laying her hand upon the young 
 man's arm, she added : — 
 
 See ! see ! that pile of shavings behind my work 
 table, there is a small excavation in the earth like 
 an oven beside it, in which blocks of wood are kept. 
 Quick ! Quick ! I can hide you there : lose not 
 a moment or you are lost ! " 
 
 Raoul at once obeyed her directions ; they hastily 
 removed the blocks that half-filled the hole, and into 
 it he crept — lying flat on the ground — his knees 
 and feet were, however, uncovered, but with the 
 speed of lightning Jeanne piled up the shavings 
 lying around her, thus forming them into a small 
 heap against the wall, so as to screen the young 
 man entirely from view. This done, she resumed 
 
258 
 
 her two-handled scoops ; and after drawing a long 
 breath, as if to resume her composure, she continued 
 her work as though nothing had interrupted her. 
 Soon the heavy tramp of the gendarmes^ feet were 
 heard ; thej entered the hut, upon which she looked 
 up with well-feigned surprise ; then went on with 
 her occupation without speaking ; throwing the 
 shavings she made, in so doing, on the heap beside 
 her. 
 
 Guichard and his companions at once concluded 
 that he whom they sought had fled, more particu- 
 larly, as the doors on both sides of the dwelling were 
 open : they however commenced a hasty search of 
 the low room, adjoining that in which Jeanne was 
 employed, but seeing no place in which a man 
 might be concealed, they were about to give up the 
 useless search : — Guichard, however, as he pro- 
 ceeded toward the door, addressed a short question 
 or two to the young girl. 
 
 She looked toward him, not with assumed stupid- 
 ity, but calm indifference, at the same time shaking 
 her head, and deigning no reply, — her cheek was 
 flushed, and her eye sparkling brightly. 
 
 The impatient speaker of the men was standing 
 close beside her ; he had been eyeing her attentively, 
 and laughingly exclaimed : 
 
259 
 
 •• I will see if I cannot make you speak ; you pro- 
 voking little piece of dumb show!" 
 
 The next moment his arms were round her, and 
 a hearty kiss imprinted upon her blushing cheek. 
 
 The spirited girl quickly disengaged herself from 
 his rude grasp ; and drawing herself up to her full 
 height, she raised her vigorous arm, dealing such a 
 slap on the face of the astonished aggressor as re- 
 sounded again through the hut : nor was this aU ; 
 he lost his balance from the unexpected shock — 
 when, grasping at the first object within reach, he 
 laid his hand upon the sharp-edged instrument that 
 Jeanne had been using ; thus of necessity inflicted 
 a wound in that member. 
 
 A burst of laughter greeted him from his amused 
 comrades, in the midst of whose jeering he was 
 glad to beat a hearty retreat from the hut. Proba- 
 bly this little adventure had caused them entirely 
 to overlook the suspicious looking little heap of 
 shavings, — thus Jeanne had the unspeakable delight 
 of seeing them retire, but not without hearing 
 Guichard saying to the delinquent, 
 
 " Serve you right for your pains, idiot ! How 
 could you molest that poor girl ? But on, on, he 
 cannot be far off. Look, the sun is setting, and we 
 must not linger here after dark. " 
 
260 
 
 Some hours later, a third person had been added 
 to the party in the hut : that person was Jeanne's 
 father — the latter was seated beside Raoul, near a 
 blazing fire, seemingly fearless of interruption ; they 
 conversed together in earnest tones ; the young girl 
 was employed in baking galettos* on a girdle iron ; 
 a dish-full of peeled boiled chesnuts, steeped in 
 fresh milk, stood on a table ; together with flasks of 
 cider, ready for their simple supper. If Jeanne had 
 taken no part in the conference, her speaking eyes 
 bore evidence that she was deeply alive to the pur- 
 port of the same . — her father spoke. 
 
 " Monsieur le Comte, you asked my advice — I say 
 again, your party has not a shadow of hope ; they 
 are utterly ruined and powerless ; I see but one 
 chance of saving you ; fly from this country this 
 very night — seek a home elsewhere. You are young, 
 time will soften the sorrow that now bows you 
 down : it would be the height of folly to reject 
 the means of escape now provided for you." 
 
 "Bertrand, I have been long hiding like a fox 
 near the abode of my fathers. Yes, was not my 
 widowed mother dying, and I obliged to leave her ? 
 — later I, although her only child, durst not ven- 
 
 * Galettos ; something like girdle cakes, made of buck wheat 
 in lieu of oatmeal. 
 
261 
 
 ture to lay her head in the grave ! My rightful 
 master is an exile ; whilst I have scarcely enough 
 left, of what was once mine, to exist upon decently. 
 Tell me what I have now worth living for ? 
 
 " But your enemies will not take your life, far 
 worse than that, they will imprison you perhaps 
 without hope of release : think of the horror of this, 
 and remember that it is your father's old follower 
 that warns you. Are you not, moreover, affianced 
 to your wealthy cousin, the lady Blanche ? her 
 father has not committed himself, and might pro- 
 bably obtain your pardon when this affair has blown 
 over ; later, you may all meet again." 
 
 The young man renewed with greater energy — 
 " Marry my cousin now ! never ! Am I not a beg- 
 gar, compared to what I was when our relations 
 decided upon the match ? they will easily find an- 
 other suitor : Blanche cannot love me, for we have 
 never once met since we were children ; she is still 
 in a convent. If I fly from this, my beloved native 
 land, it will probably be to return no more : I shall 
 seek my fortunes in America. Bertrand, I owe 
 you much already, finish your good work, and go 
 with me : you have no tie to bind you here — 'your 
 own saving, and what property I have remaining, 
 will provide for us all." 
 
262 
 
 Bertrand regarded his daughter ; she was looking 
 tip in anxious expectation. 
 
 " Well, what means that look my child ? speak, 
 what say you to this ?" 
 
 " Oh ! father, do let us go ; for there I need dread 
 those horrid men no longer. Monsieur Raoul and 
 yourself would both be safe ! " 
 
 This speech settled the point, and the old soldier 
 agreed to join his young companion, as soon as the 
 latter had reached Jersey in safety, and then pro- 
 ceed with him to Canada. 
 
 Bertrand had warned Raoul from the first against 
 joining the brave but ill-directed friends of the 
 Royalist party, when they raised their standard in 
 La Vendee. All will probably remember the result 
 of a war begun with chivalrous enthusiasm, but 
 without foresight, or the support of the nation at 
 large. Hi-digested plans were worse executed, and 
 thus the brave Carlist party risked their all to serve 
 no end ; they had trusted that the French people 
 would turn and join them ; that the latter would 
 return again to their old masters : but the event 
 proved that the hopes of the banished family were 
 utterly vain. Individual bravery was of no avail ; 
 the party were dispersed and scattered ; whilst the 
 courageous but imprudent Duchess de Berri had to 
 
263 
 
 deplore the folly that had thrown away the httle 
 interest her son still possessed in the land she had 
 so fondly dreamed to see him govern. 
 
 The plan of escape intended for Raoul was some- 
 what singular, and worthy of mention : a light cart 
 was taken oflf its wheels, and brought at midnight to 
 the door of the hut : a thick layer of hay was 
 spread at the bottom ; the young man, after biddirag 
 adieu to his humble but faithful friends, lay down 
 at fuU length upon this, whilst a pile of sabots were 
 lightly heaped upon him, completely filling up the 
 cart ; yet placed so as to admit air. As soon as 
 this operation had been carefully completed, several 
 of the charcoal burners (before-mentioned) lifted the 
 carriage on their shoulders, whilst an equal number 
 walked beside them, so as to relieve the first of their 
 burthen at stated intervals. Thus they noiselessly 
 and rapidly marched on, till they had reached the 
 high road skirting the forest, when they replaced 
 the machine upon its wheels — harnessing a stout 
 horse thereto, when the warm-hearted peasants 
 saw the strange contents depart, for a neighbouring 
 fair, after having securely seated Jeanne as driver 
 on the edge of the vehicle. Next morning the 
 young girl and her charge were many leagues on 
 their perilous way. Prosperity this time attended 
 
2Q4: 
 
 the efforts of the devoted Bretons, for at the expira- 
 tion of two days the fugitive found himself sailing 
 in safety from the land where he had suffered so 
 deeply, but to which his heart clung with the fond- 
 ness felt by every noble being, for their own Father- 
 land. 
 
 Second Part. 
 
 Seven years had elapsed ; and within that space 
 the fortunes of the two, once domesticated in the 
 Breton forest hut, had strangely altered. They 
 proceeded, as agreed upon, to the New World ; 
 choosing the Southern extremity of Lower Canada, 
 or rather where that colony stretches into the far 
 west, as their future home. Raoul purchased a 
 tract of land in the bush, for their operations. 
 Luckily for the party, they had been inured to pri- 
 vations and labour, or the first years of clearing and 
 locating might have discouraged them from perse- 
 vering ; but the old soldier, who in campaigning had 
 travelled far and wide, was of incalculable use in 
 this new district. They all laboured at first, assisted 
 only by an Irish man and woman, as regular ser- 
 
265 
 
 vants and helpers ; later others were required, and 
 at the end of the period first stated, they found 
 themselves in possession of a substantial log house, 
 comfortable, but not luxurious ; with well-cultivated 
 land, producing more than a sufficient supply for 
 all. Add to this a saw-mill, directed by the veteran, 
 and proving a very profitable concern : thus did the 
 emigrants look with thankfulness to the bright pro- 
 spect before them. 
 
 Our young friend Jeanne, in growing up to woman- 
 hood, had become altogether an altered being : she 
 had wisely never relinquished active employment, 
 but the tone of her life and occupations had under- 
 gone a marked change. Constant intercourse with 
 Raoul, together with reading under his guidance 
 and instruction, had served to open her naturally 
 intelligent mind. Not only was she pretty, but the 
 very life and ornament of that log house ; sure of 
 pleasing, the unsophisticated Breton girl delighted 
 to surround both her father and Raoul with every 
 comfort that aflfection could devise. With all this, 
 however, she still looked upon the Count as a 
 superior being, whom misfortune alone had reduced 
 to comparative equality with themselves ; whilst in 
 reality his birth placed him at a great distance. 
 
 Such was the state of things, when one afternoon 
 
266 
 
 Raoul entered their common sitting-room with the 
 contented happy look that well-directed employment, 
 and a heart at ease with itself, are wont to give. 
 On crossing the threshold, he paused to observe those 
 within ; when a flush, seemingly not of pleasure, 
 ov-erspread his manly countenance. 
 
 Jeanne was seated at an open French window ; 
 some plain work was sitting upon her lap ; whilst 
 her face was upturned, as she listened to a young 
 man of prepossessing appearance, who was leaning 
 against the outside of the casement. Her counte- 
 nance betokened no emotion ; but that of the speaker 
 betrayed that he looked upon the fair girl with any- 
 thing but indifference ; he addressed her in French, 
 but his accent was not that of a fellow-countryman ; 
 in fact, he was an American, located at no great 
 distance from them. Similarity of pursuits, had at 
 first drawn Raoul and Mi*. Vernon together ; but 
 latterly his visits had increased in frequency. On 
 the very afternoon alluded to, be had returned from 
 visiting a relation settled in the Hudson Bay dis- 
 trict ; his first act had been to seek his friends 
 — whilst some beautiful martin sable skins that he 
 laid before Jeanne, proved that he had not been 
 unmindful of her in his absence. 
 
 She received his offering with these words : 
 
267 
 
 "Thank you kindly, Mr. Vernon; but pray do 
 take back those furs ; you really all spoil me ; I do 
 not wish to accept a present of such value." 
 
 His reply, to the effect that nothing could be too 
 costly or too good for her, was overheard by 
 M. Raoul, who cut it short by walking up to the 
 window. 
 
 Jeanne's cheek coloured slightly as she recognized 
 his step : Mr. Vernon directly turned away ; and 
 making a hurried excuse, departed ; stating he 
 would again call on the morrow. 
 
 Raoul gazed upon his retreating figure thought- 
 fully ; then upon the young girl, who had renewed 
 her work — at length he said : 
 
 " Jeanne, has it ever occurred to you why M. 
 Vernon's visits have become so frequent of late ? 
 The words I have first heard him utter seem to ex- 
 plain it." 
 
 His companion returned no answer, but her colour 
 rose again; her companion continued, in a graver tone, 
 
 " Am I to understand, by your silence, that you 
 accept the suit of this rich stranger ? are you then 
 going to leave us, Jeanne ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, no, M. Raoul ; I am too happy here ! 
 I never thought of such a thing, — nor has Mr. Ver- 
 non ever asked it." 
 
268 
 
 " That may be ; but you must feel that he loves 
 you ; although perhaps not as well as one, who has 
 dwelt with you for years, in joy and sorrow. Jeanne, 
 do you understand what I would wish to say?" 
 
 The young girl raised her beautiful eyes in evi- 
 dent astonishment ; but the look that met hers 
 caused them to drop instantly again — she became 
 deadly pale as she answered : 
 
 " Me ! Monsieur le Comte ; impossible ! it cannot 
 be!" 
 
 " And why impossible, Jeanne ? do you think you 
 could not love me enough to become my wife ?" 
 
 This was asked with increasing emotion. 
 
 His companion almost breathlessly replied : 
 
 " Oh, this is folly, M. Raoul ; you a nobleman, 
 and I a simple peasant girl ! later you would repent 
 of such a mesalliance, and my father never would 
 consent to it." 
 
 Raoul drew closer to the agitated girl, as he con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " What are such distinctions to me now? This 
 is to be my future home, and I know yom' value 
 here : I feel that a heart like yours is worfti more 
 than I have to offer ; but can I not then hope to 
 gain your love ? Oh, Jeanne ! do not reject me 
 lightly?" 
 
269 
 
 Whatever the young girl's answer might have been, 
 it was inaudible to all — but to him, who so eagerly 
 listened for it ; yet the look of happiness that then 
 lit up his face, did not seem to betoken a denial. 
 
 Later, as Raoul quitted the maiden to seek her 
 father, he turned towards her with a smiling inquiry. 
 
 " Will you still persist in calling me M. Raoul, 
 now?" 
 
 " Oh! no, no ;" laughingly replied his companion. 
 
 Mr. Vernon probably soon guessed the real state 
 of things, as he discontinued his visits, shortly re- 
 moving to a distant part of the country. 
 
 The old soldier, as Jeanne expected, strongly 
 opposed Raoul 's wishes ; but at length gave way. 
 ISTor do we think either party ever had reason to 
 regret this strange and unexpected alliance. No ! 
 a glance round the hearth of that log-house, in the 
 far west, would soon convince our readers that pure 
 happiness is to be found in spots where luxury has 
 never penetrated ; and where man cheerfully labours 
 with his own hands, enjoying the blessed prospect 
 that his children shall inherit the land his industry 
 has enriched for them. 
 
 E. C. M'C. 
 
270 
 
 THE FEAST OF HIERO, 
 
 KING OF SYRACUSE. 
 
 akXd Awg/ac a- 
 
 AdfL^av\ 
 
 Pindar I. 01. Ode. 
 
 I.— 1. 
 
 Sleep, with his all-oblivious wings, 
 
 Had long my thoughts in slumber hushed ; 
 And now the magic morn, who brings 
 Intelligence of mystic things 
 To bards, awakening blushed : 
 Forgotten ages like a torrent streamed 
 Back on my mind, nor knew I that I dreamed ; 
 A regal palace in a land unknown 
 Was to my veiled eyes in that deep vision shown. 
 
271 
 
 I.— 2. 
 
 Feasting, within, with wine and song, 
 
 Around their king great nobles seemed ; 
 And brighter than the starry throng, 
 That shine the northern skies along. 
 Their gemmy garments gleamed. 
 Proud airs they had ; but one whose robes and mirth 
 Subdued, bespoke high soul though humble birth. 
 Cast on the bright assemblage such a look 
 As monarchs fain would wear, yet, meeting, scarce 
 can brook. 
 
 I.— 3. 
 
 " Oh, wild Enthusiast ! who art thou ? 
 Whose face, unseen by me tiU now, 
 Seems yet familiar as the face 
 Of nature in this unknown place ; 
 So oft before has fancy seen 
 The image of that manly mien : 
 Speak, for methinks thy voice should be 
 Familiar as thy face to me." 
 
 Upon my tongue 
 
 Such accents hung ; 
 But with their voices dared I mingle mine ? 
 Instant his kindling visage brightening up, 
 
272 
 
 He seized and, drained the red refreshing wine, 
 Upon the board replaced the emptied cup, 
 As one in kinglj halls accustomed long to sup. 
 
 IL— 1. 
 
 " Hand me my harp," the poet cried : 
 
 Though plain the bard, of gold the lyre. 
 His only pleasure, joy, and pride ; 
 And first a prelude wild he tried, 
 His soul to re-inspire : 
 He struck — the merry guests were hushed and mute 
 Even at the stringing of the Dorian lute. 
 Then raised his voice symphonious whilst he fanned 
 The glittering chorded harp with leaf-like-fluttering 
 hand. 
 
 H.— 2. 
 
 Then in the Dorian mood he sung : 
 
 " Sicilian monarch I lend thine ear ; 
 For not to Lydian airs is strung 
 My lyre to captivate the young, — 
 Such princes ne'er should hear. 
 Of false and flattering tongues, oh king ! beware ; 
 Be still thy people's good thy chiefest care ; 
 As in a nation's eye thou stand'st, so live ; 
 
211 
 
 Hor, with their gifts increased, forget the gods who 
 give. 
 
 II. -3. 
 
 " Be taught by truth, nor think to frown 
 The temperate instructor down : 
 Tale-bearers shun, and such as watch 
 Thy weak unguarded hour to hatch 
 In thy clear mind suspicion's brood 
 Against the valiant, or the good : 
 Be moved not to a hasty act, 
 But square thy conduct to the fact.'' 
 Thus far his words 
 The muse records ; 
 But now with other sounds the haU he shook, 
 
 And with no vulgar minstrel's rapture sang ; 
 Such wrath displayed his gestures and his look 
 As stirs in dauntless breasts the trumpet's clang 
 That over Victory's hour, or Death's dark honors 
 rang. 
 
 IIL— 1. 
 
 He gave his harp (its favorite theme) 
 To glory's praise and valiant deeds ; 
 
274 
 
 And many a warrior in my dream 
 I saw in polished armour gleam. 
 And troops of harnessed steeds : 
 With silent wonder and with heart-felt awe. 
 Apparent gods and god-like men I saw ; 
 For all the heroes whom he named in song 
 Heard, as it seemed, his call, and entering strode 
 along. 
 
 III.— 2, 
 
 He sang how freedom crowns the soul 
 With every blessing life affords : — 
 Like thunder shot from pole to pole, 
 I heard the streaming music roU 
 Along the rending chords. 
 His glance, which ever on the king would rest, 
 Conflicting passions vividly expressed ; 
 But yet he seemed his sceptre to approve — 
 For righteous monarchs bards, and bards such 
 monarchs love. 
 
 HI.— 3. 
 
 As thrills the electric stroke the steel, 
 Even that crowned presence seemed to feel. 
 Though unreproved, the free regard 
 Of liberty's exulting bard ; 
 
275 
 
 And all the living power he felt 
 Of music's soul to move or melt, 
 Accounting, whilst he heard him sing, 
 A poet greater than a king. 
 As on the shore 
 The billow's roar 
 Bursts when it breats into a sheet of foam ; 
 
 So with a shout I heard the lay expire : 
 Then rose the chief, and said: "Where'er thy home, 
 Whate'er thy country. Stranger ! thence retire ; 
 Go, tell thy king thou heardst our Pindar strike, 
 his lyre," 
 
 R. Q. R, 
 
276 
 
 A CITY LYRIC. 
 
 BY T. WESTWOOD. 
 
 'Midst the throng I needs must linger. 
 
 Ay, and labour day by day ; 
 But I send my thoughts to wander, 
 
 And my fancies, far away. 
 In the flesh I'm cloud-encompassed, 
 
 Through the gloom my path doth lie 
 In the spirit, by cool waters. 
 
 Under sunny skies am I. 
 
 Do not pity me, my brother ; 
 
 I can see your fountains play ; 
 I can see your streams meander. 
 
 Flashing in the golden ray : 
 And mine ear doth drink your music — 
 
 Song of birds, or rippling leaves ; 
 Or the reaper's stave sung blythely, 
 
 'Mid the ripe brown barley sheaves. 
 
 I go forth at will, and gather 
 Flowers from gardens trim and fair ; 
 
277 
 
 Or amongst the shady woodlands, 
 Gull the sweet blooms lurking there. 
 
 Little wot you, my brother ! 
 While I toil with sweat of brow. 
 
 Of the leisure that doth wait me 
 'Neath the far oflf forest bough : 
 
 Little wot you, looking upward 
 
 At the smoke-wreaths lowering there, 
 That my vision is not bounded 
 
 By this dull and murky air ; — 
 That these thick close streets and alleys, 
 
 At my bidding, vanish quite ; 
 And the meadows ope before me, 
 
 And the green hills crowned with light. 
 
 Do not pity me, my brother ! 
 
 God's dear love to me hath given 
 Comfort ia the strife and turmoil, 
 
 And some blessings under heaven. 
 In the flesh I'm cloud-encompassed. 
 
 Through the gloom my footsteps stray : 
 But I send my thoughts to wander. 
 
 And my fancies, far away ; 
 And they bring me strength for trial, 
 
 And sweet solace, day by day. 
 
278 
 
 IN AFFLICTION. 
 
 " Father, thy will, not mine, be done ! " 
 So prayed on Earth thy suffering Son ; 
 
 So, in his name, I pray ; 
 The spirit fails, the flesh is weak, 
 Thine help in agony I seek ; 
 
 Oh ! take this cup away. 
 
 If such be not thy sovereign will, 
 Thy better purpose then fulfil : 
 
 My wishes I resign ; 
 Into thine hands my soul commend. 
 On Thee, for life or death, depend ; 
 Thy will be done, not mine ! 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 The Mount, near Sheffield. 
 
SUBSCRIBEES' NAMES. 
 
 Allan, James, 13, Stormont Street 
 Allan, James, 2, Carlton Place 
 Auld, William, 2, Woodside Crescent 
 Anderson, John, 17, Woodside Place 
 Anderson, Rev. William, Helensburgh 
 
 Buccleuch, His Grace the Duke of 
 
 Buchanan, Professor 
 
 Baynes, Arthur, Buccleuch Street 
 
 Brown, John, 131, Sauchiehall Street 
 
 Broughton, E., Newington House, Edinburgh 
 
 Burns, John, 243, Brandon Place 
 
 Bain, James, Bath Street 
 
 Balfour, Professor, 33, Great King Street, Edin. 
 
 Brodie, William, 12, Carlton Place 
 
 Buchanan, William, 63, Stockwell Street 
 
 Bell, Walter, 40, George Square 
 
 Black Charles, M.D., H.E.I.C.S., Mansfield Place 
 
 Bogle, James, 1 98, Bath Street 
 
 Bannatjne, D., 11, Woodside Terrace 
 
 Balfour, Geo. Ewd., Manchester 
 
 Bryce, James, Jr., M.A.F.G.S., High School 
 
 Burnet, John, 2, Richmond Street 
 
 Brown, Matthew, 11, Argyll Street 
 
 Baird, Robert, 212, St Vincent Street 
 
 Baird, Alexander, 24, St. Mungo Place 
 
 Burns, Hay, 14, Elmbank Crescent 
 
 Balderston, Alexander, 18, Renfield Street 
 
 Barr, Rev. James, D.D., St. Enoch's 
 
 Bogle, Gilbert K., 33, Elmbank Crescent 
 
 Baird, William, Procurator-Fiscal, Dumbarton 
 
 Bernstein, Adolph, Glasgow College 
 
280 
 
 Buchanan, Thomas, 20, St. Vincent Street 
 Bryce, David, iOl, Buchanan Street 
 Babcock, B. F., 6, Blythswood Square 
 Bain, John, of Morriston 
 Black, Mrs., 234, St. Vincent Street 
 Black, Rev. William, D.D., Barony 
 Buchanan, Mrs. Cross, 115, Kensington Place 
 Buchanan, Miss Henrietta, Blythswood Square 
 Bell, Joseph, 82, West Nile Street 
 Bro-wn, Samuel R., Finlay stone House 
 Bain, John, Jun., Bath Street 
 
 Cockburn, Hon. Lord, Edinburgh 
 Campbell, Sir James, Bath Street 4 copies 
 Couper, John, M.D., 133, Moore Place 
 Cameron, Rev. James, Erskine Manse 
 Clunie, Wright, 4, Somerset Place 
 Campbell, Rev. Alex., Saddell Manse 
 Couper, William, Athol Place 
 Cameron, Hugh, Jamaica Street 
 Crum, John, 51, Cochran Street 
 Cogan, Hugh, 248, West George Street 
 Connal, William, 220, St. Vincent Street 
 Cameron, George, Sheriff-Clerk's Office 
 Cuthbertson, Thomas, 23, Blythswood Square 
 Campbell, William, Tillichewan Castle 
 Christie, George, 24, Hutcheson Street 
 Cogan, Robert, Woodside Terrace 
 Cowan, Alexander, Elmbank Place 
 Colville, Rev. George, D.D., Beith 
 Cogan, John, 248, West George Street 
 Clapperton, Thomas, 29, West George Street 
 Cogan, Hugh, Woodside Terrace, 2 copies 
 Crichton, William, Canal House 
 Cunningham, Charles, 29, St. Vincent Place 
 Cuthbertson, Donald, 188, St. Vincent Street 
 Campbell, H. W., of College Park, Dumbarton 
 Clarke, W. T., Dalmonach 
 Cowan, John E., 14, Canning Place 
 Cohen, S., Buchanan Street 
 
281 
 
 Chapman, D., 4, Woodside Place 
 Campbell, William, Woodside 
 Cowdin, Joseph, 14, Gordon Street 
 
 Dennistoun, John, M.P., George Square, 2 copies 
 Douglas, John, 139, Clarence Place 
 Dalglish, John, Langlands, Govan 
 Drysdale, Andrew, St. Vincent Street 
 Davidson, William, 1, Woodside Place 
 D'Orsey, Rev. Alexander, J.D., High School 
 Donaldson, James, Elmfoot, Little Govan 
 Downie, John, 48, Queen Street 
 Dalglish, Andrew S., 164, Bedford Place 
 Douglas, George, 10, Brandon Place 
 Davidson, James, South Frederick Street 
 Daniel, Phineas, W.S., Greenvale, Dumbarton 
 Dennistoun, William, 6, Woodside Place 
 
 Bglinton and Winton, The Right Hon. the Earl of, 
 
 6 copies 
 Ewing, James, Strathleven 
 Euing, William, 115, St. Vincent Street 
 Ewing, A. Orr, St. Vincent Place 
 Edmiston, Archibald, Upper Crown Street 
 
 Forbes, William, M.P., of Callander, 4 copies 
 
 Fleming, Professor 
 
 Forrester, G. J., 18, Russell Street 
 
 Ferguson, John, 12, Somerset Place 
 
 Farie, John, Farme 
 
 Fletcher, Angus, 29, West George Street 
 
 Forrester, John, Gordon Street 
 
 Fleming, William, 11, Bath Street 
 
 Foulds, John C, 58, St. Vincent Street 
 
 Gray, George, Rev. Dr., CoUege 
 Gordon, Lewis, L. Professor 
 Grant, Rev. William, Glendaruel Manse 
 Graham, Alexander, 202, Adelaide Place 
 Graham, William, Jun., Castlemilk 
 
282 
 
 Gordon, J. W., Sheriff-Clerk's Office 
 Gordon, William, 100, Gibb Street 
 Gilfillan, Robert, East Hermitage, Leith 
 Gemmell, William, 8, Woodside Terrace 
 Glasgow, Alexander, 11, Blythswood Square 
 Graham, James, 42, George Square 
 Galloway, Alexander, 233, Buchanan Street 
 Gilmour, Robert, 160, Buchanan Street 
 
 Hamilton and Brandon, His Grace the Duke of 
 Hastie, The Hon. Lord Provost, Alexander 
 Hill, Alexander, Professor 
 Harvey, A.D., 45, Union Street 
 HaU, Roger, Cambuslang 
 Haig, William, (}6, Hutcheson Street 
 Henderson, John C, Sheriff-Clerk's Office 
 Hall, John, 39, Gloucester Street 
 Honeyman, John, 21, Carlton Place 
 Howie, James, Kinning House 
 Hood, Walter, Exchange Square 
 Houstoun, A. M'D., 90, Regent Terrace 
 Hamilton, John G., 157, St. Vincent Street 
 Hamilton, Andrew, 231, St. Vincent Street 
 Hutchison, Robert, 10, Blythswood Square 
 Hutcheson, W. M., M.D., Royal Lunatic Asylum 
 Harvie, Andrew, 153, Queen Street 
 Hanna, John, Town's Hospital 
 Higginbotham, Samuel, Springfield House 
 Hart, John, 11, Albany Place 
 Houldsworth, John, Cranston Hill 
 Humphreys, William, Excise Office 
 
 Inglis, Charles, 60, Bath Street 
 Innes, Captain, I.C.C.S. 
 
 Justice General, Right Hon. the Lord 
 Jeffrey, The Hon. Lord / 
 
 Johnson, Rev. J. S., Cambuslang 
 Jeffrey, James, Junior, M.D., College 
 Murdoch, James, Buchanan Street 
 
283 
 
 Jardine, James, 115, Hope Street 
 Jameson, R., West Regent Street 
 
 Keith, Rev. Dr., Hamilton 
 
 King, William 
 
 KirMand, WiUiam F., 65, Ingram Street 
 
 King, John, Levenholm 
 
 Knox, Robert, 14, India Street 
 
 Kirke, Rev. Robert, Port-Glasgow 
 
 Lansdowne, Marquis of, Berkeley Place, London 
 
 Lincoln, The Right Hon. the Earl of, M.P. 
 
 Lushington, Professor 
 
 Lockhart, Rev. Laurence, Inchinnan Manse 
 
 Lockhart, William, M.P., Milton Lockhart 
 
 Laurie, A., Stanley Place 
 
 Lawrie, Thomas 
 
 Lockhart, R., 125, Bath Street 
 
 Lumsden, George, 20, Queen Street 
 
 Lumsden, James, 20, Queen Street 
 
 Lumsden, James, jun., 20, Queen Street 
 
 Lorraine, W. S., 12, St. Vincent Place 
 
 Leadbetter, John, 227, Brandon Place 
 
 Long, W. Henry, Anderson's University 
 
 Lamond, Robert, 29, St. Vincent Place 
 
 Leech, George B., Broadfield House 
 
 Lang, William, St Vincent Street 
 
 Lyall, James, 236, St. Vincent Street 
 
 Lindsay, Robert M., 24, Wilson Street 
 
 Montrose, His Grace the Duke of, Buchanan House 
 
 Maule, Right Hon. Fox, War Office, London 
 
 Mure, William, Caldwell, 2 copies 
 
 Maxwell, Sir John, of Pollok, Bart. 
 
 Marshall, Alexander, Manse, Cumbray 
 
 Menzies, Alexander, Renfrew Street 
 
 Moffat, Andrew, 12, Barony Place 
 
 Miller, Henry, Governor, Prisons 
 
 Mitchell, Andrew, Miller Street 
 
 MoUison, William, 24, Dalhousie Street 
 
284 
 
 Mutrie, James, 136, St Vincent Street 
 
 Mills, George, 157, Ingram Street 
 
 Morton, Hugh, 24, Gordon Street 
 
 Murray, Stewart, Botanic Gardens 
 
 Mitchell, John, 7, Carlton Place 
 
 Moore, John, 108, Queen Street 
 
 Marshall, Dr. Thomas, College 
 
 Muirhead, James, Crescent Place 
 
 Mathieson, James E, 36, George Square 
 
 Middleton, William, St. Vincent Place 
 
 Moberly, George, 48, Buccleuch Street 
 
 Maitland, Garlics, College 
 
 Macaulay, Right Hon. T. B., M.P., Albany, London 
 
 Macfarlan, The Very Rev. Principal 
 Maconochie, Allan A., Professor 
 Macfarlan, Rev. Robert, Minister, Wishaw 
 M'Cubbin, David, 114, Candlerigg Street 
 M'Gregor, James 
 
 M'George, Mrs. A., 6, Somerset Place 
 M'Rae, Rev. John, Hawick 
 M'Lellan, Archibald, 3, Dalhousie Street 
 M'Kenzie, Walter, 128, Ingram Street 
 M'Donald, William, 36, Exchange Square 
 M'Keand, James, 17, Carlton Place 
 M'Allister, Archibald, 57, Miller Street 
 M'Bean, Duncan, 187, Athol Place 
 M'Gregor, John, Clyde Foundry 
 M'Hardy, James, County Buildings 
 Macmanus, Henry, A.R.H.A., School of Design 
 Mackintosh, J. M'Gregor, 44, Brunswick Place 
 M'Kinlay, David, 113, Brunswick Street 
 M'Brayne, David, Barony Glebe 
 M'Cowan, Robert, Gordon Street 
 
 Nisbet, Rev. Archibald, 29, College Street 
 Napier, Rev. P., D.D., 99, Bath Street 
 Nisbet, Andrew, St. George Place 
 Nish, Anthony, County Buildings 
 
285 
 
 Ogilvie, W, B,, Buchanan Street 
 
 Palmerston, Lord Viscount, M.P. 
 
 Peel, The Right Hon. Sir Robert, Bart., M.P. 
 
 Pagan, J. M., M.D., West Regent Street 
 
 Paterson, James 
 
 Paterson, Rev. Alexander S., Abbotsford Place 
 
 Pettigrew, James, 44, Norfolk Street 
 
 Paton, William P., 8, Newton Place 
 
 Pender, John, Manchester 
 
 Paterson, Adam, West George Street 
 
 Prichard, Thomas, M.D., Royal Lunatic Asylum 
 
 Paton, Rev. Robert, 130, West Campbell Street 
 
 Russell, Right Hon. Lord John, M.P., 6 copies 
 Robertson, The Hon. Lord, Edinburgh 
 Rutherford, Right Hon. A., M.P. 
 Ramsay, Professor 
 Reid, Professor 
 
 Rainy, Harry, Professor, M.D., 157, West George St. 
 Runciman. Rev. David, 13, Annfield Place 
 Richardson, James, 54, Virginia Street 
 Richardson, D. G., Cal. Railway Office, Edinburgh 
 Robson, Neil, C.B., 51, St. Vincent Street 
 Reddie, Charles, 12, Blythswood Square 
 Reid, John, of Gallowflat, 36, Arcade 
 Robertson, Alexander, 15, Woodside Place 
 Rowand, Alexander, Linthouse 
 Reid, A., 261, Brandon Place 
 Rait, D. C, Crescent Place 
 Reyolds, William, Weymouth 
 
 Swinton, Professor, Inverleith Place, Edinburgh 
 Strachan, W. 
 Stewart, Alexander 
 Strang, John, 11, Carlton Place 
 Scott, Allan, 36, Great Clyde Street 
 Stuart, John K., M.D., Maxwell Street 
 Shaw, Thomas, Bridge Street 
 Smith, John, Sheriff's Office 
 2 a 
 
286 
 
 Skene, G., 17, Woodside Crescent 
 
 Stowe, David, 306, Sauchiehall Street 
 
 Smyth, Alexander, Woodside Terrace 
 
 Sebright, J. W., Post Office 
 
 Sandeman, David, Brandon Place 
 
 Smyth, James, 5, Woodside Terrace, 2 copies 
 
 Smyth, Miss, Knockomie 
 
 Smith, Peter, Blackfriar Street 
 
 Scheviz, George 20, Brandon Place 
 
 Schwabe, H. L., 6, Provanside 
 
 Stephen, John, 33, North Hanover Street 
 
 Steele, W. C, Leven Grove House, Dumbarton 
 
 Scott, James, 16, N. Woodside Crescent 
 
 Simpson, James, 66, Miller Street 
 
 Smith, James, St. Vincent Street 
 
 Stokes, WiUiam, M.D., M.R.I. A., R.P.U.D. 
 
 Stuart, Robert, 159, Ingram Street 
 
 Smith, Duncan, 180, West Regent Street 
 
 Steele, William, Junior, 135, Claremont Place 
 
 Spens, William, 8, Woodside Place 
 
 Stott, Gibson, 50, Renfield Street 
 
 Stirling, Mrs., George, 27, St. Vincent Street 
 
 Smith, David, Westbank 
 
 Thomson, William, Professor, M.D., College 
 Thomson, James, LL.D., Professor 
 Turner, A., City Chambers 
 Tennant, J., St. Rollox 
 Tennant, C. J., 204, Adelaide Place 
 Thomson, Francis H., M.D., 100, Hope Street 
 Thomson, R. D., M.D,, 8, Brandon Place 
 Tod, David, Clyde Foundry 
 Taylor, J. Burns, St. Enoch School 
 Tennent, John, 9, Woodside Place 
 
 Urquhai"t, Robert, Somerset Place 
 
 Watt, Rev. WiUiam, Shotts Manse 
 Walker, John, Brown Street 
 Wink, George, Sheriff-Clerk Depute 
 
287 
 
 Walker, G. L., 88, Bath Street 
 
 Walker, Peter, 29, West George Street 
 
 Waddell, Michael, 4, Bath Street 
 
 Wolski, Felician A., High School 
 
 Wingate, Andrew, 141, Bath Street 
 
 Weir, William, M.D., Buchanan Street 
 
 Watson, George, M.D., 54, West Nile Street 
 
 Watson, Robert, National Security Savings' Bank 
 
 Whyte, James, 12, Woodside Place 
 
 Wilson, Captain, Police Office 
 
 Whitehead, John, 27, Rose Street, Garnethill 
 
 Young, T. C, Morris Place 
 Yuille, Mrs., 10, Abercromby Place 
 
 GLASGOW : FEINTED BY GEOHGE RICHARDSON. 
 

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