"Time that some such example taught a lesson to these braggarts of Brabant!"—responded Nignio, who stood at the right hand of Prince Alexander. "The nasal twang of their chaplains seems of late to have overmastered, in their ears, the eloquence of the ordnance of Spain! Yet, i'faith, they might be expected to find somewhat more unction in the preachments of our musketeers than the homilies of either Luther or Calvin!"

He spoke unheeded of the prince; for Alexander was now engaged apart in a colloquy with his faithful Rinaldo, who had respectfully placed in his hands a ring of great cost and beauty.

"Seeing the jewel enchased with the arms of the Venetian republic, may it please your highness," said the soldier, "I judged it better to remit it to your royal keeping."

"And from whose was it plundered?" cried the prince, with a sudden flush of emotion.

"From hands that resisted not!" replied Rinaldo gravely. "I took it from the finger of the dead!"

"And when, and where?"—exclaimed the prince, drawing him still further apart, and motioning to his train to resume their march to the States' house of Limbourg.

"The tale is long and grievous, may it please your highness!" said Rinaldo. "To comprise it in the fewest words, know that, after seeing the governor of Dalem cut down in a brave and obstinate defence of the banner of the States floating from the walls of his citadel, I did my utmost to induce the Baron de Cevray, whose Burgundians carried the place, to proclaim quarter. For these fellows of Hainaulters, (who, to do them justice, had fought like dragons,) having lost their head, were powerless; and of what use hacking to pieces an exhausted carcass?—But our troops were too much exasperated by the insolent resistance and defiance they had experienced, to hear of mercy; and soon the conduits ran blood, and shrieks and groans rent the air more cruelly than the previous roar of the artillery. In accordance, however, with the instructions I have ever received from your highness, I pushed my way into all quarters, opposing what authority I might to the brutality of the troopers."

"Quick, quick!"—cried Prince Alexander in anxious haste—"Let me not suppose that the wearer of this ring fell the victim of such an hour?"—

It was in passing the open doors of the church that my ears were assailed with cries of female distresses:—nor could I doubt that even that sanctuary (held sacred by our troops of Spain!) had been invaded by the impiety of the German or Burgundian legions!—As usual, the chief ladies of the town had placed themselves under the protection of the high altar. But there, even there, had they been seized by sacrilegious hands!—The fame of the rare beauty of the daughter of the governor of Dalem, had attracted, among the rest, two daring ruffians of the regiment of Cevray."

"You sacrificed them, I trust in GOD, on the spot?"—demanded the prince, trembling with emotion. "You dealt upon them the vengeance due?"

"Alas! sir, the vengeance they were mutually dealing, had already cruelly injured the helpless object of the contest! Snatched from the arms of the Burgundian soldiers by the fierce arm of a German musketeer, a deadly blow, aimed at the ruffian against whom she was wildly but vainly defending herself; had lighted on one of the fairest of human forms! Cloven to the bone, the blood of this innocent being, scarce past the age of childhood, was streaming on her assailants; and when, rushing in, I proclaimed, in the name of God and of your highness, quarter and peace, it was an insensible body I rescued from the grasp of pollution!"

"Unhappy Ulrica!" faltered the prince, "and oh! my more unhappy kinsman!"

"Not altogether hopeless," resumed Rinaldo; "and apprized, by the sorrowful ejaculations of her female companions when relieved from their personal fears, of the high condition of the victim, I bore the insensible lady to the hospital of Dalem; and the utmost skill of our surgeons was employed upon her wounds. Better had it been spared!—The dying girl was roused only to the endurance of more exquisite torture; and while murmuring a petition for 'mercy—mercy to her father!' that proved her still unconscious of her family misfortunes, she attempted in vain to take from her finger the ring I have had the honour to deliver to your highness:—faltering with her last breath, 'for his sake, Don John will perhaps show mercy to my poor old father!'"—

Prince Alexander averted his head as he listened to these mournful details.

"She is at rest, then?"—said he, after a pause.

"Before nightfall, sir, she was released."—

"Return in all haste to Dalem, Rinaldo," rejoined the prince, "and complete your work of mercy, by seeing all honours of interment that the times admit, bestowed on the daughter of the Comte de Cergny!"

Weary and exhausted as he was, not a murmur escaped the lips of the faithful Rinaldo as he mounted his horse, and hastened to the discharge of his new duty. For though habituated by the details of that cruel and desolating warfare to spectacles of horror—the youth—the beauty—the innocence—the agonies of Ulrica, had touched him to the heart; nor was the tress of her fair hair worn next the heart of Don John of Austria, more fondly treasured, than the one this rude soldier had shorn from the brow of death, in the ward of a public hospital, albeit its silken gloss was tinged with blood!—

Scarcely a month had elapsed after the storming of Dalem, when a terrible rumour went forth in the camp of Bouge, (where Don John had intrenched his division of the royalist army,) that the governor of the Netherlands was attacked by fatal indisposition!—For some weeks past, indeed, his strength and spirit had been declining. When at the village of Rymenam on the Dyle, near Mechlin, (not far from the ferry of the wood,) he suffered himself to be surprised by the English troops under Horn, and the Scotch under Robert Stuart, the unusual circumstance of the defeat of so able a general was universally attributed to prostration of bodily strength.

When it was soon afterwards intimated to the army that he had ceded the command to his nephew, Prince Alexander Farnese, regret for the origin of his secession superseded every other consideration.

For the word had gone forth that he was to die!—In the full vigour of his manhood and energy of his soul, a fatal blow had reached Don John of Austria!—

A vague but horrible accusation of poison was generally prevalent!—For his leniency towards the Protestants had engendered a suspicion of heresy, and the orthodoxy of Philip II. was known to be remorseless; and the agency of Ottavio Gonzaga at hand!—

But the kinsman who loved and attended him knew better. From the moment Prince Alexander beheld the ring of Ulrica glittering on his wasted hand, he entertained no hope of his recovery; and every time he issued from the tent of Don John, and noted the groups of veterans praying on their knees for the restoration of the son of their emperor, and heard the younger soldiers calling aloud in loyal affection upon the name of the hero of Lepanto, tears came into his eyes as he passed on to the discharge of his duties. For he knew that their intercessions were in vain—that the hours of the sufferer were numbered. In a moment of respite from his sufferings, the sacraments of the church were administered to the dying prince; having received which with becoming humility, he summoned around him the captains of the camp, and exhorted them to zeal in the service of Spain, and fidelity to his noble successor in command.

It was the 1st of October, the anniversary of the action of Lepanto, and on a glorious autumnal day of golden sunshine, that, towards evening, he ordered the curtains of his tent to be drawn aside, that he might contemplate for the last time the creation of God!—

Raising his head proudly from a soldier's pillow, he uttered in hoarse but distinct accents his last request, that his body might be borne to Spain, and buried at the feet of his father. For his eyes were fixed upon the glories of the orb of day, and his mind upon the glories of the memory of one of the greatest of kings.

But that pious wish reflected the last flash of human reason in his troubled mind. His eyes became suddenly inflamed with fever, his words incoherent, his looks haggard. Having caused them to sound the trumpets at the entrance of his tent, as for an onset, he ranged his battalions for an imaginary field of battle, and disposed his manoeuvres, and gave the word to charge against the enemy.[18] Then, sinking back upon his pillow, he breathed in subdued accents, "Let me at least avenge her innocent blood. Why, why could I not save thee, my Ulrica!"—

[Footnote 18: The foregoing details are strictly historical.]

It was thus he died. When Nignio de Zuniga (cursing in his heart with a fourfold curse the heretics whom he chose to consider the murderers of his master) stooped down to lay his callous hand on the heart of the hero, the pulses of life were still!—

There was but one cry throughout the camp—there was but one thought among his captains:—"Let the bravest knight of Christendom be laid nobly in the grave!" Attired in the suit of mail in which he had fought at Lepanto, the body was placed on a bier, and borne forth from his tent on the shoulders of the officers of his household. Then, having been saluted by the respect of the whole army, it was transmitted from post to post through the camp, on those of the colonels of the regiments of all nations constituting the forces of Spain.—And which of them was to surmise, that upon the heart of the dead lay the love-token of a heretic?—A double line of troops, infantry and cavalry in alternation, formed a road of honour from the camp of Bouge to the gates of the city of Namur. And when the people saw, borne upon his bier amid the deferential silence of those iron soldiers, bareheaded and with their looks towards the earth, the gallant soldier so untimely stricken, arrayed in his armour of glory and with a crown upon his head, after the manner of the princes of Burgundy, and on his finger the ruby ring of the Doge of Venice, they thought upon his knightly qualities—his courtesy, generosity, and valour—till all memory of his illustrious parentage became effaced. They forgot the prince in the man,—"and behold all Israel mourned for Jonathan!"

A regiment of infantry, trailing their halberts, led the march, till they reached Namur, where the precious deposit was remitted by the royalist generals, Mansfeldt, Villefranche, and La Cros, to the hands of the chief magistrates of Namur. By these it was bourne in state to the cathedral of St Alban; and during the celebration of a solemn mass, deposited at the foot of the high altar till the pleasure of Philip II. should be known concerning the fulfilment of the last request of Don John.

It was by Ottavio Gonzaga the tidings of his death were conveyed to Spain. It was by Ottavio Gonzaga the king intimated, in return, his permission that the conqueror of Lepanto should share the sepulture of Charles V., and all that now remains to Namur in memory of one of the last of Christian knights, the Maccabeus of the Turkish hosts, who expired in its service and at its gates, is an inscription placed on its high altar by the piety of Alexander Farnese, intimating that it afforded a temporary resting place to the remains of DON JOHN of AUSTRIA.[19]

[Footnote 19: Thus far the courtesies of fiction. But for those who prefer historical fact, it may be interesting to learn the authentic details of the interment of one whose posthumous destinies seemed to share the incompleteness of his baffled life. In order to avoid the contestations arising from the transit of a corpse through a foreign state, Nignio di Zuniga (who was charged by Philip with the duty of conveying it to Spain, under sanction of a passport from Henri III.) caused it to be dismembered, and the parts packed in three budgets, (bougettes,) and laid upon packhorses!—On arriving in Spain, the parts were readjusted with wires!—"On remplit le corps de bourre," says the old chronicler from which these details are derived, "et ainsi la structure en aiant ete comme retablie, on le revetit de ses armes, et le fit voir au roi, tout debout apuye sur son baton de general, de sorte qu'il semblait encore vivant. L'aspect d'un mort si illustre ayant excite quelques larmes, on le porta a l'Escurial dans l'Eglise de St Laurens auprez de son pere."

Such is the account given in a curious old history (supplementary to those of D'Avila and Strada) of the wars of the Prince of Parma, published at Amsterdam early in the succeeding century. But a still greater insult has been offered to the memory of one of the last of Christian knights, in Casimir Delavigne's fine play of "Don Juan d'Autriche," where he is represented as affianced to a Jewess!]



POEMS AND BALLADS OF GOETHE.

No. I.

It may be as well to state at the outset, that we have not the most distant intention of laying before the public the whole mass of poetry that flowed from the prolific pen of Goethe, betwixt the days of his student life at Leipsic and those of his final courtly residence at Weimar. It is of no use preserving the whole wardrobe of the dead; we do enough if we possess ourselves of his valuables—articles of sterling bullion that will at any time command their price in the market—as to worn-out and threadbare personalities, the sooner they are got rid of the better. Far be it from us, however, to depreciate or detract from the merit of any of Goethe's productions. Few men have written so voluminously, and still fewer have written so well. But the curse of a most fluent pen, and of a numerous auditory, to whom his words were oracles, was upon him; and seventy volumes, more or less, which Cotta issued from his wareroom, are for the library of the Germans now, and for the selection of judicious editors hereafter. A long time must elapse after an author's death, before we can pronounce with perfect certainty what belongs to the trunk-maker, and what pertains to posterity. Happy the man—if not in his own generation, yet most assuredly in the time to come—whose natural hesitation or fastidiousness has prompted him to weigh his words maturely, before launching them forth into the great ocean of literature, in the midst of which is a Maelstrom of tenfold absorbing power!

From the minor poems, therefore, of Goethe, we propose, in the present series, to select such as are most esteemed by competent judges, including, of course, ourselves. We shall not follow the example of dear old Eckermann, nor preface our specimens by any critical remarks upon the scope and tendency of the great German's genius; neither shall we divide his works, as characteristic of his intellectual progress, into eras or into epochs; still less shall we attempt to institute a regular comparison between his merits and those of Schiller, whose finest productions (most worthily translated) have already enriched the pages of this Magazine. We are doubtless ready at all times to back our favourite against the field, and to maintain his intellectual superiority even against his greatest and most formidable rival. We know that he is the showiest, and we feel convinced that he is the better horse of the two; but talking is worse than useless when the course is cleared, and the start about to commence.

Come forward, then, before the British public, O many-sided, ambidextrous Goethe, as thine own Thomas Carlyle might, or could, or would, or should have termed thee, and let us hear how the mellifluous Teutonic verse will sound when adapted to another tongue. And, first of all—for we yearn to know it—tell us how thy inspiration came? A plain answer, of course, we cannot expect—that were impossible from a German; but such explanation as we can draw from metaphor and oracular response, seems to be conveyed in that favourite and elaborate preface to the poems, which accordingly we may term the

INTRODUCTION.

The morning came. Its footsteps scared away The gentle sleep that hover'd lightly o'er me; I left my quiet cot to greet the day And gaily climb'd the mountain-side before me. The sweet young flowers! how fresh were they and tender, Brimful with dew upon the sparkling lea; The young day open'd in exulting splendour, And all around seem'd glad to gladden me.

And, as I mounted, o'er the meadow ground A white and filmy essence 'gan to hover; It sail'd and shifted till it hemm'd me round, Then rose above my head, and floated over. No more I saw the beauteous scene unfolded— It lay beneath a melancholy shroud; And soon was I, as if in vapour moulded, Alone, within the twilight of the cloud.

At once, as though the sun were struggling through, Within the mist a sudden radiance started; Here sunk the vapour, but to rise anew, There on the peak and upland forest parted. O, how I panted for the first clear gleaming, That after darkness must be doubly bright! It came not, but a glory round me beaming, And I stood blinded by the gush of light.

A moment, and I felt enforced to look, By some strange impulse of the heart's emotion; But more than one quick glance I scarce could brook, For all was burning like a molten ocean. There, in the glorious clouds that seem'd to bear her, A form angelic hover'd in the air; Ne'er did my eyes behold vision fairer, And still she gazed upon me, floating there.

"Do'st thou not know me?" and her voice was soft As truthful love, and holy calm it sounded. "Know'st thou not me, who many a time and oft, Pour'd balsam in thy hurts when sorest wounded? Ah well thou knowest her, to whom for ever Thy heart in union pants to be allied! Have I not seen the tears—the wild endeavour That even in boyhood brought thee to my side?"

"Yes! I have felt thy influence oft," I cried, And sank on earth before her, half-adoring; "Thou brought'st me rest when Passion's lava tide Through my young veins like liquid fire was pouring. And thou hast fann'd, as with celestial pinions, In summer's heat my parch'd and fever'd brow; Gav'st me the choicest gifts of earth's dominions, And, save through thee, I seek no fortune now.

"I name thee not, but I have heard thee named, And heard thee styled their own ere now by many; All eyes believe at thee their glance is aim'd, Though thine effulgence is too great for any. Ah! I had many comrades whilst I wander'd— I know thee now, and stand almost alone: I veil thy light, too precious to be squander'd, And share the inward joy I feel with none."

Smiling, she said—"Thou see'st 'twas wise from thee To keep the fuller, greater revelation: Scarce art thou from grotesque delusions free, Scarce master of thy childish first sensation; Yet deem'st thyself so far above thy brothers, That thou hast won the right to scorn them! Cease. Who made the yawning gulf 'twixt thee and others? Know—know thyself—live with the world in peace."

"Forgive me!" I exclaim'd, "I meant no ill, Else should in vain my eyes be disenchanted; Within my blood there stirs a genial will— I know the worth of all that thou hast granted. That boon I hold in trust for others merely, Nor shall I let it rust within the ground; Why sought I out the pathway so sincerely, If not to guide my brothers to the bound?"

And as I spoke, upon her radiant face Pass'd a sweet smile, like breath across a mirror; And in her eyes' bright meaning I could trace What I had answer'd well and what in error, She smiled, and then my heart regain'd its lightness, And bounded in my breast with rapture high: Then durst I pass within her zone of brightness, And gaze upon her with unquailing eye.

Straightway she stretch'd her hand among the thin And watery haze that round her presence hover'd; Slowly it coil'd and shrunk her grasp within, And lo! the landscape lay once more uncover'd— Again mine eye could scan the sparkling meadow, I look'd to heaven, and all was clear and bright; I saw her hold a veil without a shadow, That undulated round her in the light.

"I know thee!—all thy weakness, all that yet Of good within thee lives and glows, I've measured;" She said—her voice I never may forget— "Accept the gift that long for thee was treasured. Oh! happy he, thrice-bless'd in earth and heaven, Who takes this gift with soul serene and true, The veil of song, by Truth's own fingers given, Enwoven of sunshine and the morning dew.

"Wave but this veil on high, whene'er beneath The noonday fervour thou and thine are glowing, And fragrance of all flowers around shall breathe, And the cool winds of eve come freshly blowing. Earth's cares shall cease for thee, and all its riot; Where gloom'd the grave, a starry couch be seen; The waves of life shall sink in halcyon quiet; The days be lovely fair, the nights serene."

Come then, my friends, and whether 'neath the load Of heavy griefs ye struggle on, or whether Your better destiny shall strew the road With flowers, and golden fruits that cannot wither, United let us move, still forwards striving; So while we live shall joy our days illume, And in our children's hearts our love surviving Shall gladden them, when we are in the tomb.

This is a noble metaphysical and metaphorical poem, but purely German of its kind. It has been imitated, not to say travestied, at least fifty times, by crazy students and purblind professors—each of whom, in turn, has had an interview with the goddess of nature upon a hill-side. For our own part, we confess that we have no great predilection for such mysterious intercourse, and would rather draw our inspiration from tangible objects, than dally with a visionary Egeria. But the fault is both common and national.

* * * * *

The next specimen we shall offer is the far-famed Bride of Corinth. Mrs Austin says of this poem very happily—"An awful and undefined horror breathes throughout it. In the slow measured rhythm of the verse, and the pathetic simplicity of the diction, there is a solemnity and a stirring spell, which chains the feelings like a deep mysterious strain of music." Owing to the peculiar structure and difficulty of the verse, this poem has hitherto been supposed incapable of translation. Dr Anster, who alone has rendered it into English, found it necessary to depart from the original structure; and we confess that it was not without much labour, and after repeated efforts, that we succeeded in vanquishing the obstacle of the double rhymes. If the German scholar should perceive, that in three stanzas some slight liberties have been taken with the original, we trust that he will perceive the reason, and at least give us credit for general fidelity and close adherence to the text.

THE BRIDE OF CORINTH.

I.

A youth to Corinth, whilst the city slumber'd, Came from Athens: though a stranger there, Soon among its townsmen to be number'd, For a bride awaits him, young and fair: From their childhood's years They were plighted feres, So contracted by their parents' care.

II.

But may not his welcome there be hinder'd? Dearly must he buy it, would he speed. He is still a heathen with his kindred, She and her's wash'd in the Christian creed. When new faiths are born, Love and troth are torn Rudely from the heart, howe'er it bleed.

III.

All the house is hush'd. To rest retreated Father, daughters—not the mother quite; She the guest with cordial welcome greeted, Led him to a room with tapers bright; Wine and food she brought Ere of them he thought, Then departed with a fair good-night.

IV.

But he felt no hunger, and unheeded Left the wine, and eager for the rest Which his limbs, forspent with travel, needed, On the couch he laid him, still undress'd. There he sleeps—when lo! Onwards gliding slow, At the door appears a wondrous guest.

V.

By the waning lamp's uncertain gleaming There he sees a youthful maiden stand, Robed in white, of still and gentle seeming, On her brow a black and golden band. When she meets his eyes, With a quick surprise Starting, she uplifts a pallid hand.

VI.

"Is a stranger here, and nothing told me? Am I then forgotten even in name? Ah! 'tis thus within my cell they hold me, And I now am cover'd o'er with shame! Pillow still thy head There upon thy bed, I will leave thee quickly as I came."

VII.

"Maiden—darling! Stay, O stay!" and, leaping From the couch, before her stands the boy: "Ceres—Bacchus, here their gifts are heaping, And thou bringest Amor's gentle joy! Why with terror pale? Sweet one, let us hail These bright gods—their festive gifts employ."

VIII.

"Oh, no—no! Young stranger, come not nigh me; Joy is not for me, nor festive cheer. Ah! such bliss may ne'er be tasted by me, Since my mother, in fantastic fear, By long sickness bow'd, To heaven's service vow'd Me, and all the hopes that warm'd me here.

IX.

"They have left our hearth, and left it lonely— The old gods, that bright and jocund train. One, unseen, in heaven, is worshipp'd only, And upon the cross a Saviour slain; Sacrifice is here, Not of lamb nor steer, But of human woe and human pain."

X.

And he asks, and all her words cloth ponder— "Can it be, that, in this silent spot, I behold thee, thou surpassing wonder! My sweet bride, so strangely to me brought? Be mine only now— See, our parents' vow Heaven's good blessing hath for us besought."

XI.

"No! thou gentle heart," she cried in anguish; "'Tis not mine, but 'tis my sister's place; When in lonely cell I weep and languish, Think, oh think of me in her embrace! I think but of thee— Pining drearily, Soon beneath the earth to hide my face!"

XII.

"Nay! I swear by yonder flame which burneth, Fann'd by Hymen, lost thou shalt not be; Droop not thus, for my sweet bride returneth To my father's mansion back with me! Dearest! tarry here! Taste the bridal cheer, For our spousal spread so wondrously!"

XIII.

Then with word and sign their troth they plighted. Golden was the chain she bade him wear; But the cup he offer'd her she slighted, Silver, wrought with cunning past compare. "That is not for me; All I ask of thee Is one little ringlet of thy hair."

XIV.

Dully boom'd the midnight hour unhallow'd, And then first her eyes began to shine; Eagerly with pallid lips she swallow'd Hasty draughts of purple-tinctured wine; But the wheaten bread, As in shuddering dread, Put she always by with loathing sign.

XV.

And she gave the youth the cup: he drain'd it, With impetuous haste he drain'd it dry; Love was in his fever'd heart, and pain'd it, Till it ached for joys she must deny. But the maiden's fears Stay'd him, till in tears On the bed he sank, with sobbing cry.

XVI.

And she leans above him—"Dear one, still thee! Ah, how sad am I to see thee so! But, alas! these limbs of mine would chill thee: Love, they mantle not with passion's glow; Thou wouldst be afraid, Didst thou find the maid Thou hast chosen, cold as ice or snow."

XVII.

Round her waist his eager arms he bended, Dashing from his eyes the blinding tear: "Wert thou even from the grave ascended, Come unto my heart, and warm thee here!" Sweet the long embrace— "Raise that pallid face; None but thou and are watching, dear!"

XVIII.

Was it love that brought the maiden thither, To the chamber of the stranger guest? Love's bright fire should kindle, and not wither; Love's sweet thrill should soothe, not torture, rest. His impassion'd mood Warms her torpid blood, Yet there beats no heart within her breast.

XIX.

Meanwhile goes the mother, softly creeping, Through the house, on needful cares intent, Hears a murmur, and, while all are sleeping, Wonders at the sounds, and what they meant. Who was whispering so?— Voices soft and low, In mysterious converse strangely blent.

XX.

Straightway by the door herself she stations, There to be assured what was amiss; And she hears love's fiery protestations, Words of ardour and endearing bliss: "Hark, the cock! 'Tis light! But to-morrow night Thou wilt come again?"—and kiss on kiss.

XXI.

Quick the latch she raises, and, with features Anger-flush'd, into the chamber hies. "Are there in my house such shameless creatures, Minions to the stranger's will?" she cries. By the dying light, Who is't meets her sight? God! 'tis her own daughter she espies!

XXII.

And the youth in terror sought to cover, With her own light veil, the maiden's head, Clasp'd her close; but, gliding from her lover, Back the vestment from her brow she spread, And her form upright, As with ghostly might, Long and slowly rises from the bed.

XXIII.

"Mother! mother! wherefore thus deprive me Of such joy as I this night have known? Wherefore from these warm embraces drive me? Was I waken'd up to meet thy frown? Did it not suffice That, in virgin guise, To an early grave you brought me down?

XXIV.

"Fearful is the weird that forced me hither, From the dark-heap'd chamber where I lay; Powerless are your drowsy anthems, neither Can your priests prevail, howe'er they pray. Salt nor lymph can cool Where the pulse is full; Love must still burn on, though wrapp'd in clay.

XXV.

"To this youth my early troth was plighted, Whilst yet Venus ruled within the land; Mother! and that vow ye falsely slighted, At your new and gloomy faith's command. But no God will hear, If a mother swear Pure from love to keep her daughter's hand.

XXVI.

"Nightly from my narrow chamber driven, Come I to fulfil my destined part, Him to seek for whom my troth was given, And to draw the life blood from his heart. He hath served my will; More I yet must kill, For another prey I now depart.

XXVII.

"Fair young man! thy thread of life is broken, Human skill can bring no aid to thee. There thou hast my chain—a ghastly token— And this lock of thine I take with me. Soon must thou decay, Soon wilt thou be gray, Dark although to-night thy tresses be.

XXVIII.

"Mother! hear, oh hear my last entreaty! Let the funeral pile arise once more; Open up my wretched tomb for pity, And in flames our souls to peace restore. When the ashes glow, When the fire-sparks flow, To the ancient gods aloft we soar."

* * * * *

After this most powerful and original ballad, let us turn to something more genial. The three following poems are exquisite specimens of the varied genius of our author; and we hardly know whether to prefer the plaintive beauty of the first, or the light and sportive brilliancy of the other twain.

FIRST LOVE.

Oh, who will bring me back the day, So beautiful, so bright! Those days when love first bore my heart Aloft on pinions light? Oh, who will bring me but an hour Of that delightful time, And wake in me again the power That fired my golden prime?

I nurse my wound in solitude, I sigh the livelong day, And mourn the joys, in wayward mood, That now are pass'd away. Oh, who will bring me back the days Of that delightful time, And wake in me again the blaze That fired my golden prime?

WHO'LL BUY A CUPID?

Of all the wares so pretty That come into the city, There's none are so delicious, There's none are half so precious, As those which we are binging. O, listen to our singing! Young loves to sell! young loves to sell! My pretty loves who'll buy?

First look you at the oldest, The wantonest, the boldest! So loosely goes he hopping, From tree and thicket dropping, Then flies aloft as sprightly— We dare but praise him lightly! The fickle rogue! Young loves to sell! My pretty loves who'll buy?

Now see this little creature— How modest seems his feature! He nestles so demurely, You'd think him safer surely; And yet for all his shyness, There's danger in his slyness! The cunning rogue! Young loves to sell! My pretty loves who'll buy?

Oh come and see this lovelet, This little turtle-dovelet! The maidens that are neatest, The tenderest and sweetest, Should buy it to amuse 'em, And nurse it in their bosom. The little pet! Young loves to sell! My pretty loves who'll buy?

We need not bid you buy them, They're here, if you will try them. They like to change their cages; But for their proving sages No warrant will we utter— They all have wings to flutter. The pretty birds! Young loves to sell! Such beauties! Come and buy!

* * * * *

SECOND LIFE.

After life's departing sigh, To the spots I loved most dearly, In the sunshine and the shadow, By the fountain welling clearly, Through the wood and o'er the meadow, Flit I like a butterfly.

There a gentle pair I spy. Round the maiden's tresses flying, From her chaplet I discover All that I had lost in dying, Still with her and with her lover. Who so happy then as I?

For she smiles with laughing eye; And his lips to hers he presses, Vows of passion interchanging, Stifling her with sweet caresses, O'er her budding beauties ranging; And around the twain I fly.

And she sees me fluttering nigh; And beneath his ardour trembling, Starts she up—then off I hover. "Look there, dearest!" Thus dissembling, Speaks the maiden to her lover— "Come and catch that butterfly!"

* * * * *

In the days of his boyhood, and of Monk Lewis, Sir Walter Scott translated the Erl King, and since then it has been a kind of assay-piece for aspiring German students to thump and hammer at will. We have heard it sung so often at the piano by soft-voiced maidens, and hirsute musicians, before whose roaring the bull of Phalaris might be dumb, that we have been accustomed to associate it with stiff white cravats, green tea, and a superabundance of lemonade. But to do full justice to its unearthly fascination, one ought to hear it chanted by night in a lonely glade of the Schwartzwald or Spessart forest, with the wind moaning as an accompaniment, and the ghostly shadows of the branches flitting in the moonlight across the path.

THE ERL KING.

Who rides so late through the grisly night? 'Tis a father and child, and he grasps him tight; He wraps him close in his mantle's fold, And shelters the boy from the biting cold.

"My son, why thus to my arm dost cling?" "Father, dost thou not see the Erlie-king? The king with his crown and long black train!" "My son, 'tis a streak of the misty rain! "

"Come hither, thou darling! come, go with me! Fair games know I that I'll play with thee; Many bright flowers my kingdoms hold! My mother has many a robe of gold!"

"O father, dear father and dost thou not hear What the Erlie-king whispers so low in mine ear?" "Calm thee, my boy, 'tis only the breeze Rustling the dry leaves beneath the trees!"

"Wilt thou go, bonny boy! wilt thou go with me? My daughters shall wait on thee daintilie; My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep, And rock thee, and kiss thee, and sing thee to sleep!"

"O father, dear father! and dost thou not mark Erlie-king's daughters move by in the dark?" "I see it, my child; but it is not they, 'Tis the old willow nodding its head so grey!"

"I love thee! thy beauty charms me quite; And if thou refusest, I'll take thee by might!" "O father, dear father! he's grasping me— My heart is as cold as cold can be!"

The father rides swiftly—with terror he gasps— The sobbing child in his arms he clasps; He reaches the castle with spurring and dread; But, alack! in his arms the child lay dead!

* * * * *

Who has not heard of Mignon?—sweet, delicate little Mignon?—the woman-child, in whose miniature, rather than portrait, it is easy to trace the original of fairy Fenella? We would that we could adequately translate the song, which in its native German is so exquisitely plaintive, that few can listen to it without tears. This poem, it is almost needless to say, is anterior in date to Byron's Bride of Abyos

MIGNON.

Know'st thou the land where the pale citron grows, And the gold orange through dark foliage glows? A soft wind flutters from the deep blue sky, The myrtle blooms, and towers the laurel high. Know'st thou it well? O there with thee! O that I might, my own beloved one, flee!

Know'st thou the house? On pillars rest its beams, Bright is its hall, in light one chamber gleams, And marble statues stand, and look on me— What have they done, thou hapless child, to thee? Know'st thou it well? O there with thee! O that I might, my loved protector, flee!

Know'st thou the track that o'er the mountain goes, Where the mule threads its way through mist and snows, Where dwelt in caves the dragon's ancient brood, Topples the crag, and o'er it roars the flood. Know'st thou it well? O come with me! There lies our road—oh father, let us flee!

* * * * *

In order duly to appreciate the next ballad, you must fancy yourself (if you cannot realize it) stretched on the grass, by the margin of a mighty river of the south, rushing from or through an Italian lake, whose opposite shore you cannot descry for the thick purple haze of heat that hangs over its glassy surface. If you lie there for an hour or so, gazing into the depths of the blue unfathomable sky, till the fanning of the warm wind and the murmur of the water combine to throw you into a trance, you will be able to enjoy

THE FISHER.

The water rush'd and bubbled by— An angler near it lay, And watch'd his quill, with tranquil eye, Upon the current play. And as he sits in wasteful dream, He sees the flood unclose, And from the middle of the stream A river-maiden rose.

She sang to him with witching wile, "My brood why wilt thou snare, With human craft and human guile, To die in scorching air? Ah! didst thou know how happy we Who dwell in waters clear, Thou wouldst come down at once to me, And rest for ever here.

"The sun and ladye-moon they lave Their tresses in the main, And breathing freshness from the wave, Come doubly bright again. The deep blue sky, so moist and clear, Hath it for thee no lure? Does thine own face not woo thee down Unto our waters pure?"

The water rush'd and bubbled by— It lapp'd his naked feet; He thrill'd as though he felt the touch Of maiden kisses sweet. She spoke to him, she sang to him— Resistless was her strain— Half-drawn, he sank beneath the wave, And ne'er was seen again.

* * * * *

Our next extract smacks of the Troubadours, and would have better suited good old King Rene of Provence than a Paladin of the days of Charlemagne. Goethe has neither the eye of Wouverman nor Borgognone, and sketches but an indifferent battle-piece. Homer was a stark moss-trooper, and so was Scott; but the Germans want the cry of "boot and saddle" consumedly. However, the following is excellent in its way.

THE MINSTREL.

"What sounds are those without, along The drawbridge sweetly stealing? Within our hall I'd have that song, That minstrel measure, pealing." Then forth the little foot-page hied; When he came back, the king he cried, "Bring in the aged minstrel!"

"Good-even to you, lordlings all; Fair ladies all, good-even. Lo, star on star within this hall I see a radiant heaven. In hall so bright with noble light, 'Tis not for thee to feast thy sight, Old man, look not around thee!"

He closed his eyne, he struck his lyre In tones with passion laden, Till every gallant's eye shot fire, And down look'd every maiden. The king, enraptured with his strain, Held out to him a golden chain, In guerdon of his harping.

"The golden chain give not to me, For noble's breast its glance is, Who meets and beats thy enemy Amid the shock of lances. Or give it to thy chancellere— Let him its golden burden bear, Among his other burdens.

"I sing as sings the bird, whose note The leafy bough is heard on. The song that falters from my throat For me is ample guerdon. Yet I'd ask one thing, an I might, A draught of brave wine, sparkling bright Within a golden beaker!"

The cup was brought. He drain'd its lees, "O draught that warms me cheerly! Blest is the house where gifts like these Are counted trifles merely. Lo, when you prosper, think on me, And thank your God as heartily As for this draught I thank you!"

* * * * *

We intend to close the present Number with a very graceful, though simple ditty, which Goethe may possibly have altered from the Morlachian, but which is at all events worthy of his genius. Previously, however, in case any of the ladies should like something sentimental, we beg leave to present them with as nice a little chansonette as ever was transcribed into an album.

THE VIOLET.

A violet blossom'd on the lea, Half hidden from the eye, As fair a flower as you might see; When there came tripping by A shepherd maiden fair and young, Lightly, lightly o'er the lea; Care she knew not, and she sung Merrily!

"O were I but the fairest flower That blossoms on the lea; If only for one little hour, That she might gather me— Clasp me in her bonny breast!" Thought the little flower. "O that in it I might rest But an hour!"

Lack-a-day! Up came the lass, Heeded not the violet; Trod it down into the grass; Though it died, 'twas happy yet. "Trodden down although I lie, Yet my death is very sweet— For I cannot choose but die At her feet!"

* * * * *

THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE NOBLE WIFE OF ASAN AGA.

What is yon so white beside the greenwood? Is it snow, or flight of cygnets resting? Were it snow, ere now it had been melted; Were it swans, ere now the flock had left us. Neither snow nor swans are resting yonder, 'Tis the glittering tents of Asan Aga. Faint he lies from wounds in stormy battle; There his mother and his sisters seek him, But his wife hangs back for shame, and comes not.

When the anguish of his hurts was over, To his faithful wife he sent this message— "Longer 'neath my roof thou shalt not tarry, Neither in my court nor in my household."

When the lady heard this cruel sentence, 'Reft of sense she stood, and rack'd with anguish: In the court she heard the horses stamping, And in fear that it was Asan coming, Fled towards the tower, to leap and perish.

Then in terror ran her little daughters, Calling after her, and weeping sorely, "These are not the steeds of Father Asan; 'Tis thy brother Pintorovich coming!"

And the wife of Asan turn'd to meet him; Sobbing, threw her arms around her brother. "See the wrongs, O brother, of thy sister! These five babes I bore, and must I leave them?"

Silently the brother from his girdle Draws the ready deed of separation, Wrapp'd within a crimson silken cover. She is free to seek her mother's dwelling— Free to join in wedlock with another.

When the woful lady saw the writing, Kiss'd she both her boys upon the forehead, Kiss'd on both the cheeks her sobbing daughters; But she cannot tear herself for pity From the infant smiling in the cradle!

Rudely did her brother tear her from it, Deftly lifted her upon a courser, And in haste, towards his father's dwelling, Spurr'd he onward with the woful lady.

Short the space; seven days, but barely seven— Little space I ween—by many nobles Was the lady—still in weeds of mourning— Was the lady courted in espousal.

Far the noblest was Imoski's cadi; And the dame in tears besought her brother— "I adjure thee, by the life thou bearest, Give me not a second time in marriage, That my heart may not be rent asunder If again I see my darling children!"

Little reck'd the brother of her bidding, Fix'd to wed her to Imoski's cadi. But the gentle lady still entreats him— "Send at least a letter, O my brother! To Imoski's cadi, thus imploring— I, the youthful widow, greet thee fairly, And entreat thee, by this selfsame token, When thou comest hither with thy bridesmen, Bring a heavy veil, that I may shroud me As we pass along by Asan's dwelling, So I may not see my darling orphans."

Scarcely had the cadi read the letter, When he call'd together all his bridesmen, Boune himself to bring the lady homewards, And he brought the veil as she entreated.

Jocundly they reach'd the princely mansion, Jocundly they bore her thence in triumph; But when they drew near to Asan's dwelling, Then the children recognized their mother, And they cried, "Come back unto thy chamber— Share the meal this evening with thy children;" And she turn'd her to the lordly bridegroom— "Pray thee, let the bridesmen and their horses Halt a little by the once-loved dwelling, Till I give these presents to my children."

And they halted by the once-loved dwelling, And she gave the weeping children presents, Gave each boy a cap with gold embroider'd, Gave each girl a long and costly garment, And with tears she left a tiny mantle For the helpless baby in the cradle.

These things mark'd the father, Asan Aga, And in sorrow call'd he to his children— "Turn again to me, ye poor deserted; Hard as steel is now your mother's bosom; Shut so fast, it cannot throb with pity!"

Thus he spoke; and when the lady heard him, Pale as death she dropp'd upon the pavement, And the life fled from her wretched bosom As she saw her children turning from her.



MY FIRST LOVE.

A SKETCH IN NEW YORK.

"Margaret, where are you?" cried a silver-toned voice from a passage outside the drawing-room in which I had just seated myself. The next instant a lovely face appeared at the door, its owner tripped into the room, made a comical curtsy, and ran up to her sister.

"It is really too bad, Margaret; pa' frets and bustles about, nearly runs over me upon the stairs, and then goes down the street as if 'Change were on fire. Ma' yawns, and will not hear of our going shopping, and grumbles about money—always money—that horrid money! Ah! dear Margaret, our shopping excursion is at an end for to-day!"

Sister Margaret, to whom this lamentation was addressed, was reclining on the sofa, her left hand supporting her head, her right holding the third volume of a novel. She looked up with a languishing and die-away expression—

"Poor Staunton will be in despair," said her sister. "This is at least his tenth turn up and down the Battery. Last night he was a perfect picture of misery. I could not have had the heart to refuse to dance with him. How could you be so cruel, Margaret?"

"Alas!" replied Margaret with a deep sigh, "how could I help it? Mamma was behind me, and kept pushing me with her elbow. Mamma is sometimes very ill-bred." And another sigh burst from the overcharged heart of the sentimental fair one.

"Well," rejoined her sister, "I don't know why she so terribly dislikes poor Staunton; but to say the truth, our gallopade lost nothing by his absence. He is as stiff as a Dutch doll when he dances. Even our Louisianian backwoodsman here, acquits himself much more creditably."

And the malicious girl gave me such an arch look, that I could not be angry with the equivocal sort of compliment paid to myself.

"That is very unkind, Arthurine," said Margaret, her checks glowing with anger at this attack upon the graces of her admirer.

"Don't be angry, sister," cried Arthurine, running up to her, throwing her arms round her neck, and kissing and soothing her till she began to smile. They formed a pretty group. Arthurine especially, as she skipped up to her sister, scarce touching the carpet with her tiny feet, looked like a fairy or a nymph. She was certainly a lovely creature, slender and flexible as a reed, with a waist one could easily have spanned with one's ten fingers; feet and hands on the very smallest scale, and of the most beautiful mould; features exquisitely regular; a complexion of lilies and roses; a small graceful head, adorned with a profusion of golden hair; and then large round clear blue eyes, full of mischief and fascination. She was, as the French say, a croquer.

"Heigho!" sighed the sentimental Margaret. "To think of this vulgar, selfish man intruding himself between me and such a noble creature as Staunton! It is really heart-breaking."

"Not quite so bad as that!" said Arthurine. "Moreland, as you know, has a good five hundred thousand dollars; and Staunton has nothing, or at most a couple of thousand dollars a-year—a mere feather in the balance against such a golden weight."

"Love despises gold," murmured Margaret.

"Nonsense!" replied her sister; "I would not even despise silver, if it were in sufficient quantity. Only think of the balls and parties, the fetes and pic-nics! Saratoga in the summer—perhaps even London or Paris! The mere thought of it makes my mouth water."

"Talk not of such joys, to be bought at such a price!" cried Margaret, quoting probably from some of her favourite novels.

"Well, don't make yourself unhappy now," said Arthurine. "Moreland will not be here till tea-time; and there are six long hours to that. If we had only a few new novels to pass the time! I cannot imagine why Cooper is so lazy. Only one book in a year! What if you were to begin to write, sister? I have no doubt you would succeed as well as Mrs Mitchell. Bulwer is so fantastical; and even Walter Scott is getting dull."

"Alas, Howard!" sighed Margaret, looking to me for sympathy with her sorrows.

"Patience, dear Margaret," said I. "If possible, I will help you to get rid of the old fellow. At any rate, I will try."

Rat-tat-tat at the house door. Arthurine put up her finger to enjoin silence, and listened. Another loud knock. "A visit!" exclaimed she with sparkling eyes. "Ha! ladies; I hear the rustle of their gowns." And as she spoke the door opened, and the Misses Pearce came swimming into the room, in all the splendour of violet-coloured silks, covered with feathers, lace, and embroideries, and bringing with them an atmosphere of perfume.

The man who has the good fortune to see our New York belles in their morning or home attire, must have a heart made of quartz or granite if he resists their attractions. Their graceful forms, their intellectual and somewhat languishing expression of countenance, their bright and beaming eyes, their slender figures, which make one inclined to seize and hold them lest the wind should blow them away, their beautifully delicate hands and feet, compose a sum of attraction perfectly irresistible. The Boston ladies are perhaps better informed, and their features are usually more regular; but they have something Yankeeish about them, which I could never fancy, and, moreover, they are dreadful blue-stockings. The fair Philadelphians are rounder, more elastic, more Hebe-like, and unapproachable in the article of small-talk; but it is amongst the beauties of New York that romance writers should seek for their Julias and Alices. I am certain that if Cooper had made their acquaintance whilst writing his books, he would have torn up his manuscripts, and painted his heroines after a less wooden fashion. He can only have seen them on the Battery or in Broadway, where they are so buried and enveloped in finery that it is impossible to guess what they are really like. The two young ladies who had just entered the room, were shining examples of that system of over-dressing. They seemed to have put on at one time the three or four dresses worn in the course of the day by a London or Paris fashionable.

It was now all over with my tete-a-tete. I could only be de trop in the gossip of the four ladies, and I accordingly took my leave. As I passed before the parlour door on my way out, it was opened, and Mrs Bowsends beckoned me in. I entered, and found her husband also there.

"Are you going away already, my dear Howard?" said the lady.

"There are visitors up stairs."

"Ah, Howard!" said Mrs Bowsends.

"The workies[20] have carried the day," growled her husband.

[Footnote 20: The slang term applied to the mechanics and labourers, a numerous and (at elections especially) a most important class in New York and Philadelphia.]

"That horrid Staunton!" interrupted his better half. "Only think now'—

"Our side lost—completely floored. But you've heard of it, I suppose, Mister Howard?"

I turned from one to the other in astonished perplexity, not knowing to which I ought to listen first.

"I don't know how it is," whined the lady, "but that Mr Staunton becomes every day more odious to me. Only think now, of his having the effrontery to persist in running after Margaret! Hardly two thousand a-year "—

"Old Hickory is preparing to leave Hermitage already.[21] Bank shares have fallen half per cent in consequence," snarled her husband.

[Footnote 21: The name of General Jackson's country-house and estate.]

They were ringing the changes on poor Staunton and the new president.

"He ought to remember the difference of our positions," said Mrs B., drawing herself up with much dignity.

"Certainly, certainly!" said I.

"And the governor's election is also going desperate bad," said Mr Bowsends.

"And then Margaret, to think of her infatuation! Certainly she is a good, gentle creature; but five hundred thousand dollars!" This was Mrs Bowsends.

"By no means to be despised," said I.

The five hundred thousand dollars touched a responsive chord in the heart of the papa.

"Five hundred thousand," repeated he. "Yes, certainly; but what's the use of that? All nonsense. Those girls would ruin a Croesus."

"You need not talk, I'm sure," retorted mamma. "Think of all your bets and electioneering."

"You understand nothing about that," replied her husband angrily. "Interests of the country—congress—public good—must be supported. Who would do it if we"—

"Did not bet," thought I.

"You are a friend of the family," said Mrs Bowsends, "and I hope you will"—

"Apropos," interrupted her loving husband. "How has your cotton crop turned out? You might consign it to me. How many bales?"

"A hundred; and a few dozen hogsheads of tobacco."

"Some six thousand dollars per annum," muttered the papa musingly; "hm, hm."

"As to that," said I negligently, "I have sufficient capital in my hands to increase the one hundred bales to two hundred another year."

"Two hundred! two hundred!" The man's eyes glistened approvingly. "That might do. Not so bad. Well, Arthurine is a good girl. We'll see, my dear Mr Howard—we'll see. Yes, yes—come here every evening—whenever you like. You know Arthurine is always glad to see you."

"And Mr and Mrs Bowsends?" asked I.

"Are most delighted," replied the couple, smiling graciously.

I bowed, agreeably surprised, and took my departure. I was nevertheless not over well pleased with a part of Mr Bowsends' last speech. It looked rather too much as if my affectionate father-in-law that was to be, wished to balance his lost bets with my cotton bales; and, as I thought of it, my gorge rose at the selfishness of my species, and more especially at the stupid impudent egotism of Bowsends and the thousands who resemble him. To all such, even their children are nothing but so many bales of goods, to be bartered, bought, and sold. And this man belongs to the haut-ton of New York! Five-and-twenty years ago he went about with a tailor's measure in his pocket—now a leader on 'Change, and member of twenty committees and directorships.

But then Arthurine, with her seventeen summers and her lovely face, the most extravagant little doll in the whole city, and that is not saying a little, but the most elegant, charming—a perfect sylph! It was now about eleven months since I had first become acquainted with the bewitching creature; and, from the very first day, I had been her vassal, her slave, bound by chains as adamantine as those of Armida. She had just left the French boarding-school at St John's. That, by the by, is one of the means by which our mushroom aristocracy pushes itself upwards. A couple of pretty daughters, brought up at a fashionable school, are sure to attract a swarm of young fops and danglers about them; and the glory of the daughters is reflected upon the papa and mamma. And this little sorceress knew right well how to work her incantations. Every heart was at her feet; but not one out of her twenty or more adorers could boast that he had received a smile or a look more than his fellows. I was the only one who had perhaps obtained a sort of passive preference. I was allowed to escort her in her rides, walks, and drives; to be her regular partner when no other dancer offered, and suchlike enviable privileges. She flirted and fluttered about me, and hung familiarly on my arm, as she tripped along Broadway or the Battery by my side. In addition to all these little marks of preference, it fell to my share of duty to supply her with the newest novels, to furnish her with English Keepsakes and American Tokens and Souvenirs, and to provide the last fashionable songs and quadrilles. All this had cost me no small sum; but I consoled myself with the reflection, that my presents were made to the prettiest girl in New York, and that sooner or later she must reward my assiduities. Twice had fortune smiled upon me; in one instance, when we were standing on the bridge at Niagara, looking down on the foaming waters, and I was obliged to put my arm round her waist, for fear she should become dizzy and fall in—in doing which, by the by, I very nearly fell in myself. A similar thing occurred on a visit we made to the Trenton falls. That was all I had got for my pains, however, during the eleven months that I had trifled away in New York—months that had served to lighten my purse pretty considerably. It is the fashion in our southern states to choose our wives from amongst the beauties of the north. I had been bitten by the mania, and had come to New York upon this important business; but having been there nearly a year, it was high time to make an end of matters, if I did not wish to be put on the shelf as stale goods.

This last reflection occurred to me very strongly as I was walking from the Bowsends' house towards Wall Street, when suddenly I caught sight of my fellow-sufferer Staunton. The Yankee's dolorous countenance almost made me smile. Up he came, with the double object of informing me that the weather was very fine, and of offering me a bite at his pigtail tobacco. I could not help expressing my astonishment that so sensitive and delicate a creature as Margaret should tolerate such a habit in the man of her choice.

"Pshaw!" replied the simpleton. "Moreland chews also."

"Yes, but he has got five hundred thousand dollars, and that sweetens the poison."

"Ah!" sighed Staunton.

"Keep up your courage, man; Bowsends is rich."

The Yankee shook his head.

"Two hundred thousand, they say; but to-morrow he may not have a farthing. You know our New Yorkers. Nothing but bets, elections, shares, railways, banks. His expenses are enormous; and, if he once got his daughters off his hands, he would perhaps fail next week."

"And be so much the richer next year," replied I.

"Do you think so?" said the Yankee, musingly.

"Of course it would be so. Mean time you can marry the languishing Margaret, and do like many others of your fellow citizens; go out with a basket on your arm to the Greenwich market, and whilst your delicate wife is enjoying her morning slumber, buy the potatoes and salted mackerel for breakfast. In return for that, she will perhaps condescend to pour you out a cup of bohea. Famous thing that bohea! capital antidote to the dyspepsia!"

"You are spiteful," said poor Staunton.

"And you foolish," I retorted. "To a young barrister like you, there are hundreds of houses open."

"And to you also."

"Certainly."

"And then I have this advantage—the girl likes me."

"I am liked by the papa and the mamma, and the girl too."

"Have you got five hundred thousand dollars?"

"No."

"Poor Howard!" cried Staunton, laughing.

"Go to the devil!" replied I, laughing also.

We had been chatting in this manner for nearly a quarter of an hour, when a coach drove out of Greenwich Street, in which I saw a face that I thought I knew. One of the Philadelphia steamers had just arrived. I stepped forward.

"Stop!" cried a well-known voice.

"Stop!" cried I, hastening to the coach door.

It was Richards, my school and college friend, and my neighbour, after the fashion of the southern states; for he lived only about a hundred and seventy miles from me. I said good-by to poor simple Staunton, got into the coach, and we rattled off through Broadway to the American hotel.

"For heaven's sake, George!" exclaimed my friend, as soon as we were installed in a room, "tell me what you are doing here. Have you quite forgotten house, land, and friends? You have been eleven months away."

"True," replied I; "making love—and not a step further advanced than the first."

"The report is true, then, that you have been harpooned by the Bowsends? Poor fellow! I am sorry for you. Just tell me what you mean to do with the dressed-up doll when you get her? A young lady who has not enough patience even to read her novels from beginning to end, and who, before she was twelve years old, had Tom Moore and Byron, Don Juan perhaps excepted, by heart. A damsel who has geography and the globes, astronomy and Cuvier, Raphael's cartoons and Rossini's operas, at her finger-ends; but who, as true as I am alive, does not know whether a mutton chop is cut off a pig or a cow—who would boil tea and cauliflowers in the same manner, and has some vague idea that eggs are the principal ingredient in a gooseberry pie."

"I want her for my wife, not for my cook," retorted I, rather nettled.

"Who does not know," continued Richards, "whether dirty linen ought to be boiled or baked."

"But she sings like St Cecilia, plays divinely, and dances like a fairy."

"Yes, all that will do you a deal of good. I know the family; both father and mother are the most contemptible people breathing."

"Stop there!" cried I; "they are not one iota better or worse than their neighbours."

"You are right."

"Well, then, leave them in peace. I have promised to drink tea there at six o'clock. If you will come, I will take you with me."

"Know then already, man. I will go, on one condition; that you leave New York with me in three days."

"If my marriage is not settled," replied I.

"D——d fool!" muttered Richards between his teeth.

Six o'clock struck as we entered the drawing-room of my future mother-in-law. The good lady almost frightened me as I went in, by her very extraordinary appearance in a tremendous grey gauze turban, fire-new, just arrived by the Henri Quatre packet-ship from Havre, and that gave her exactly the look of one of our Mississippi night-owls. Richards seemed a little startled; and Moreland, who was already there, could not take his eyes off this remarkable head-dress. Miss Margaret was costumed in pale green silk, her hair flattened upon each side of her forehead a la Marguerite, (see the Journal des Modes,) and looking like Jephtha's daughter, pale and resigned, but rather more lackadaisical, with a sort of "though-absent-not-forgot" look about her, inexpressibly sentimental and interesting. The contrast was certainly rather strong between old Moreland, who sat there, red-faced, thickset, and clumsy, and the airy slender Staunton, who, for fear of spoiling his figure, lived upon oysters and macaroon, and drank water with a rose leaf in it.

I had brought the languishing beauty above described, Scott's Tales of my Grandfather, which had just appeared.

"Ah! Walter Scott!" exclaimed she, in her pretty melting tones. Then, after a moment's pause, "The vulgar man has not a word to say for himself;" said she to me, in a low tone.

"Wait a little," replied I; "he'll improve. It is no doubt his modest timidity that keeps his lips closed."

Margaret gave me a furious look.

"Heartless mocker!" she exclaimed.

Meanwhile Richards had got into conversation with Bowsends. The unlucky dog, who did not know that his host was a violent Adams-ite, and had lost a good five thousand dollars in bets and subscriptions to influence the voices of the sovereign people at the recent election, had fallen on the sore subject. He began by informing his host that Old Hickory would shortly leave the Hermitage to assume his duties as president.

"The blood-thirsty backwoodsman, half horse, half alligator" interrupted Mr Bowsends.

"Costs you dear, his election," said Moreland laughing.

"Smokes out of a tobacco pipe like a vulgar German," ejaculated Mrs Bowsends.

"Not so very vulgar for that," said blundering Moreland; "tobacco has quite another taste out of a pipe."

I gave him a tremendous dig in the back with my elbow.

"Do you smoke out of a tobacco pipe, Mr Moreland?" enquired Margaret in her flute-like tones.

Moreland stared; he had a vague idea that he had got himself into a scrape, but his straightforward honesty prevented him from prevaricating, and he blurted out—"Sometimes, miss."

I thought the sensitive creature would have swooned away at this admission; and I had just laid my arm over the back of her chair to support her, when Arthurine entered the room. She gave a quick glance to me; it was too late to draw back my arm. She did not seem to notice any thing, saluted the company gaily and easily, tripped up to Moreland, wished him good evening—asked after his bets, his ships, his old dog Tom—chattered, in short, full ten minutes in a breath. Before Moreland knew what she was about, she had taken one of his hands in both of hers. But they were old acquaintances, and he might easily have been her grandfather. Meanwhile Margaret had somewhat recovered from the shock.

"He smokes out of a pipe!" lisped she to Arthurine, in a tone of melancholy resignation.

"Old Hickory is very popular in Pennsylvania," said Richards, resuming the conversation that had been interrupted, and perfectly unconscious, as Moreland would have said, of the shoals he was sailing amongst. "A Bedford County farmer has just sent him a present of a cask of Monongahela."

"I envy him that present," cried Moreland. "A glass of genuine Monongahela is worth any money."

This second shock was far too violent to be resisted by Margaret's delicate nerves. She sank back in her chair, half fainting, half hysterical. Her maids were called in, and with their help she managed to leave the room.

"Have you brought her a book?" said Arthurine to me.

"Yes, one of Walter Scott's."

"Oh! then she will soon be well again," rejoined the affectionate sister, apparently by no means alarmed.

Now that this nervous beauty was gone, the conversation became much more lively. Captain Moreland was a jovial sailor, who had made ten voyages to China, fifteen to Constantinople, twenty to St Petersburg, and innumerable ones to Liverpool and through his exertions had amassed the large fortune which he was now enjoying. He was a merry-hearted man, with excellent sound sense on all points except one—that one being the fair sex, with which he was about as well acquainted as an alligator with a camera-obscure. The attentions paid to him by Arthurine seemed to please the old bachelor uncommonly. There was a mixture of kindness, malice, and fascination in her manner, which was really enchanting; even the matter-of-fact Richards could not take his eyes off her.

"That is certainly a charming girl!" whispered he to me.

"Did not I tell you so?" said I. "Only observe with what sweetness she gives in to the old man's humours and fancies!"

The hours passed like minutes. Supper was long over, and we rose to depart; when I shook hands with Arthurine, she pressed mine gently. I was in the ninety-ninth heaven.

"Now, boys," cried worthy Moreland, as soon as we were in the streets, "it would really be a pity to part so early on so joyous an evening. What do you say? Will you come to my house, and knock the necks off half a dozen bottles?"

We agreed to this proposal; and, taking the old seaman between us, steered in the direction of his cabin, as he called his magnificent and well-furnished house.

"What a delightful family those Bowsends are!" exclaimed Moreland, as soon as we were comfortably seated beside a blazing fire, with the Lafitte and East India Madeira sparkling on the table beside us. "And what charming girls! 'You're getting oldish,' says I to myself the other day, 'but you're still fresh and active, sound as a dolphin. Better get married.' Margaret pleased me uncommonly, so I"—

"Yes, my dear Moreland," interrupted I, "but are you sure that you please her?"

"Pshaw! Five times a hundred thousand dollars! I tell you what, my lad, that's not to be met with every day."

"Fifty years old," replied I.

"Certainly, fifty years old, but stout and healthy; none of your spindle-shanked dandies—your Stauntons"—

But Staunton smokes cigars, and not Dutch pipes."

"I give that up. For Miss Margaret's sake, I'll burn my nose and mouth with those damned stumps of cigars."

"Drinks no whisky," continued I. "He is president of a temperance society."

"The devil fly away with him!" growled Moreland; "I wouldn't give up my whisky for all the girls in the world."

"If you don't, she'll always be fainting away," replied I, laughing.

"Ah! It's because I talked of the Monongahela that she began with her hystericals, and went away for all the evening! That's where the wind sits, is it? Well, you may depend I ain't to be done out of my grog at any rate."

And he backed his assertion with an oath, swallowing off the contents of his glass by way of a clincher. We sat joking and chatting till past midnight during which time I flattered myself that I gave evidence of considerable diplomatic talents. As we were returning home, however, Richards doubted whether I had not driven the old boy rather too hard

"No matter," replied I, "if I have only succeeded in ridding poor Margaret of him."

Cool, calculating Richards shook his head.

"I don't know what may come of it," said he; "but I do not think you are likely to find much gratitude for your interference."

The next day was taken up in arranging matters of business consequent on the arrival of Richards. At least ten times I tried to go and see Arthurine, but was always prevented by something or other; and it was past tea-time when I at last got to the Bowsends' house. I found Margaret in the drawing-room, deep in a new novel.

"Where is Arthurine?" I enquired.

"At the theatre, with mamma and Mr Moreland," was the answer.

"At the theatre!" repeated I in astonishment. They were playing Tom and Jerry, a favourite piece with the enlightened Kentuckians. I had seen the first scene or two at the New Orleans theatre, and had had quite enough of it.

"That really is sacrificing herself!" said I, considerably out of humour.

"The noble girl!" exclaimed Margaret. "Mr Moreland came to tea, and urged us so much to go"—

"That she could not help going, to be bored and disgusted for a couple of hours."

"She went for my sake," said Margaret sentimentally. "Mamma would have one of us go."

"Yes, that is it," thought I. Jealousy would have been ridiculous. He fifty years old, she seventeen. I left the house, and went to find Richards.

"What! Back so early?" cried he.

"She is gone to the theatre with her mamma and Moreland."

Richards shook his head.

"You put a wasp's nest into the old fellow's brain-pan yesterday," said he. "Take care you do not get stung yourself."

"I should like to see how she looks by his side," said I.

"Well, I will go with you. The sooner you are cured the better. But only for ten minutes."

There was certainly no temptation to remain longer in that atmosphere of whisky and tobacco fumes. It was at the Bowery theatre. The light swam as though seen through a thick fog; and a perfect shower of orange and apple peel, and even less agreeable things, rained down from the galleries. Tom and Jerry were in all their glory. I looked round the boxes, and soon saw the charming Arthurine, apparently perfectly comfortable, chatting with old Moreland as gravely, and looking as demure and self-possessed, as if she had been a married woman of thirty.

"That is a prudent young lady," said Richards; "she has an eye to the dollars, and would marry Old Hickory himself, spite of whisky and tobacco pipe, if he had more money, and were to ask her."

I said nothing.

"If you weren't such an infatuated fool," continued my plain-spoken friend, I would say to you, let her take her own way, and the day after to-morrow we will leave New York."

"One week more," said I, with an uneasy feeling about the heart.

At seven the next evening I entered what had been my Elysium, but was now, little by little, becoming my Tartarus. Again I found Margaret alone over a romance. "And Arthurine?" enquired I, in a voice that might perhaps have been steadier.

"She is gone with mamma and Mr Moreland to hear Miss Fanny Wright."

"To hear Miss Fanny Wright! the atheist, the revolutionist! What a mad fancy! Who would ever have dreamed of such a thing!"

This Miss Fanny Wright was a famous lecturess, of the Owenite school, who was shunned like a pestilence by the fashionable world of New York.

"Mr Moreland," answered Margaret, "said so much about her eloquence that Arthurine's curiosity was roused."

"Indeed!" replied I.

"Oh! you do not know what a noble girl she is. For her sister she would sacrifice her life. My only hope is in her."

I snatched up my hat, and hurried out of the house.

The next morning I got up, restless and uneasy; and eleven o'clock had scarcely struck when I reached the Bowsends' house. This time both sisters were at home; and as I entered the drawing-room, Arthurine advanced to meet me with a beautiful smile upon her face. There was nevertheless a something in the expression of her countenance that made me start. I pressed her hand. She looked tenderly at me.

"I hope you have been amusing yourself these last two days," said I after a moment's pause.

"Novelty has a certain charm," replied Arthurine. "Yet I certainly never expected to become a disciple of Miss Fanny Wright," added she, laughing.

"Really! I should have thought the transition from Tom and Jerry rather an easy one."

"A little more respect for Tom and Jerry, whom we patronize—that is to say, Mr Moreland and our high mightiness," replied Arthurine, trying, as I fancied, to conceal a certain confusion of manner under a laugh.

"I should scarcely have thought my Arthurine would have become a party to such a conspiracy against good taste," replied I gravely.

"My Arthurine!" repeated she, laying a strong accent on the pronoun possessive. "Only see what rights and privileges the gentleman is usurping! We live in a free country, I believe?"

There was a mixture of jest and earnest in her charming countenance. I looked enquiringly at her.

"Do you know," cried she, "I have taken quite a fancy to Moreland? He is so good-natured, such a sterling character, and his roughness wears off when one knows him well."

"And moreover," added I, "he has five hundred thousand dollars."

"Which are by no means the least of his recommendations. Only think of the balls, Howard! I hope you will come to them. And then Saratoga; next year London and Paris. Oh! it will be delightful."

"What, so far gone already?" said I, sarcastically.

"And poor Margaret is saved!" added she, throwing her arms round her sister's neck, and kissing and caressing her. I hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry.

"Then, I suppose, I may congratulate you?" said I, forcing a laugh, and looking, I have no doubt, very like a fool.

You may so," replied Arthurine. "This morning Mr Moreland begged permission to transfer his addresses from Margaret to your very humble servant."

"And you?"—

"We naturally, in consideration of the petitioner's many amiable qualities, have promised to take the request into our serious consideration. For decorum's sake, you know, one must deliberate a couple of days or so."

"Are you in jest or earnest, Arthurine?"

"Quite in earnest, Howard."

"Farewell, then!"

"'Fare-thee-well! and if for ever Still for ever fare-thee-well!'"

said Arthurine, in a half-laughing, half-sighing tone. The next instant I had left the room.

On the stairs I met the beturbaned Mrs Bowsends, who led the way mysteriously into the parlour.

"You have seen Arthurine?" said she. "What a dear, darling child!—is she not? Oh! that girl is our joy and consolation. And Mr Moreland—the charming Mr Moreland! Now that things are arranged so delightfully, we can let Margaret have her own way a little."

"What I have heard is true, then?" said I.

"Yes; as an old friend I do not mind telling you—though it must still remain a secret for a short time. Mr Moreland has made a formal proposal to Arthurine."

I do not know what reply I made, before flinging myself out of the room and house, and running down the street as if I had just escaped from a lunatic asylum.

"Richards," cried I to my friend, "shall we start tomorrow?"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Richards. "So you are cured of the New York fever? Start! Yes, by all means, before you get a relapse. You must come with me to Virginia for a couple of months."

"I will so," was my answer.

As we were going down to the steam-boat on the following morning, Staunton overtook us, breathless with speed and delight.

"Wish me joy!" cried he. "I am accepted!"

"And I jilted!" replied I with a laugh. "But I am not such a fool as to make myself unhappy about a woman."

Light words enough, but my heart was heavy as I spoke them. Five minutes later, we were on our way to Virginia.

* * * * *



HYDRO-BACCHUS.

Great Homer sings how once of old The Thracian women met to hold To "Bacchus, ever young and fair," Mysterious rites with solemn care. For now the summer's glowing face Had look'd upon the hills of Thrace; And laden vines foretold the pride Of foaming vats at Autumn tide. There, while the gladsome Evoee shout Through Nysa's knolls rang wildly out, While cymbal clang, and blare of horn, O'er the broad Hellespont were borne; The sounds, careering far and near, Struck sudden on Lycurgus' ear— Edonia's grim black-bearded lord, Who still the Bacchic rites abhorr'd, And cursed the god whose power divine Lent heaven's own fire to generous wine. Ere yet th' inspired devotees Had half performed their mysteries, Furious he rush'd amidst the band, And whirled an ox-goad in his hand. Full many a dame on earth lay low Beneath the tyrant's savage blow; The rest, far scattering in affright, Sought refuge from his rage in flight.

But the fell king enjoy'd not long The triumph of his impious wrong: The vengeance of the god soon found him, And in a rocky dungeon bound him. There, sightless, chain'd, in woful tones He pour'd his unavailing groans, Mingled with all the blasts that shriek Round Athos' thunder-riven peak. O Thracian king! how vain the ire That urged thee 'gainst the Bacchic choir The god avenged his votaries well— Stern was the doom that thee befell; And on the Bacchus-hating herd Still rests the curse thy guilt incurr'd. For the same spells that in those days Were wont the Bacchanals to craze— The maniac orgies, the rash vow, Have fall'n on thy disciples now. Though deepest silence dwells alone, Parnassus, on thy double cone; To mystic cry, through fell and brake, No more Cithaeron's echoes wake; No longer glisten, white and fleet, O'er the dark lawns of Taygete, The Spartan virgin's bounding feet: Yet Frenzy still has power to roll Her portents o'er the prostrate soul. Though water-nymphs must twine the spell Which once the wine-god threw so well— Changed are the orgies now, 'tis true, Save in the madness of the crew. Bacchus his votaries led of yore Through woodland glades and mountains hoar; While flung the Maenad to the air The golden masses of her hair, And floated free the skin of fawn, From her bare shoulder backward borne. Wild Nature, spreading all her charms, Welcomed her children to her arms; Laugh'd the huge oaks, and shook with glee, In answer to their revelry; Kind Night would cast her softest dew Where'er their roving footsteps flew; So bright the joyous fountains gush'd, So proud the swelling rivers rush'd, That mother Earth they well might deem, With honey, wine, and milk, for them Most bounteously had fed the stream. The pale moon, wheeling overhead, Her looks of love upon them shed, And pouring forth her floods of light, With all the landscape blest their sight. Through foliage thick the moonshine fell, Checker'd upon the grassy dell; Beyond, it show'd the distant spires Of skyish hills, the world's grey sires; More brightly beam'd, where far away, Around his clustering islands, lay, Adown some opening vale descried, The vast Aegean's waveless tide. What wonder then, if Reason's power Fail'd in each reeling mind that hour, When their enraptured spirits woke To Nature's liberty, and broke The artificial chain that bound them, With the broad sky above, and the free winds around them! From Nature's overflowing soul, That sweet delirium on them stole; She held the cup, and bade them share In draughts of joy too deep to bear.

Not such the scenes that to the eyes Of water-Bacchanals arise; Whene'er the day of festival Summons the Pledged t' attend its call— In long procession to appear, And show the world how good they are. Not theirs the wild-wood wanderings, The voices of the winds and springs: But seek them where the smoke-fog brown Incumbent broods o'er London town; 'Mid Finsbury Square ruralities Of mangy grass, and scrofulous trees; 'Mid all the sounds that consecrate Thy street, melodious Bishopsgate! Not by the mountain grot and pine, Haunts of the Heliconian Nine: But where the town-bred Muses squall Love-verses in an annual; Such muses as inspire the grunt Of Barry Cornwall, and Leigh Hunt. Their hands no ivy'd thyrsus bear, No Evoee floats upon the air: But flags of painted calico Flutter aloft with gaudy show; And round then rises, long and loud, The laughter of the gibing crowd.

O sacred Temp'rance! mine were shame If I could wish to brand thy name. But though these dullards boast thy grace, Thou in their orgies hast no place. Thou still disdain'st such sorry lot, As even below the soaking sot. Great was high Duty's power of old The empire o'er man's heart to hold; To urge the soul, or check its course, Obedient to her guiding force. These own not her control, but draw New sanction for the moral law, And by a stringent compact bind The independence of the mind— As morals had gregarious grown, And Virtue could not stand alone. What need they rules against abusing? They find th' offence all in the using. Denounce the gifts which bounteous Heaven To cheer the heart of man has given; And think their foolish pledge a band More potent far than God's command. On this new plan they cleverly Work morals by machinery; Keeping men virtuous by a tether, Like gangs of negroes chain'd together.

Then, Temperance, if thus it be, They know no further need of thee. This pledge usurps thy ancient throne— Alas! thy occupation's gone! From earth thou may'st unheeded rise, And like Astraea—seek the skies.



MARTIN LUTHER.

AN ODE.

Who sits upon the Pontiff's throne? On Peter's holy chair Who sways the keys? At such a time When dullest ears may hear the chime Of coming thunders—when dark skies Are writ with crimson prophecies, A wise man should be there; A godly man, whose life might be The living logic of the sea; One quick to know, and keen to feel— A fervid man, and full of zeal, Should sit in Peter's chair.

Alas! no fervid man is there, No earnest, honest heart; One who, though dress'd in priestly guise, Looks on the world with worldling's eyes; One who can trim the courtier's smile, Or weave the diplomatic wile, But knows no deeper art; One who can dally with fair forms, Whom a well-pointed period warms— No man is he to hold the helm Where rude winds blow, and wild waves whelm, And creaking timbers start.

In vain did Julius pile sublime The vast and various dome, That makes the kingly pyramid's pride, And the huge Flavian wonder, hide Their heads in shame—these gilded stones (O heaven!) were very blood and bones Of those whom Christ did come To save—vile grin of slaves who sold Celestial rights for earthy gold, Marketing grace with merchant's measure, To prank with Europe's pillaged treasure The pride of purple Rome.

The measure of her sins is full, The scarlet-vested whore! Thy murderous and lecherous race Have sat too long i' the holy place; The knife shall lop what no drug cures, Nor Heaven permits, nor earth endures, The monstrous mockery more. Behold! I swear it, saith the Lord: Mine elect warrior girds the sword— A nameless man, a miner's son, Shall tame thy pride, thou haughty one, And pale the painted whore!

Earth's mighty men are nought. I chose Poor fishermen before To preach my gospel to the poor; A pauper boy from door to door That piped his hymn. By his strong word The startled world shall now be stirr'd, As with a lion's roar! A lonely monk that loved to dwell With peaceful host in silent cell; This man shall shake the Pontiff's throne: Him Kings and emperors shall own, And stout hearts wince before

The eye profound and front sublime Where speculation reigns. He to the learned seats shall climb, On Science' watch-tower stand sublime; The arid doctrine shall inspire Of wiry teachers with swift fire; And, piled with cumbrous pains, Proud palaces of sounding lies Lay prostrate with a breath. The wise Shall listen to his word; the youth Shall eager seize the new-born truth Where prudent age refrains.

Lo! when the venal pomp proceeds From echoing town to town! The clam'rous preacher and his train, Organ and bell with sound inane, The crimson cross, the book, the keys, The flag that spreads before the breeze, The triple-belted crown! It wends its way; and straw is sold— Yea! deadly drugs for heavy gold, To feeble hearts whose pulse is fear; And though some smile, and many sneer, There's none will dare to frown.