"Why the dear old soul! Come, my false impressions begin to wear away. I find I can be loved without the glitter of gold about me. Now let us go back to the house, for I have that cap to finish for Mrs. Jones; and mind, Hetty, you don't call me Miss Ursula again, in the presence of your mother; and don't look so distressed when she chides me—it is all for my good, you know."

Now, there they go into the old farm-house, and at the window you may see the demure face of Ursula, listening to the good dame, who, with snowy cap, and spectacles, seems to be giving her a lecture, while the hands of the little milliner are busily trimming a cap placed on the block before her.

Over the brow of the hill, and down into the gentle sloping meadow, a youth comes walking leisurely. He has a portfolio under his arm, and a slight walking-stick in his hand, while the cool linen blouse and large straw hat shading him from the sun, bespeak an air of comfort really quite refreshing this warm summer day.

What! don't you know him! Ah, yes—I see you recollect Frank Leland, our modern Coelebs.

He seems struck by the appearance of the old farm-house; its repose is, no doubt, delightful to him; and now, choosing a favorable position within the shade of a fine old tree, opens his portfolio, and commences to sketch the charmingly rural scene. And, indeed, so intent is he upon his task that the sun has already sunk behind the trees, and gentle twilight steals on with her starry train ere he rests from his employment. Then the old farmer comes out on the porch to take his evening pipe; and the good dame sits by his side with her knitting, and the sweet voice of Ursula warbles a simple ballad to please the ears of the aged pair. The young man bares his brow to the delicious breath of evening, and carefully placing his sketch within the portfolio, saunters on toward the little gate. And now Ursula hushes her song, and the old man advances with friendly greeting,

"Walk in, stranger—walk in. I should think you might be the young man I heard tell of to-day in the village—a teacher of something—I forget the name."

"A teacher of drawing," said Leland, smiling, as he took a seat on the bench by the side of the old man.

"Drawing, eh! And what may that be, young sir—some new-fangled notion, I'll be bound."

"This may, perhaps, explain better than I can tell you," replied Leland, placing the sketch he had just taken in the hand of the old man.

"Why, wife—why, bless my soul! why, if I should not think this was our old house! Why, stranger, if ever I see any thing so like in my born days!"

"Goody gracious preserve me, if it an't, sure enough!" said the dame, putting on her spectacles, and eagerly looking over the old man's shoulder. "My stars and garters, Hetty, look here—for all the world just like it—did you ever!"

The more practiced eye of Ursula detected at once a master-hand in the sketch before her; and looking admiringly upon it, she could not refrain from exclaiming, "How beautiful!" while Hetty gazed with silent wonder upon the stranger who by the magic of his pencil thus portrayed the home of her childhood.

The contents of the portfolio were now spread out upon the grass, and our masquerading millionaire was greatly amused at the naivete the old people displayed, and not a little flattered by the pleasure with which one at least of the young girls appeared to look over his collection.

"Am I mistaken," said he, at length, "in thinking I heard singing, as I came over the meadow?"

"Well, I reckon not," said the old lady, "come, 'Sula, child, go on with your song—maybe the young man would like to hear you; it was Old Robin Gray she was singing."

Ursula was at length prevailed on to repeat the ballad, which she did in a style so simple and unaffected, that, ere she had finished, the young artist had made up his mind, that listening to a sweet voice by moonlight, beneath a wide-spreading elm, with the stars peeping down between the dancing leaves, and the soft evening breeze fanning his temples, was far more delightful, than to recline in his soft-cushioned box at the Opera, listening even to the delicious notes of a Pico, with bright jewels, and still brighter eyes flashing around him, and his cheek kissed by the inconstant air wafted from the coquettish fan in the hands of smiling beauty. And, moreover, that the book of human nature, to be studied in the country, certainly opened very beautifully.

The evening passed off pleasantly. Leland confided to the old man his poverty, and desire to obtain scholars in his art sufficient to enable him to pay his board while in the village; that he had been employed by several gentlemen to sketch scenes from nature, and that having heard much of the beautiful views in the neighborhood, he had been induced to visit the village.

But the old man thought he had much better turn farmer, and offered to hire him for eight dollars a month, as he needed a hand in haying time. This offer, however, the young man could not accept, being, as he said, already engaged to complete the drawings. Then the old man told how his fathers had lived there before him, and how by hard labor he had been able to keep the old homestead his own; and that his daughter, Hetty, had been living with a great heiress, who was very fond of her, and who had given her leave to spend the summer at home; and how she had come, and brought a poor girl with her, who made caps, and such gim-cracks, and that (in a whisper) his old woman thought she had never had any bringing-up, poor thing!"

When Leland returned to his lodgings, in the village, he thought over his evening adventure with great pleasure. The simplicity of the old people charmed him; Hetty he thought a modest, pretty girl; but it was the little cap-maker who somehow or other dwelt most forcibly in his mind.

"She is certainly quite handsome, notwithstanding she is a little, a very little, cross-eyed—it is a pity!" And Leland leaned out the window, and whistled "Auld Robin Gray." "How pathetically she warbled the line,

But she looked in my face 'til my heart was like to break;"

and Leland threw off one slipper, and stopped to hum it over again. "Her voice only wants a little cultivation"—off goes the other slipper, and out goes the head into the moonlight, and in it comes again. "Well, I must teach her to draw—her own patterns, at any rate. Pleasant old couple; the idea of hiring me for eight dollars a month—capital!" and in a fit of laughter he threw himself upon the bed. "What a roguish pair of eyes, after all, the little cap-maker has!"

Again the dreams of our hero were all Arcadian, and every shepherdess was a little cross-eyed, and warbled "Auld Robin Gray."

In the bright moonlight, which, glancing through the flickering leaves, streams across the chamber-floor, filling it with her softened radiance, sits Ursula. But why so pensive; is it the influence of the hour, I wonder—has the gentle moon thus power to sadden her, or—

"Hetty, he has a very fine countenance."

There, you see her pensiveness has found a voice.

"Who, Miss Ursula?"

"Why, this young stranger. He has a fine figure, too; and his manners are certainly quite refined."

"Yes, and what pretty pictures he makes."

"True, Hetty, very pretty; he certainly has a genius for the art." A long silence. "What a pity he is poor."

"What's a pity, Miss Ursula?" cries Hetty, half asleep.

"O, nothing, nothing—go to sleep, Hetty."

But Ursula still sits in the moonlight, and thinks of the handsome young artist. Her generous little heart has already smoothed his path to eminence. Yes, she resolves if, upon acquaintance, he proves as worthy as he appears—and does she doubt it—not she—that neither money nor patronage shall be wanting to his success. Generous little cap-maker! And when at length she sought her couch, young Love, under the harmless guise of honest Benevolence, perched himself at her pillow.

PART IV.

And now, every morning sees Leland taking his way to the farm-house; and the villagers, good people, have made up their minds that there must be some very pretty scenes in that neighborhood.

And so there are, very fine scenes; for, reclining under the shady trees, the young artist may be seen, with crayons in hand, the little cap-maker in his eye, as, seated on a little bench, she busily plies her needle, and sings for his entertainment, meanwhile, some rustic ballad. Sometimes, forgetting herself, she executes a brilliant roulade; and when Leland starts, astonished, and expresses his delight, she blushes deeply, and says she once went to the theatre.

And the old dame wonders what on earth they can find to talk about day after day, "a sittin' under trees," and tells Hetty to mind her work, and not take up any such silly ways. And the old man thinks a hale, hearty fellow like that, had better lend a hand to the plough, and not sit there spoiling so much white paper; and Hetty roguishly watches her young mistress, and smiles slily, and thinks there will be a wedding before long.

Ah! happy, satisfied Leland!

For he has won the heart of the charming little cap-maker. He, the poor, unpretending artist, he has won her away from the rich Esquire, who came rolling down in his carriage to woo her; and from the pale young doctor, who knelt tremblingly before her; and from the honest farmer, who swore he loved her better than his cattle. He, without fortune, without friends, has won her. She loves him, and through poverty and hardship will share his fate. And then, when bearing her off a happy bride, he thought how she would blush and tremble with surprise and sweet timidity when he should reveal his rank, and place her in that sphere she was born to grace—what rapturous visions danced through his brain!

And no less rapturous were the thoughts of Ursula. She was now beloved, truly loved for herself alone—she, a poor, friendless girl. No money had shed its enticements around her—there was nothing to gain but an innocent heart, and a portionless hand; and yet the gifted, but poor artist, who might, by the rank of genius, have aspired to the favor of any high-born lady; he has chosen her to share his fate and fortunes. How her heart throbs, when she thinks of the wealth her hand will confer upon him—of the pride with which she shall see him adorning that station for which he is so eminently qualified.

Ah! after all, what happiness to be an heiress!

Three months flew by, and brings us to the night before the wedding. The lovers are alone, and, for lovers, extremely taciturn—for their thoughts are doubtless far into the bright future, o'er which no cloud is floating. The countenance of Ursula beams with happiness, yet her manner is somewhat abstracted—she is evidently agitated. At length Leland speaks,

"Dearest Ursula, it seems to me that no wealth could contribute to our happiness; we have youth, health, strength, and loving hearts to bear us on our life-journey, as hand-in-hand we meet its pains and pleasures. Ah! I can already fancy our pleasant fireside. No one's caps will find so ready a sale as yours, dear Ursula; and my pencil, too, will be inspired to greater effort by your praise." And Leland turned aside to conceal the smile which played round his mouth at the deception he was practicing. "But what is the matter, Ursula—what agitates you thus; you surely do not repent your promise, beloved one!"

"O, no, no, dear Frank! but I have something to tell you, which, perhaps, may forfeit me your love."

"Good heavens, Ursula! what mean you! tears, too—speak, speak, what is it! is not your heart mine, or have you loved another more truly!"

"No! O, no! and yet, Frank, I am not what I seem—I have deceived you. You think me but a poor, friendless girl, dependent upon my needle for my maintenance, when, in fact, O, Frank, how shall I say it, I am—

"Speak, dearest!"

"I am an heiress."

Frank sprang to his feet in amazement.

"You—you—dear, artless girl that you are—you an heiress! It can't be—it is impossible! and—what a pity!" he adds, aside, as one half his airy castle fell to the ground.

"Now, sit down, Frank, and when you have heard my story, and my motives for doing as I have done, you will, I trust, pardon the duplicity I have been guilty of toward you."

And before she had finished her recital Frank's plans were formed; so, falling at her feet, he poured out his acknowledgments for her condescension in honoring with her hand one so far beneath her, and had the satisfaction—cunning dog—of having a pair of white arms thrown around his neck, and a sweet kiss, from sweeter lips, pressed upon his brow, as the generous girl assured him that were her fortune ten thousand times doubled, she should consider all as dross compared with his love.

"Well, I am fairly caught," quoth Frank, in the privacy of his apartment, "for I swore I never would marry an heiress. That was a rash oath—let it pass. But what a pity dear Ursula has money. I wish to my soul her father had not left her a cent—why could not he have endowed a hospital. She is a dear, noble girl, willing to bestow it all upon one whom she believes struggling with poverty; never mind, I shall get the laugh on her yet."

At an early hour the following morning the venerable village pastor pronounced the nuptial benediction; and with the hearty good wishes of the old farmer and the dame, and followed by the loving eyes of Hetty, the new married pair bade farewell to the spot consecrated to so many happy hours.

A ride of a few miles brought them to the steamboat; and just as the rays of the setting sun gilded the spires and roofs of the city, the boat touched the wharf.

And now Frank's heart beat almost audibly, as he thought how rapidly the moment was approaching when, throwing off all disguise, he should lead his lovely bride to his own princely dwelling.

And Ursula, too, had never looked so beautiful—had never felt so proud and happy; proud to present her husband to her good uncle and aunt, who were waiting to welcome them; happy that her beloved Frank would no longer have to plod on life's dull round in poverty and loneliness.

It certainly was happiness to be an heiress.

"Ursula," said Frank, as the carriage rolled rapidly over the pavements, "will you do me a favor?"

"Most certainly, dear Frank—what is it?"

"My sister, poor girl," replied Leland, in some embarrassment, "resides on the route to your residence; will you alight there just for one moment, that I may have the happiness of bringing together the two dearest objects of my heart?"

"Order the carriage to stop when you please, Frank—I, too, am impatient to embrace your sister," replied the blushing Ursula.

The carriage soon turned into a fashionable street, even at that early hour brilliant with gas lights. Elegant equipages rolled past; already lights streamed, and music sounded from many splendid dwellings. Soon the carriage drew up before one even more splendid—the steps were let down—the door thrown wide by a servant in livery, and, with mingled pride and tenderness irradiating his fine countenance, and meeting with a smile her perplexed and wondering glance, Frank led his fair bride into a spacious and beautiful apartment, taste and elegance pervading all its arrangements. A young girl sprang from the sofa, and came tripping to meet them.

"My sister Helen, dearest Ursula. Helen, embrace your sister, and welcome her to the home she is henceforth to grace."

Then leading the agitated girl to a seat, he threw himself on his knees before her, saying,

"Pardon, pardon, my dearest wife! I, too, had my secret. No poor artist sought your love—I, too, am the heir of wealth; I, too, sought to be loved for myself alone. Say that you forgive me, dear one."

Ursula could not speak, but wept her joy and happiness on his bosom.

Helen laughs merrily, yet slily wipes a tear from her eye, then kissing them both, she says,

"What think you now of the great book of human nature you went forth to study, you discontented ones? You favorites of fortune! ingrates that you have been—you foolish pair of lovers! Listen dear brother. As the rich Frank Leland you possessed the same attributes of goodness as did Frank Leland the poor artist; and you, dear sister, were no less lovely and amiable as the heiress of wealth, than as Ursula the little cap-maker. See you not, then, that true merit, whether it gilds the brow of the rich man or radiates around the poor man's path, will find its way to every pure and virtuous mind. Henceforth, you dear ones, look at human nature with more friendly eyes, and forget in the excellencies of the many, the errors of the few."



NO, NOT FORGOTTEN.

BY EARLE S. GOODRICH.

For Nature gives a common lot, To live, to love, to be forgot. CONE.

No, not forgotten; there are memories clinging Round every breast that beats to hope and fear In this drear world, until the death's knell, ringing, Chimes with heart-moanings o'er the solemn bier; Then come love's pilgrims to the sad shrine, bringing The choicest offering of the heart—a tear.

No, not forgotten; else bowed down with anguish Were the brave hearts that mingle in the strife. Patriot and Christian in their toil would languish— Truth lie down-trodden—Error, then, stalk rife Over the body she at last could vanquish— So fond remembrance ceased along with life.

No, not forgotten; else the faithful beating Of heart to genial heart, that beat again, Were turned to throbbings; and each pulse repeating But the sad echoings of pain to pain. And the blest rapture of the longed for meeting, Then be unsought, or would be sought in vain.

No, not forgotten; for though fame may fail thee, And love's fond beamings change to glance of scorn— Though those once trusted now may harsh assail thee— Thy friend of yesterday, thy foe this morn— There is, who holds thee dear—do not bewail thee If His blest Book of Life thy name adorn.



PAULINE GREY.

OR THE ONLY DAUGHTER.

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

CHAPTER I.

"Give her what she wants," said Mr. Grey impatiently. "How can you let the child cry so?"

"But, my dear," expostulated his wife, "I am afraid it will hurt her."

"Nonsense!" replied Mr. Grey, "it hurts her more to scream so. Here, my princess royal," he continued, "take that, and keep quiet, do"—but Pauline's spirit was not to be so easily appeased as the impatient father imagined, for imperiously spurning with her tiny foot the proffered gift, she screamed more indignantly than when it had first been refused.

"Hey day, Pauline," said Mr. Grey angrily.

"My darling," interrupted Mrs. Grey, hastily addressing the child, "let mamma peel it and put some sugar on it. Come Pauline," she said, as she stooped to pick up the orange.

Pauline's cries subsided for a moment, as apparently taking the matter in consideration, or else, perhaps only holding her breath for a fresh burst, while the tears hung in heavy drops on her long black lashes, and her large eyes still sparkled with excitement.

"Let mamma peel it nicely," continued Mrs. Grey. "Come, and we'll go and get some sugar."

"Yes, yes, do," said Mr. Grey impatiently. "Now go, Pauline, with your mother;" to which the little lady consented, and, tears still upon her blooming cheeks, she withdrew with her mother, leaving Mr. Grey to the quiet possession of the parlor and tranquil enjoyment of his book.

And thus it was generally with Pauline. What she was refused at first, she was coaxed to take at last, and between the indulgence of her mother and the impatience of her father, she seldom or never failed to have what she wanted.

A passionate determination to have her own way marked her character perhaps rather more strongly than that of most spoiled children, for nature had endowed her with a strong will, which education had fostered, as it almost seemed, with sedulous care. For the fact was Mrs. Grey dreaded a contest with Pauline; she screamed so, and Mr. Grey got so angry, sometimes with her, and sometimes with the child, and altogether it was such a time, that she soon begun to think it was better not to thwart Pauline, which certainly was true; for every contest ended in a fresh victory on the part of Pauline, and the utter discomfiture of Mrs. Grey, and the vexation of Mr. Grey, who, more vexed at the contest than the defeat, usually said, "Pshaw! you don't know how to manage that child." Thus Pauline, an only child, beautiful, gifted and willful, idolized by both parents, soon ruled the household.

"I'll not go to that school any more," said Pauline indignantly, as she tossed her books down, the second day of her first school experience.

"Why not, my love?" asked her mother anxiously.

"I don't like that Miss Cutter," said Pauline, her large black eyes dilating as she spoke, and flashing with excitement.

"You don't like Miss Cutter," repeated Mrs. Grey. "Why don't you like Miss Cutter, Pauline?"

"She put me on a high bench and said 'chut' to me," replied Pauline. "Nobody shall say 'chut' to me, and I wont go there again."

"You'll go there if your mother says so, Pauline," said her father. But Pauline knew better than that, and so did Mr. Grey for that matter; but Mrs. Grey said, "well, we'll see about it, Pauline. Now go and be dressed for dinner."

"I wont go again," said Pauline with determination, as she left the room.

"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Grey anxiously, as the child left the room, "that Pauline has taken a dislike to Miss Cutter. It was injudicious in her to commence her school discipline so rigorously at once."

"Just like those people," said Mr. Grey, testily; "they have no judgment—dressed in a little brief authority they make the most of it."

"Pauline is such a peculiar child," continued Mrs. Grey, (for all people think their children "peculiar," unless they have half a dozen of them, and then they know better). "Pauline is such a peculiar child that I dislike driving her against her feelings. I am very sorry for this," she added, looking much perplexed and embarrassed. "I don't know what to do."

Fortunately Pauline had a little cold the next day, or Mrs. Grey imagined she had, and so the question of school was dodged for a day or two, during which, however, Pauline continued firm in her determination of not returning.

By the time she had recovered past all possibility of thinking she was not quite as well as usual, Mrs. Grey had reasoned herself into thinking, and talked Mr. Grey into believing, that there was so much that was injurious in the present mode of school education, that upon the whole she would prefer keeping Pauline at home. A governess, under her own eye, would do her greater justice and bring her on faster; and, above all, she would escape the contamination of indiscriminate contact with children of whose tempers and characters Mrs. Grey knew nothing.

She need not have said half as much to convince Mr. Grey, for he was tired out with the subject, and ready to yield before she was one third through; but she was talking as much to satisfy herself that what she did was the result of mature reflection, and not to gratify, or rather pacify Pauline, as to convince Mr. Grey. Whether she was able to attain this point is somewhat doubtful, although the capacity people have for self deception is amazing. And to what perfection Mrs. Grey may have reached in the happy art, we are not able exactly to say.

But the governess was engaged, (a day governess, for neither Mr. Grey nor Pauline could have borne the constant presence of even so necessary an evil,) and under her tuition Pauline made rapid progress in her studies. Miss Burton soon finding that the moral education of her little pupil was quite beyond her reach, Mrs. Grey generally evading any disputed point between them, and gently waiving what authority should have settled, very wisely confined herself to the task Mrs. Grey set before her, which was to give Pauline as much instruction and as little contradiction as could be combined.

But spite of some drawbacks Pauline made wonderful progress. She was, in fact, a child of uncommon abilities, and every thing she applied herself to, she mastered almost at once. Her understanding rapidly developed, and springing into girlhood while others are yet looked upon almost as children, she was a daughter any parents might justly be proud of. She was singularly beautiful, too, and no eye could rest upon her girlish form and speaking face, her brilliant eye and glowing cheek, other than with delight. That Mr. and Mrs. Grey watched her with looks of something hardly short of adoration, is scarce to be wondered at. She was so animated, so joyous, so radiant with youth, health and beauty. There seemed such affluence of all life's best gifts, which she scattered so lavishly around her, that the very air seemed to grow brighter from her presence, and no one who came within the sphere of her influence, could escape the spell of her joyous power.

To say that as her mind and person developed, she quite outgrew the faults of her childhood, would be rather hazardous. 'T is true, she no longer stamped her little foot and burst into passionate tears, as when we first made her acquaintance, but she bent her pretty dark brows, and said, "I must," in a tone that Mrs. Grey knew meant, "I will."

But then who thought of disputing her wishes? Were they not the main-spring of the whole concern? What else did father or mother live for? Were not her wishes their wishes, her pleasures their pleasures? Was not she their idol—their all?

If she would only wrap up warmer, and put thicker shoes on those little feet, Mrs. Grey would have asked nothing more. But she was slight, and coughed sometimes, and then Mr. Grey said she should not have allowed Pauline to go out in those thin shoes, and charged her not to permit it another time—but never interfered himself—thus throwing all the responsibility, or rather impossibility, of making Pauline mind, upon his wife, who indeed always got all Pauline's scoldings; for though Mr. Grey might find fault when Pauline was absent, one bright smile and brilliant glance from Pauline present, was sure to dispel his displeasure.

So Pauline had now reached her seventeenth year, beautiful, gifted, high-spirited and generous-hearted. And if willful—why, even that seemed to give a prononce shade to her character, that rather heightened the brilliancy of its tone.

"You are going to Cecelia Howard's wedding I suppose, Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Graham.

"Of course. She is a niece of my husband's, you know."

"Yes. And Pauline is to be bridemaid, I understand," continued the lady.

"Well—I don't know about that," replied Mrs. Grey, hesitatingly.

"But I do," said Pauline in her pretty willful way. "I told Cecelia that she might depend on me."

Mrs. Grey looked at her daughter without speaking, though she could not but smile at her animated face, while Mrs. Graham said, "Oh yes, why not, Mrs. Grey?"

"Pauline is rather young," continued Mrs. Grey, "for such things."

"True," replied the other, "if it were not in the connection. But family gayety is quite different."

"Of course," said Mrs. Grey, "if it were not for that, I should not think of it."

"Well, but I am going, mamma," said Pauline, "So you may make up your mind to that." And Mrs. Grey felt that she might as well at once. So after a little more talk about it, and Mr. Grey's saying, "Why, certainly, I see no objection to it—and as your cousin wishes it, Pauline—if your mother is willing, I am," it was settled.

How beautiful Pauline looked when she came down stairs and presented herself before her delighted father, dressed for the wedding. It was the first time he had ever seen her in full dress; her white neck and round arms uncovered, her rich dark hair looking darker and more satinny for the wreath of pale, soft, delicate roses that bound it—even the little foot seeming more fairy-like in the small white satin slipper that inclosed it. If her father was accustomed to think her peerless in the plain, high-necked merino dress in which he usually saw her, what did he think of her now, when full dressed, or rather undressed, as she stood before him, brilliant in the glow of excitement, and fairer and fresher than even the flowers she wore?

He looked at her speechless, and when she said,

"Father, how do you like me?" could only kiss her fair forehead in silence.

There was a reception after the wedding, and the beauty of the young bridemaid excited no small degree of sensation; for Pauline, having been brought up at home, was little known by the young people of her own age, and so took society rather by surprise.

"Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Livingston, "the bride has named Thursday evening for me. You will do me the favor, therefore, I hope, of considering yourself and your daughter engaged for that evening."

"Not Pauline, my dear madam," said Mrs. Grey. "She does not go out this winter. She is so young that I hesitated much even letting her act as bridemaid this evening."

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Livingston, much disappointed, "pray reverse your decision—surely for the bridal parties at least. I shall be so disappointed, for," with a smile, "I quite counted on the presence of your beautiful daughter for the brilliancy of my party;" and Pauline approaching just then, she said, "Pray, Miss Pauline, join your petitions to mine—I do so want you to come to my party for the bride."

"Why, mamma, of course," said Pauline. "The bridemaids must attend the bride to the parties given for her—Cecelia says so."

"But, my love," said her mother, "you know I told Cecelia when I consented to your being bridemaid, that you were not going out."

"Not generally—no; but just to the bridal parties, mamma. Oh, I must"—and there was the little ominous bend of the brows at the words "I must," when Mr. Grey coming up, her mother, glad in her turn to throw the responsibility on him, said,

"Well, ask your father; see what he says."

"What is it, Pauline?" said Mr. Grey, smiling assent before she had spoken.

"May I not, papa, attend the bridal parties with the rest of the bridemaids," she said, half pouting. "Cecelia says it will spoil the bridal cotillion if I am absent; and then—oh, papa, I must," she continued, in a tone of such earnest entreaty, entreaty that seemed to admit of no refusal, that he smiled as he said,

"Well, if you must, I suppose you must."

"Then I may, papa!" she exclaimed, her dark eyes dilating in their peculiar way when any thing particularly delighted or excited her. "Now, mamma!" turning triumphantly to her mother, "papa says I may. Yes, Mrs. Livingston, mamma will come, and I too—hey, mamma!" and Mrs. Grey smiled her assent—and she and Pauline were in for the rest of the wedding gayeties.

Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute. Party followed party, and Mrs. Grey forgot to ask, or Pauline to care, whether they were bridal parties or not, for Pauline was fairly launched. And what a sensation she excited—so young—so brilliant—so beautiful. Mr. Grey, too, a man of handsome fortune, and Pauline an only daughter. There's a sort of charm in that, too, to young men's imaginations. It seems to make a girl more like a rare exotic, something of which there are few of the kind. And Pauline was a belle of the most decided stamp; and Mr. and Mrs. Grey's heads were more turned than was hers by the admiration she excited.

CHAPTER II.

People may talk about young girls' heads being turned, but for my part, I think there are no heads so easily turned as old ones. Vanity, when it is fresh, like wine, is not as strong and intoxicating as when it grows old.

Pauline enjoyed her triumphs like a girl, in all the effervescence of youthful spirits, thinking less of her beauty and more of her pleasure than her mother, who sat and followed her with her eyes, watching every movement, and absorbed almost to the exclusion of every other perception, in the surpassing loveliness of her daughter, and the admiration that flashed from every eye that turned upon her. And let not wise ones say that this was folly, and Mrs. Grey a weak woman for yielding to it, for it is human nature, which is too strong to be ruled by saws, be they ever so wise. The heart will spring to beauty, be it where it may, and no human being alive to poetry, can view God's fairest creation in its full perfection, and not feel a throb of pleasure. It is not wisdom, but an absence of ideality, of taste, of the highest of perceptions, the love of the beautiful, that can let any one look unmoved upon a young and beautiful woman. Who would not blush for themselves, and deny that they had walked through the halls of the Vatican without delight? And will the same person rave about the sculptured marble, and yet gaze coldly on the living, breathing model? No! and if it is high treason not to worship the one, it is false to human nature not to love the other; and the man, woman, or child, who affects to under-value beauty, only proclaims the want in their own mental constitution. To be without an eye for beauty, is as to be without an ear for music, to be wanting in the refinement of the higher and more delicate organization of our nature.

Mr. Grey was not a man who usually took much pleasure in society, but his grave face lighted up as with a glance of sunshine, when he caught a glimpse of his beautiful child, as the crowd opened from time to time on the dancers in the thronged rooms, where, night after night, he was now condemned to pass his evenings; and when he approached her to tell her that the carriage was waiting, and her mother had sent to summon her to her side, he could not restrain his smiles when the young men crowded round to remind Pauline, one of a waltz, another of a polka, and pleading with Mr. Grey for more engagements than she could have fulfilled if they had staid all night; and his paternal pride had its share of gratification in the homage that even his presence could scarcely restrain.

Among the group of idlers ever hovering round Pauline, was one who scarcely left her side, a Mr. Wentworth, a young man, and rather good looking. He seemed mightily taken with Pauline, and she smiled her brightest when she turned to him—but that she did when any one spoke to her—for she was in such a gale of spirits, she smiled on all who crossed her path.

"Who is that young gentleman dancing with your daughter, Mrs. Grey?" asked a lady.

"I don't know any thing about him but his name, which is Wentworth," replied Mrs. Grey. "Mrs. Henderson introduced him to me at her own house, and I introduced him to Pauline. That's all I know about him."

"Then I should say," replied the other, smiling, "that it was time you knew something more, for he has evidently lost his heart to your daughter."

"Oh, I don't know that," replied Mrs. Grey, smiling in her turn, but carelessly, as if it was not a matter of much consequence if Pauline did break a few hearts more or less.

"There's no doubt about his admiration," continued the lady; "so I warn you in time, Mrs. Grey."

Mrs. Grey only smiled again. She did not think the warning worth much. Mr. Wentworth might be in love with Pauline—she dared say he was—indeed, she had no doubt of it. But what then? She could not be responsible for all the young men who fell in love with Pauline. It was very natural; and, to tell the honest truth, it rather pleased Mrs. Grey to see it. Not that she had the most distant idea that Pauline could ever feel any interest in any of the young men she with such quiet complacency thought hopelessly in love with her; but poor human nature is never weaker than on such subjects, and mothers look on amused, and may be, indignant with other mothers for allowing such things, till it comes to their turn, and then maternal vanity speaks louder than worldly wisdom, or any thing else; and so Mrs. Grey saw Mr. Wentworth's devotions with a quiet smile, and never thought it worth while to ask any questions about him. "He would not do," she saw that at a glance. As to what would, or who would, she had not yet made up her mind; but as Mr. Wentworth's pretensions did not seem of any decided stamp at all, she never thought there was any possibility of his being dangerous.

"I wonder Mrs. Grey allows that young Wentworth to be so attentive to her daughter," Mrs. Remson said. "He's a dissipated young man, they say."

"I am sorry to see that wild fellow, Wentworth, so much with that young beauty, Miss Grey," said another.

"Yes, I am surprised at her parents encouraging it," said a third, "for they must see it."

"What kind of a young man is he?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"One that I should be sorry to see attentive to a daughter of mine," replied a gentleman; but none of this reached Mrs. Grey's ears. No one told her Mr. Wentworth was wild or dissipated. He was too attentive, and they might get themselves in trouble, and be obliged to give authority, &c., for what they said—and what authority had they? a rumor—a vague report—an impression. Who knew, or ever knows, any thing more positive about a young man, except, indeed, young men—and they don't choose to tell.

And so the thing went on, and people talked, and wondered, and found fault, and everybody but Mr. and Mrs. Grey, whom it most concerned, knew a great deal; and they, though they had eyes, saw not; and ears had they, but heard not; and understandings, and heeded not—deaf and blind, as parents always are, until too late.

The thunderbolt fell at last, however. Mr. Wentworth, in form, asked Mr. Grey's consent to address Pauline, which Mr. Grey very decidedly refused, looking upon the young man as very presumptuous even to ask it; whereupon Mr. Wentworth informed the father that he was authorized by his daughter to address him on the subject, and her happiness being involved as well as his own, he trusted Mr. Grey would re-consider his proposal, and incline more favorably to his suit.

Amazement was Mr. Grey's only feeling on first hearing this announcement. He could scarcely believe his ears, much less take in the subject-matter in all its bearings.

Again, however, he refused his consent, and forbade Mr. Wentworth to think of his daughter.

He immediately communicated the conversation to his wife, who was not less surprised than himself, but who relieved him excessively by saying at once that there must be some misunderstanding on the young man's part, for Pauline, she knew, took no interest in him whatever. That is, Mrs. Grey took it for granted that Pauline must see him with her eyes, and did not hesitate to answer for the fact.

She went at once to Pauline's room, where she found her lying on the sofa, a book open in her hand, but evidently lost in a world of dreamy and pleasant revery. With very little circumlocution, for Mrs. Grey was too much excited to choose her words carefully, she repeated to Pauline her conversation with her father; whereupon Pauline rose, and sitting up, her color changing, but her eye clear and bright, said,

"Surely, mother, you knew it all."

"Knew what, Pauline?"

"That Mr. Wentworth was attached to me, and that I—I—"

"Surely, Pauline," exclaimed Mrs. Grey, hastily, "you are not interested in him."

"Yes," answered Pauline, roused by her mother's tone and manner to something of her old spirit, and looking at her fully and clearly, all diffidence having now vanished in the opposition she saw before her, "I am—I love him, love him with my whole soul."

"Pauline, my child, are you mad!" almost shrieked Mrs. Grey, shocked almost past the power of endurance by her daughter's tones and words.

"I am not mad, no mother," said Pauline, with an emphasis, as if she thought her mother might be. "And why do you speak thus to me? You introduced Mr. Wentworth yourself to me; you first invited him here—and why, mother, do you affect this surprise now?" and Pauline's color deepened, and her voice quivered as she thought, with a sense of her mother's inconsistency and injustice.

"I introduced him to you, Pauline! Yes, I believe I did—but what of that? Do you suppose—no, Pauline, you are a girl of too much sense to suppose that I must be willing you should marry every man I introduce or invite to the house."

"What are your objections to Mr. Wentworth?" asked Pauline, firmly.

"My objections, Pauline! My child, you drive me almost mad!" said Mrs. Grey, her daughter's manner forcing on her more and more the conviction of the earnestness of her present fancy—for Mrs. Grey could not think it more. "Why, Pauline, I have every objection to him. What pretensions has he that should entitle him to dream of you, Pauline? You, my child, with your talents and beauty, and acquirements, are not surely going to throw yourself away upon this young man, who is every way inferior to you."

"Mother," said Pauline, with energy, "you don't know him."

Mrs. Grey was silenced. She did not know him. There was that in his countenance, air, and manner, although what might be called rather a handsome young man, that is unmistakable to a practiced eye—traces of a common mind, a something that had satisfied Mrs. Grey "he would not do," when she had dismissed him from her mind. But what had she to say to Pauline now?

She talked of her disappointment—of her hopes—her expectations; but Pauline said she was not ambitious, and wanted none of these things.

Mrs. Grey was in despair. Pauline grew more and more resolute. Her eye flashed, and her color rose, and the brow was bent, as when she was a child. She and her mother talked long, and even warmly; and Mrs. Grey returned to her husband, leaving Pauline in a state of great excitement.

Mr. Grey was much disturbed by what his wife told him; but still, though agitated, he was not as distressed as she was. The thing must not and should not be—there he was firm—though he was pained, exceedingly pained, that Pauline should be unhappy about it.

He looked upon her grief as of course a temporary feeling, but still, even for her temporary sorrow he grieved exceedingly.

He wrote that evening to Mr. Wentworth, desiring him to discontinue his visits, as he could not sanction his attachment, nor consent to a continuance of his attentions.

The letter was dispatched, and both parents felt better for the step. They considered the thing as finally at an end; and though Pauline might rebel a little at not having been consulted; yet it was done, and they seemed to think it could not be undone.

Much they knew about the matter. A letter from the young lover to Pauline herself, blew all these wise conclusions to the four winds of heaven.

She protested—and with some show of reason—that her father and mother had no right to dismiss Mr. Wentworth in this summary way; that they had encouraged—certainly permitted his attentions; that her mother had introduced him herself—for she harped upon that string—and she poured forth such a torrent of words and tears at the same time, that Mr. Grey finally said,

"Well, Pauline, to satisfy you, I will make inquiries relative to Mr. Wentworth's character and standing, and should the report be favorable, and your attachment lasting, I do not know that we should have any right to refuse our consent, although it's not a match, my child, that we can like. But on the other hand, Pauline, should I find him unworthy of you, as I am inclined to believe he is, you, on your part, must submit to what is inevitable, for I never will give my consent to your marrying a man whose character is not irreproachable."

Partially appeased, Pauline retired to her room, where Mrs. Grey spent the rest of the day in trying to convince Pauline that even if Mr. Wentworth were respectable in point of character, he was not in mind, manner, or appearance, at all her equal. That, in fact, he was a very common sort of a person, which was the truth; but strange though the fact might be, and there was no more accounting for it than denying it, Pauline was desperately in love with this very same very common young man; and talk as Mrs. Grey would, she could not change her feelings, or make her see him with her eyes.

She could only wait the result of Mr. Grey's investigations; and most devoutly she hoped they might prove unfavorable. The idea of his being respectable enough for them to be forced to a consent, drove her almost wild. Was this, then, to be the end of all her visions for her beautiful Pauline!

She could only trust to his being a scamp as her only hope of escape.

[Conclusion in our next.



THE SAILOR-LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY R. H. BACON.

When as our good ship courts the gale, To swim once more the ocean, The lessening land wakes in my heart A sad but sweet emotion: For, though I love the broad blue sea, My heart's still true to thee, my love, My heart's still true to thee!

And when, far out upon the main, We plough the midnight billow, I gaze upon the stars, that shine And smile above thy pillow. And though far out upon the sea, My heart's still true to thee, my love, My heart's still true to thee!

But when as homeward bound we speed, The swift sea-bird outflying, With throbbing heart I watch the land, Its blue hills far descrying; Impatient, now, to leave the sea. And fold thee to my heart, my love! My heart's still true to thee!



THE PORTRAIT OF GEN. SCOTT.

This plate is believed to be one of the most admirable and faithful specimens of portraiture ever presented, through the press, to the public. We know that it is derived from sources to be relied upon; and the reputation of the eminent artist who has executed it is evidence that, with such ample materials, his task could not have been illy performed.

The events connected with the present war have excited so high a degree of interest in the life and character of Gen. Scott, that the country has been flooded with biographies good, bad, and indifferent. It would not, therefore, be desirable that we should enter into a detailed account of the events of a public career long and eventful, and every result of which has been honorable to the country.

Gen. Scott was born in 1786, in Virginia. He was educated, for a time, at William and Mary College, and pursued the study of the law, until military propensities separated him from his profession. In 1808, Jefferson appointed him a captain in the army of the United States; in 1812 he received the commission of lieutenant-colonel, and took post on the Canada frontier. In October of that year he greatly distinguished himself in the battle of Queenstown Heights. His courage was manifested by the most extraordinary daring throughout the entire and unequal contest; but his small force was compelled to surrender with the honors of war. The whole affair reflected credit upon his diminutive force, and upon the young hero who led them. His imprisonment was not without dangers that afforded opportunities of displaying his lofty courage and chivalrous humanity.

Having been exchanged in May, 1813, he rejoined the army on the frontier as adjutant-general. He led the advanced guard, or forlorn hope, at the capture of Fort George, displaying extraordinary gallantry, and, though wounded, was the first to enter, and raise the American flag. His conduct upon this occasion elicited the highest praise. In July of the same year, Scott was promoted to the command of a double regiment. He was actively engaged in all the subsequent efforts of that and the following campaign, and in the intervals of service, was employed in instructing the officers in their duties, and in drilling the recruits. His eminent services secured him, in March, 1814, the rank of brigadier general—and he joined General Brown, then marching to the Niagara frontier. On the 3d of July, Scott leading the van, the Americans crossed the river, and captured Fort Erie. On the 4th he moved toward Chippewa, in advance of the army, driving the British before him. The 5th witnessed the severe and well-contested battle of Chippewa. This battle was fought within hearing of the roar of Niagara, silenced for a time, as was the earthquake at Cannae, by the stormier passions of human conflict. It was a contest between divided brethren of the same gallant race; the advantages in the battle were all against our country; the glories in the result were all with her. Circumstances rendered, in the absence of Gen. Brown, Scott, the hero of the field; and profound has been and is the gratitude that rewards him.

The 25th of the same month witnessed the still more memorable conflict of Niagara. It is not our purpose to describe the battle; suffice it to say that it was a contest between warriors worthy of each other's steel. Each army, and the flower of the British veterans were present, struggled for many hours, and foremost in every daring was found Gen. Scott. We need not tell the American reader that we triumphed; but Scott, though upon the field throughout the fight, and then, as always, in advance, had two horses killed under him, was wounded in the side, and at length disabled by a musket-ball through the shoulder. After a doubtful and tedious illness he recovered. He received from Congress, from the state legislatures, and from the people, the amplest evidences of gratitude and admiration.

After the close of the war, Gen. Scott visited Europe, by order of government, upon public business; and on his return took command of the seaboard. From this time till the Black Hawk War nothing of public interest occurred to demand his services. He embarked with a thousand troops to participate in that war, in July of 1832; but his operations were checked by the cholera. The pestilence smote his army, and he did not reach the field before the war was closed. During the prevalence of the pestilence he performed in his army every duty among the sick that could be expected from a brave, humane, and good man, winning, and worthy the title, of the warrior of humanity. He afterward acted prominently in effecting the pacification of the warring tribes of the North West, and received the official commendation of Secretary Cass.

Gen. Scott was ordered the same year to the Southern Department; and during the nullification excitement, is said to have acted, under his orders, with great energy and prudence. In 1836 he was ordered to Florida, to command the army engaged against the Creeks and Seminoles. He spared no effort, and manifested much of enterprise and energy; but circumstances, which no skill could have surmounted, rendered his exertions ineffectual. His failure was made the subject of inquiry by court martial, and he was by the court not merely acquitted, but applauded. In 1837, he was ordered to the northern frontier, to meet and avert the evil effects of the Canadian rebellion. It is admitted, that his efforts were vigorous, wise, and successful, and manifested great energy and prudence. In 1838, Gen. Scott was intrusted by the government with the removal to the West of the Cherokees. This duty was performed with great humanity and ability, and elicited strong expressions of gratitude from them, and of praise from the country.

From this duty, completed, he was called to the northern frontier. His course there was conciliatory and wise; and doubtless had some effect to prevent a conflict with Great Britain.



On the commencement of the Mexican war, circumstances prevented General Scott from assuming the immediate command of the invading force. He was subsequently ordered to the seat of the war; and after a series of operations, admitted to be the most brilliant in point of science known to modern warfare, he won what were supposed to be impregnable, the castle and the town of Vera Cruz. This triumph was announced on the 29th of March. The siege occupied fifteen days, and was attended with little loss on the side of the Americans. On the 17th of April, Scott, advancing upon Mexico, issued an order for the attack of Cerro Gordo—in which every event that was ordered and foreseen seems now to be prophecy; and on the next day he carried that Thermopylae of Mexico. The battle was one of the most brilliant in the American annals. The orders of Scott, previously given, secure the glory of the triumph for himself and his army.

On the 19th, Jalapa was occupied, and on the 22d Perote. In these triumphs the army acquired great quantities of munitions. The city of Puebla was occupied on the 15th of May: Ten thousand prisoners, seven hundred cannon, ten thousand stand of arms, and thirty thousand shells and shot were, in the course of these operations, the fruits of American skill and valor. But even these achievements were thrown into the shade by the glorious triumphs in the vicinity of Mexico. The bloody contests at the intrenchments of Contreras, the fortifications of Cherubusco and the castle of Chapultepec, and finally the capture of Mexico, are of so recent occurrence, and so familiar in all their details to the public, that we do not deem it necessary to narrate them. Cut off for fifty days from all communications with Vera Cruz, the veteran Scott won, with his feeble and greatly diminished force, and against defenses deemed impregnable, triumphs that have thrown immortal glory around the arms of his country.

Thus segregated, shut out from the hope of home as completely as were the soldiers of Cortez when he burned his ships, this little band advanced to dangers such as were never before encountered and overcome. Science guided and protected the daring invasion; and true American hearts, at every bristling danger, supported it, with an ardent courage and a calm fortitude scarcely equaled in the wars of nations. On the 15th of August, General Scott, by a masterly movement, turned the strong works of the Penon and Mexicalzingo, on which the enemy had labored and relied. On the 17th the spires of Mexico were in sight. The attack upon Contreras took place. It was one of the most brilliant achievements of the American arms. San Antonio was also carried; and San Pablo assailed, and, after a contest of two hours, won. In this battle the general added another to his former scars, being wounded in the leg. The terrible conflict of Cherubusco succeeded; and again American valor proved invincible. This placed our force at the gates of Mexico. The contest was one against four, the four having every advantage that military science and superiority of position could confer. Having overcome every enemy that dared to dispute his path, he spared the city of Mexico. The entire campaign is most honorable to the American character and to the reputation of him who led it. The impetuosity of his campaigns in the war of 1812 seemed mingled with and subdued by the results of a profound study of the science of war, in this contest. He dared boldly, and executed cautiously, courageously and successfully. Erring in nothing, and failing in nothing, he encountered dangers, and passed through scenes that belong to romance, but which his iron intellect rendered a substantial reality.



O, SCORN NOT THY BROTHER.

BY E. CURTISS HINE.

O, scorn not thy brother, Though poor he may be, He's bound to another And bright world with thee. Should sorrow assail him, Give heed to his sighs, Should strength ever fail him, O, help him to rise!

The pathway we're roaming, Mid flow'rets may lie, But soon will life's gloaming, Come dark'ning our sky. Then seek not to smother Kind feelings in thee, And scorn not thy brother, Though poor he may be!

Go, cheer those who languish Their dead hopes among. In whose hearts stern anguish The harp hath unstrung! They'll soon in another Bright land roam with thee, So scorn not thy brother, Though poor he may be!



BEN BOLT.

THE WORDS AND MELODY BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE, AND CORDIALLY DEDICATED TO

CHARLES BENJAMIN BOLT, ESQ.

COPYRIGHTED BY GEORGE WILLIG, NO. 171 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA.

Andante con espressione.



Don't you re-mem-ber sweet Al-ice, Ben Bolt— Sweet Al-ice whose hair was so brown— Who wept with de-light when you gave her a smile, And trem-bled with fear at your frown? In the old church yard in the val-ley, Ben Bolt, In a cor-ner ob-scure and a-lone, They have fit-ted a slab of the gran-ite so gray; And Al-ice lies un-der the stone.

II.

Under the Hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill. The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in, And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze, Has followed the olden din.

III.

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, At the edge of the pathless wood, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, Which nigh by the door step stood? The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek in vain; And where once the lords of the forest waved, Grow grass and the golden grain.

IV.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grim, And the shaded nook in the running brook, Where the children went to swim? Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry, And of all the boys that were school-mates then, There are only you and I.

V.

There is change in the things that I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new; But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth, There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends, yet I hail Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth— Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.



THE SPIRIT OF SONG.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

Eternal Fame! thy great rewards, Throughout all time, shall be The right of those old master-bards Of Greece and Italy; And of fair Albion's favored isle, Where Poesy's celestial smile Hath shone for ages, gilding bright Her rocky cliffs, and ancient towers, And cheering this new world of ours With a reflected light.

Yet, though there be no path untrod By that immortal race— Who walked with Nature, as with God, And saw her, face to face— No living truth by them unsung— No thought that hath not found a tongue In some strong lyre of olden time; Must every tuneful lute be still That may not give a world the thrill Of their great harp sublime?

Oh, not while beating hearts rejoice In Music's simplest tone, And hear in Nature's every voice An echo to their own! Not till these scorn the little rill That runs rejoicing from the hill, Or the soft, melancholy glide Of some deep stream, through glen and glade, Because 'tis not the thunder made By ocean's heaving tide!

The hallowed lilies of the field In glory are arrayed, And timid, blue-eyed violets yield Their fragrance to the shade; Nor do the way-side flowers conceal Those modest charms that sometimes steal Upon the weary traveler's eyes Like angels, spreading for his feet A carpet, filled with odors sweet, And decked with heavenly dyes.

Thus let the affluent Soul of Song— That all with flowers adorns— Strew life's uneven path along, And hide its thousand thorns: Oh, many a sad and weary heart, That treads a noiseless way apart, Has blessed the humble poet's name, For fellowship, refined and free, In meek wild-flowers of poesy, That asked no higher fame!

And pleasant as the water-fall To one by deserts bound— Making the air all musical With cool, inviting sound— Is oft some unpretending strain Of rural song, to him whose brain Is fevered in the sordid strife That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man, While moving on, in caravan, Across the sands of Life.

Yet, not for these alone he sings; The poet's breast is stirred As by the spirit that takes wings And carols in the bird! He thinks not of a future name, Nor whence his inspiration came Nor whither goes his warbled song; As Joy itself delights in joy— His soul finds life in its employ, And grows by utterance strong.



A PARTING.

(AN EXTRACT.)

BY HENRY S. HAGERT.

And now, farewell—and if the warm tear start Unbidden to your eye, oh! do not blush To own it, for it speaks the gen'rous heart, Full to o'erflowing with the fervent gush Of its sweet waters. Hark! I hear the rush Of many feet, and dark-browed Mem'ry brings Her tales of by-gone pleasure but to crush The reed already bending—now, there sings The syren voice of Hope—her of the rainbow wings.

Ah! well-a-day! Ceased is the witching strain— Fled are they all—and back the senses turn To this dark hour of anguish and of pain— Of rending heart-chords—agony too stern For words to picture it—of thoughts that burn And wither up the heart. I need not tell What now I feel, or if my bosom yearn With love for you at parting—there's a spell To conjure up despair in that wild word—Farewell



REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Historical and Select Memoirs of the Empress Josephine, (Marie Rose Tacher de la Pagerie,) First Wife of Napoleon Bonaparte. By M'lle. M. A. Le Normand, Authoress "Des Souvenirs Prophetiques," &c. Translated from the French by Jacob M. Howard, Esq. Philada.: Carey & Hart.

The larger portion of this work is made up of the account given by Josephine herself of the events of her life; and that part contributed by M'lle. Le Normand, completes a biography of the gifted, the fortunate and unfortunate queen of Napoleon. The Memoirs of Josephine sparkle with French sprightliness, and abound with French sentiment. Her style is eminently graceful, and the turn of thought such as we would expect from the most accomplished and fascinating woman of her times. The narrative is neither very copious nor very regular; but all that is told is of the deepest interest. It abounds in domestic anecdotes of the great usurper, and reports conversations between him and his wife, in which, by the way, her speeches rival, in prolixity, those given us by Livy. Many of her views of Bonaparte and herself are novel and striking, and calculated, if relied upon, to change opinions now generally entertained as truths. In relation to herself, her tone is one of almost unvarying self-eulogium; and the amiable and excellent qualities which she is known to have possessed need no better chronicler. She was of the opinion that her abilities and services, which were eminent and various, secured Napoleon's advancement at every step of his rapid career from obscurity to the imperial throne; and that the loss of her influence and counsels was the necessary harbinger of his downfall.

For the movements that secured him the First Consulship, she claims almost exclusive credit. That she was an artful politician, and used, with great effect, the graces of mind, manner, and person, with which she was singularly endowed, to promote the interests of her husband, is certain; but it may be doubted whether his mighty genius ever leaned for support upon the political skill and counsel of a woman—even though that woman were Josephine. She, like her wonderful husband, seems to have cherished a superstitious reliance upon destiny—a weakness singularly inconsistent with their general character. The story of the early prediction that she would become a queen is given with an amusing simplicity and earnestness. The prophecy is as follows:

"You will be married to a man of a fair complexion, destined to be the husband of another of your family. The young lady whose place you are called to fill, will not live long. A young Creole, whom you love, does not cease to think of you; you will never marry him, and will make vain attempts to save his life; but his end will be unhappy. Your star promises you two marriages. Your first husband will be a man born in Martinique, but he will reside in Europe and wear a sword; he will enjoy some moments of good fortune. A sad legal proceeding will separate you from him, and after many great troubles, which are to befall the kingdom of the Franks, he will perish tragically, and leave you a widow with two helpless children. Your second husband will be of an olive complexion, of European birth; without fortune, yet he will become famous; he will fill the world with his glory, and will subject a great many nations to his power. You will then become an eminent woman, and possess a supreme dignity; but many people will forget your kindnesses. After having astonished the world, you will die miserable. The country in which what I foretell must happen, forms a part of Celtic Gaul; and more than once, in the midst of your prosperity, you will regret the happy and peaceful life you led in the colony. At the moment you shall quit it, (but not forever,) a prodigy will appear in the air;—this will be the first harbinger of your astonishing destiny."

Any fortune-teller might tell, and no doubt, if she thought it would flatter, would tell, a beautiful young girl that her destiny was to be a queen; but there is in this prediction a minuteness of detail, that cannot be accounted for on the ground of accidental coincidence. It is a brief history of her life. Unless we are prepared to believe that an ignorant old mulatto woman was gifted by divine Providence with supernatural power, constituted a second Witch of Endor, and able by "examining the ball of Josephine's left thumb with great attention," to discover the minute particulars of her future life, we must discredit the absurdity. A prediction believed sometimes effects its own fulfillment; and Josephine, whose ambition seems to have been most ardent, may have been inspired with romantic hopes by the foolish promise of an ignorant impostor, that she would rise to great eminence, and have been stimulated to greater exertions to realize those hopes. This may have urged her to intimacy with the corrupt and immoral Directory, with whom a beautiful and accomplished woman could not fail to be a favorite; may have secured her marriage to a very young and ardent man, who all believed must rise to eminence; and may have even induced her to excite her husband to the policy which secured a crown. But to believe that a prediction, giving all the leading events of the lives of several different persons, and those persons actors in scenes so wonderful, would be a folly equally weak and blasphemous. The same superstition is frequently betrayed in these volumes; and we have as many dreams and portents as ever disturbed the sleeping and waking hours of the wife of the first Napoleon, Caliphurnia.

The pages of these memoirs afford us the harshest and most repulsive views of Napoleon's character that we have yet seen. His affectionate consort was undoubtedly discerning, and used her keenness of perception with proper diligence to discover all her husband's faults. We have never shared in the excessive and extraordinary admiration with which the character of this man-hater and earth-spoiler is regarded in this land of liberty; but it seems to us that the portraiture before us would be deemed unjust coming from his foes, and is at least singular when traced by the hand of the affectionate and gentle Josephine. The praise awarded him is cold, formal and stinted; but the censure is interjected among her details with a freedom that we could not have anticipated. That she should have resented his heartless repudiation of the companion of all his struggles and fortunes, is natural, and perhaps just; but that she should have revenged the wrong, if indeed that be the motive, by depreciating him seems out of character with the Josephine of our imaginations. She describes him as vain, cruel, often weak, and at times abjectly cowardly. She dwells with great fullness upon his crimes, and passes rapidly and coldly over the many great and good things he achieved for France. In some instances positive misrepresentations are resorted to, calculated to blacken his character. Thus, in relation to the disaster at the bridge on the Elster, she says:

"I likewise learned that my husband has passed the only bridge by which he could make good his retreat; but in order to prevent pursuit by the foreign army, he had ordered it to be blown up at the very moment it was covered with thousands of Frenchmen, who were endeavoring to fly. By means of this murderous manoeuvre he abandoned a part of his army on the bank of the stream."

Now this is a most inhuman calumny, and one that sounds strangely coming from a French woman, and that woman the wife of the unfortunate Napoleon. Bonaparte's strongest and ablest decryer, Alison, admits that the destruction of the bridge was an accident, resulting from the mistake of a corporal, who supposed the retreating French upon the bridge were the pursuing allies, and fired the train. It is seldom that we expect to find extraordinary instances of conjugal affection upon thrones; and we are strongly disposed to believe that the love of Josephine for her husband has been exaggerated. According to her own account, she had many previous draughts made upon her capital stock of love; and she describes her marriage with Napoleon as one induced by the representations of Barras and Mad. Tallien of the advantages to be derived from it. She thus characterizes her feelings toward Bonaparte just before marriage. "I discovered in him a tone of assurance and exaggerated pretension, which injured him greatly in my estimation. The more I studied his character, the more I discovered the oddities for which I was at a loss to account; and at length he inspired me with so much aversion that I ceased to frequent the house of Mad. Chat*** Ren***, where he spent his evenings." Notwithstanding the excessive affection professed, a large portion of the period of their connection seems to have been embroiled and troubled. Yet there can be no doubt that she devoted herself assiduously and faithfully to the promotion and protection of the greatness which she shared; and, at the close of her career, though she caressed his conquerors, she died uttering the warmest expressions of affection for him, even in the presence of his foe. The death-scene, as described by M'lle. Le Normand, is truly touching. Her last tears fell upon the portrait of Napoleon.

The whole story is full of romance, and will be read with great interest. The translator has performed his task with eminent ability; and the volumes are printed in a style highly creditable to the publishers.

Memoir of Sarah B. Judson, Member of the American Mission to Burmah. By "Fanny Forester." New York: L. Colby & Co.

It cannot be necessary for us to recommend to the readers of Graham's Magazine any work from the pen of the fascinating "Fanny Forester." Her literary history is associated in their minds with the most agreeable recollections of a female writer, among the sweetest, the most brilliant, the most charming of the many whom our country has produced. They will remember her, too, in that most eventful scene and surprising change of her life, in which the popular authoress was suddenly, and voluntarily, transformed into the humble missionary; sacrificing, from a sense of Christian duty, all the pride and allurements of literary distinction, along with friends, home, the safety and happiness of civilized society, that she might take up the cross, and carry it, an offering of salvation, to the benighted Heathen of Asia, even in the depths of their own far and pestilential climates.

The missionary appears again as on authoress; but it is in the lowly attitude of a biographer commemorating the virtues of a departed sister and predecessor in the same field of Christian devotion—the devoted and sainted woman whose places "Fanny Forester" herself now occupies as a wife and missionary, performing the same duties, exposed to the same trials and sufferings, in the same distant and perilous regions of Asia. The subject and the writer are thus united—we might say identified—as parts of the same attractive theme, and co-actors in the same sacred drama. Under such circumstances, the Memoir of Mrs. Judson could not be otherwise than profoundly interesting; and it will prove so, not only to all those who admire the authoress, but to all who love the cause to which she has dedicated her talents, her life, her fame. It is, indeed, a beautiful, a deeply engaging, an affecting volume, uniting a kind of romantic character, derived from the scenes and perils it describes, with the deeper interest of a record of the evangelization of the heathen. It is peculiarly adapted, too, to the reading of people of the world, whose hearts have not yet been warmed, or whose minds have not been instructed, on the subject of Christian missions. They cannot take it up without reading it; they cannot read it without rising better informed, and with better dispositions than before, in regard to the great cause which boasts—or has boasted—such servants as Mrs. Judson and "Fanny Forester."

The History of a Penitent. A Guide for the Inquiring, in a Commentary on the One Hundred and Thirtieth Psalm. By George W. Bethune, D.D., Minister of the Third Reformed Dutch Church, Philadelphia. Henry Perkins, 142 Chestnut Street.

This work, which is beautifully dedicated to Dr. Alexander, is written with much of the characteristic force and fervor of its author, and with more than his ordinary research and elaboration. He informs us that his purpose has been to help the inquiring soul and young Christian with counsel taken immediately from the unerring word: he has therefore studied conformity to scripture, rather than novelty of thought, and plainness more than grace of style. Yet there is in this volume much of the author's usual boldness of originality and peculiar felicity of expression. Our readers have been made acquainted with the high merits of Dr. Bethune as a poet, by his contributions to "Graham;" but highly as we appreciate his verse, there is a directness, an originality, an old-fashioned power in his prose which we prefer, and which we think place him in the first class of American writers. On subjects like that treated in the volume before us, his whole heart and mind seem to be poured into his pages; and in their perusal we doubt whether most to admire the divine or the rhetorician.

Keble's Christian Year: Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year. Philadelphia: Geo. S. Appleton. 148 Chestnut Street.

This beautiful volume is printed from the thirty-first London edition. Its merits are so well and universally known and appreciated that to review it would, to our readers, be tedious as a twice told tale. Suffice it to say, that its object is to bring the thoughts and feelings of worshipers into more entire unison with those recommended and exemplified in the Prayer Book. The poetry of this volume is often even worthy the exalted subjects of which it treats, and is never unworthy them. Its extraordinary popularity is the best evidence of its merit; for poetry is never generally and permanently popular without real merit.

Transcriber's Note:

1. page 195—removed extra quote at end of paragraph 'boot-maker, landlady, and others?'

2. page 195—removed repeated word 'five'

3. page 198—changed comma to period at end of sentence 'knock the fort to pieces'

4. page 200—corrected typo 'litle' to 'little' in stanza beginning '"Spirit, I am of litle worth,"

5. page 203—added missing end quote at end of poem

6. page 205—removed extraneous double quote mark from sentence '"Pooh! you green-horn!" said Jack Reeves,'

7. page 206—added missing single quote in sentence '...answered the skipper; so suit yourself'

8. page 213—changed punctuation at end of sentence '...now I am willing to die.,' to period + double quote

9. page 213—added missing double quote at end of sentence '...before I sail, with your permission.'

10. page 213—added missing double quote in sentence '...as we drove off. You told the truth...'

11. page 215—changed comma to period at end of sentence 'Yes, dear Frank,"'

12. page 215—added missing double quote to sentence '...thumping his right side, you lacerate my heart...'

13. page 216—added missing double quote at end of sentence '...You are the most angelic, adorable—'

14. page 220—corrected typo 'vison' to 'vision' in line 'Scenes of the past before his vison'

15. page 221—corrected comma to period at end of sentence '...humid with tears,'

16. page 227—removed extra quote at start of sentence 'Ah! happy, satisfied Leland!'

17. page 228—added missing quote at end of article

18. page 229—added missing right bracket to sentence '...and then they know better.'

19. page 231—corrected typo "lanched" to "launched" in sentence '...for Pauline was fairly lanched.'

20. page 240—corrected typo "Chistian" to "Christian" in title block of article