"They have fought through a good deal of mortification though to attain it," rejoined the other. "I wonder whether the end is worth it?"

"Ah! that's a question hard to settle," replied Mrs. Bankhead seriously. "Society at large is certainly improved, but I doubt whether individuals are the happier. No doubt the young Fairchilds will be happier for their parents' rise in the world—but I should say the 'transition state' had been any thing but a pleasant one to the parents. The children will have the tastes as well as the means for enjoyment; the one Mrs. Fairchild having found to be quite as necessary as the other."

"This is the march of intellect, the progress of society, exemplified in the poor Fairchilds," replied the other laughing. "Well, thank Heaven my mission has not been to rise in the world."



TWILIGHT.—TO MARY.

Oh! how I love this time of ev'n, When day in tender twilight dies; And the parting sun, as it falls from heaven, Leaves all its beauty on the skies. When all of rash and restless Nature, Passion—impulse—meekly sleeps, And loveliness, the soul's sweet teacher, Seems like religion in its deeps. And now is trembling through my senses The melting music of the trees, And from the near and rose-crowned fences Comes the balm and fragrant breeze; And from the bowers, not yet shrouded In the coming gloom of night, Breaks the bird-song, clear, unclouded. In trembling tones of deep delight. But not for this alone I prize This witching time of ev'n, The murmuring breeze, the blushing skies, And day's last smile on heaven. But thoughts of thee, and such as thou art. That mingle with these sacred hours, Give deeper pleasure to my heart Than song of birds arid breath of flowers. Then welcome the hour when the last smile of day Just lingers at the portal of ev'n, When so much of life's tumults are passing away, And earth seems exalted to heaven. H. D. G.



THE SAGAMORE OF SACO.

A LEGEND OF MAINE.

BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

Land of the forest and the rock— Of dark blue lake and mighty river— Of mountains reared aloft to mock The storms career, the lightning's shock— My own green land forever. WHITTIER.

Never was country more fruitful than our own with rich materials of romantic and tragic interest, to call into exercise the finest talents of the dramatist and novelist. Every cliff and headland has its aboriginal legend; the village, now thrifty and quiet, had its days of slaughter and conflagration, its tale of devoted love or cruel treachery; while the city, now tumultuous with the pressure of commerce, in its "day of small things," had its bombardment and foreign army, and its handful of determined freemen, who achieved prodigies of single handed valor. Now that men are daily learning the worth of humanity, its hopes and its trials coming nearer home to thought and affection; now that the complicated passions of refined and artificial life are becoming less important than the broad, deep, genuine manifestations of the common mind, we may hope for a bolder and more courageous literature: we may hope to see the drama free itself from sensualism and frivolity, and rise to the Shaksperian dignity of true passion; while the romance will learn better its true ground, and will create, rather than portray—delineate, rather than dissect human sentiment and emotion.

The State of Maine is peculiarly rich in its historically romantic associations. Settled as it was prior to the landing of the Pilgrims, first under Raleigh Gilbert, and subsequently by Sir Ferdinando Gorges, whose colony it is fair, in the absence of testimony, to infer never left the country after 1616, but continued to employ themselves in the fisheries, and in some commerce with the West Indies, up to the time of their final incorporation with the Plymouth settlement. Indeed the correspondence of Sir Richard Vines, governor of the colony under Sir Ferdinando Gorges, with the Governor of Plymouth, leaves no doubt upon this head; and it is a well known fact that the two settlements of De Aulney and De la Tour at the mouths of the Penobscot and Kennebec rivers, even at this early age, were far from being contemptible, both in a commercial and numeric point of view. Added to these was the handful of Jesuits at Mont Desert, and we might say a colony of Swedes on the sea-coast, between the two large rivers just named, the memory of which is traditional, and the vestiges of which are sometimes turned up by the ploughshare. These people probably fell beneath some outbreak of savage vengeance, which left no name or record of their existence.

Subsequently to these was the dispersion of the Acadians, that terrible and wanton piece of political policy, which resulted in the extinction and denationalizing of a simple and pious people. The fugitive Acadians found their way through a wilderness of forests, suffering and dying as they went, some landing in distant states, (five hundred having been consigned to Governor Oglethorpe of Georgia,) and others, lonely and bereft, found a home with the humble and laborious farmers of this hardy state, whose finest quality is an open-handed hospitality. These intermarrying with our people here, have left traces of their blood and fine moral qualities to enhance the excellence of a pure and healthful population.

Then followed the times of the Revolution, when Maine did her part nobly in the great and perilous work. Our own Knox was commandant of the artillery, and the bosom friend of Washington: our youth sunk into unknown graves in the sacred cause of freedom; and our people, poor as they were, for the resources of the state were then undeveloped, cast their mite of wealth into the national treasury. Northerly and isolated as she is, her cities were burned, and her frontiers jealously watched by an alert and cruel enemy. Here, too, Arnold sowed his last seeds of virtue and patriotism, in his arduous march through the wilderness of Maine to the capital of the Canadas, an exploit which, considering the season, the poverty of numbers and resources, combined with the wild, unknown, and uncleared state of the country, may compete with the most heroic actions of any great leader of any people.

A maritime state, Maine suffers severely from the fluctuations of commerce, but is the first to realize the reactions of prosperity. Her extended seaboard, her vast forests, her immense mineral resources, together with a population hardy, laborious, virtuous, and enterprising; a population less adulterated by foreign admixture than any state in the Union, all point to a coming day of power and prosperity which shall place her foremost in the ranks of the states, in point of wealth, as she is already in that of intelligence.

We have enumerated but a tithe of the intellectual resources of Maine—have given but a blank sheet as it were of the material which will hereafter make her renowned in story, and must confine ourselves to but a single point of historic and romantic interest, connected with the earlier records of the country. We have alluded to the first governor, Sir Richard Vines, a right worthy and chivalric gentleman, the friend and agent of Sir Ferdinando Gorges, of Walter Raleigh, and other fine spirits of the day. His residence was at the Pool, as it is now called, or "Winter Harbor," from the fact that the winter of 1616-17 was passed by Vines and his followers at this place. After a residence of eighteen or twenty years, devoted to the interests of the colony, the death of his patron, the transfer of the Maine plantation to the Plymouth proprietors, together with domestic and pecuniary misfortunes, induced Sir Richard Vines to retire to the Island of Barbadoes, where we find him prosperous and respected, and still mindful of the colony for which he had done and suffered so much.

Prior to his departure, and probably not altogether unconnected with it, he had incurred the deadly hatred of John Bonyton, a young man of the colony, who in after years was called, and is still remembered in tradition as the "Sagamore of Saco." The cause of this hatred was in some way connected with the disappearance of Bridget Vines, the daughter of the governor, for whom John Bonyton had conceived a wild and passionate attachment. Years before our story she had been suddenly missing, to the permanent grief and dismay of the family, and the more terrible agony of John Bonyton, who had conceived the idea that Bridget had been sent to a European convent, to save her from his presence. This idea he would never abandon, notwithstanding the most solemn denials of Sir Richard, and the most womanly and sympathizing asseverations of Mistress Vines. The youth listened with compressed lip, his large, remarkable eye fixed with stern and searching scrutiny upon the face of the speaker, and when he was done the reply was always the same, "God knows if this be true; but, true or false, my hand shall be against every man till she be found."

Accordingly we find the youth, who seems to have been possessed of those rare and strong points of character which go to make the hero, in constant collision with the people of the times. Moody and revengeful, he became an alien to his father's house, and with gun and dog passed months in the wildest regions of that wild country. With the savage he slept in his wigwam, he threaded the forest and stood upon the verge of the cataract; or penetrated up to the stormy regions of the White Mountains; and anon, hushed the tumultuous beatings of his heart in accordance with the stroke of his paddle, as he and his red companions glided over that loveliest of lakes, Winnepisoge, or "the smile of the Great Spirit."

There seemed no rest for the unhappy man. Unable to endure the formalities and intermedlings, which so strongly mark the period, he spent most of his time on the frontiers of the settlement, admitting of little companionship, and yielding less of courtesy. When he appeared in the colony, the women regarded his fine person, his smile, at once sorrowful and tender, and his free, noble bearing with admiration, not unmingled with terror; while men, even in that age of manly physique looked upon his frame, lithe yet firm as iron, athletic and yet graceful, with eyes of envious delight. Truth to say, John Bonyton had never impaired a fine development by any useful employment, or any elaborate attempts at book-knowledge. He knew all that was essential for the times, or the mode of life which he had adopted, and further he cared not. His great power consisted in a passionate yet steady will, by which all who came within his sphere found themselves bent to his purposes.

The Pilgrims even, unflinching and uncompromising as they were, felt the spell of his presence, and were content to spurn, to persecute, and set a price upon the head of a man whom they could not control. Yet for all this John Bonyton died quietly in his bed, no one daring to do to him even what the law would justify. He slept in perfect security, for he knew this, and knew, too, that the woods were alive with ardent and devoted adherents, who would have deluged the soil with blood had but a hair of his head been injured. The Sagamore of Saco was no ordinary man; and the men of the times, remarkable as they were, felt this; and hence is it, that even to this day his memory is held in remembrance with an almost superstitious awe, and people point out a barrow where lie the ashes of the "Sagamore," and show the boundaries of his land, and tell marvelous tales of his hardihood and self-possession.

They tell of a time when a price had been set upon his head, how, when the people were assembled in the little church for worship, John Bonyton walked in with gun in hand, and stood through the whole service, erect and stern as a man of iron, and no one dared scarcely look upon him, much less lift a finger against him; and how he waited till all had gone forth, even the oracle of God, pale and trembling, and then departed in silence as he came. Surely there was greatness in this—the greatness of a Napoleon, needing but a field for its exercise.

CHAPTER II.

Methought, within a desert cave, Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave, I suddenly awoke. It seemed of sable night the cell, Where, save when from the ceiling fell An oozing drop, her silent spell No sound had ever broke.—ALLSTON.

Among the great rivers of Maine the Penobscot and Kennebec stand preeminent, on account of their maritime importance, their depth and adaptability to the purposes of internal navigation; but there are others less known, yet no less essential to the wealth of the country, which, encumbered with falls and rapids, spurn alike ship and steamer, but are invaluable for the great purposes of manufacture. The Androscoggin is one of these, a river, winding, capricious and most beautiful; just the one to touch the fancy of the poet, and tempt the cupidity of a millwright. It abounds with scenery of the most lovely and romantic interest, and falls already in bondage to loom and shuttle. Lewiston Falls, or Pe-jip-scot, as the aboriginals called this beautiful place, are, perhaps, among the finest water plunges in the country. It is not merely the beauty of the river itself, a broad and lengthened sheet of liquid in the heart of a fine country, but the whole region is wild and romantic. The sudden bends of the river present headlands of rare boldness, beneath which the river spreads itself into a placid bay, till ready to gather up its skirts again, and thread itself daintily amid the hills. The banks present slopes and savannas warm and sheltered, in which nestle away finely cultivated farms, and from whence arise those rural sounds of flock and herd so grateful to the spirit, and that primitive blast of horn, winding itself into a thousand echoes, the signal of the in-gathering of a household. Cliffs, crowned with fir, overhang the waters; hills, rising hundreds of feet, cast their dense shadows quite across the stream; and even now the "slim canoe" of the Indian may be seen poised below, while some stern relic of the woods looks upward to the ancient hunting sites of his people, and recalls the day when, at the verge of this very fall, a populous village sent up its council smoke day and night, telling of peace and the uncontested power of his tribe.

But in the times of our story the region stood in its untamed majesty; the whirling mass of waters tumbling and plunging in the midst of an unbroken forest, and the great roar of the cataract booming through the solitude like the unceasing voice of the eternal deep. Men now stand with awe and gaze upon those mysterious falls, vital with traditions terribly beautiful, and again and again ask, "Can they be true? Can it be that beneath these waters, behind that sheet of foam is a room, spacious and vast, and well known, and frequented by the Indian?"

An old man will tell you that one morning as he stood watching the rainbows of the fall, he was surprised at the sudden appearance of an Indian from the very midst of the foam. He accosted him, asked whence he came, and how he escaped the terrible plunge of the descending waves. The Indian, old and white-headed, with the eye of an eagle, and the frame of a Hercules, raised the old man from the ground, shook him fiercely, and then cast him like a reptile to one side. A moment more and the measured stroke of a paddle betrayed the passage of the stout Red Man adown the stream.

Our story must establish the fact in regard to this cave—a fact well known in the earlier records of the country, more than one white man having found himself sufficiently athletic to plunge behind the sheet of water and gain the room.

It was mid-day, and the sun, penetrating the sheet of the falls, cast a not uncheerful light into the cave, the size and gloom of which were still further relieved by a fire burning in the centre, and one or more torches stuck in the fissures of the rocks. Before this fire stood a woman of forty or fifty years of age, gazing intently upon the white, liquid, and tumultuous covering to the door of her home, and yet the expression of her eye showed that her thoughts were far beyond the place in which she stood.

She was taller than the wont of Indian women, more slender than is customary with them at her period of life, and altogether, presented a keenness and springiness of fibre that reminded one of Arab more than aboriginal blood. Her brow was high, retreating, and narrow, with arched and contracted brows, beneath which fairly burned a pair of intense, restless eyes.

At one side, stretched upon skins, appeared what might have been mistaken for a white veil, except that a draft of air caused a portion of it to rise and fall, showing it to be a mass of human hair. Yet so motionless was the figure, so still a tiny moccasoned foot, just perceptible, and so ghastly the hue and abundance of the covering, that all suggested an image of death.

At length the tall woman turned sharply round and addressed the object upon the mats.

"How much longer will you sleep, Skoke? Get up, I tell thee."

At this ungracious speech—for Skoke[13]means snake—the figure started slightly, but did not obey. After some silence she spoke again, "Wa-ain (white soul) get up and eat, our people will soon be here." Still no motion nor reply. At length the woman, in a sharper accent, resumed,

"Bridget Vines, I bid thee arise!" and she laughed in an under tone.

The figure slowly lifted itself up and looked upon the speaker. "Ascashe,[14] I will answer only to my own name."

"As you like," retorted the other. "Skoke is as good a name as Ascashe." A truism which the other did not seem disposed to question—the one meaning a snake, the other a spider, or "net-weaver."

Contrary to what might have been expected from the color of the hair, the figure from the mat seemed a mere child in aspect, and yet the eye, the mouth, and the grasp of the hand, indicated not only maturity of years, but the presence of deep and intense passions. Her size was that of a girl of thirteen years in our northern climate, yet the fine bust, the distinct and slender waist, and the firm pressure of the arched foot, revealed maturity as well as individualism of character.

[Footnote 13: I do not know how general is the use of this word amongst the Indians. The writer found it in use amongst the Penobscot tribe.]

[Footnote 14: As-nob-a-ca-she, contracted to Ascashe, is literally a net-weaver, the name for spider. This term is from Schoolcraft.]

Rising from her recumbent posture, she approached the water at the entrance of the cave till the spray mingled with her long, white locks, and the light falling upon her brow, revealed a sharp beautiful outline of face scarcely touched by years, white, even teeth, and eyes of blue, yet so deeply and sadly kindling into intensity, that they grew momentarily darker and darker as you gazed upon them.

"Water, still water, forever water," she murmured. Suddenly turning round, she darted away into the recesses of the cave, leaping and flying, as it were, with her long hair tossed to and fro about her person. Presently she emerged, followed by a pet panther, which leaped and bounded in concert with his mistress. Seizing a bow, she sent the arrow away into the black roof of the cavern, waited for its return, and then discharged it again and again, watching its progress with eager and impatient delight. This done, she cast herself again upon the skins, spread her long hair over her form, and lay motionless as marble.

Ascashe again called, "Why do you not come and eat, Skoke?"

Having no answer, she called out, "Wa-ain, come and eat;" and then tired of this useless teasing, she arose, and shaking the white girl by the arm, cried, "Bridget Vines, I bid you eat."

"I will, Ascashe," answered the other, taking corn and dried fish, which the other presented.

"The spider caught a bad snake when she wove a net for Bridget Vines," muttered the tall woman. The other covered her face with her hands, and the veins of her forehead swelled above her fingers; yet when she uncovered her eyes they were red, not with tears, but the effort to suppress their flow.

"It is a long, long time, that I have been here, Ascashe," answered Bridget, sorrowfully.

"Have you never been out since Samoret left you here?" asked the net-weaver; and she fixed her eyes searchingly upon the face of the girl, who never quailed nor changed color beneath her gaze, but replied in the same tone, "How should little Hope escape—where should she go?" Hope being the name by which Mistress Vines had called her child in moments of tenderness, as suggesting a mother's yearning hope that she would at some time be less capricious, for Bridget had always been a wayward, incoherent, and diminutive creature, and treated with great gentleness by the family.

"Do you remember what I once told you?" continued the other. "You had a friend—you have an enemy."

This time Bridget Vines started, and gave utterance to a long, low, plaintive cry, as if her soul wailed, as it flitted from its frail tenement, for she fell back as if dead upon the skins.

The woman muttered, "The white boy and girl shouldn't have scorned the red woman," and she took her to the verge of the water and awaited her recovery; when she opened her eyes, she continued, "Ascashe is content—she has been very, very wretched, but so has been her enemy. Look, my hair is black; Wa-ain's is like the white frost."

"I knew it would be so," answered the other, gently, "but it is nothing. Tell me where you have been, Ascashe, and how came you here? O-ya-ah died the other day." She alluded to an old squaw, who had been her keeper in the cave.

At this moment a shadow darkened the room, another, and another, and three stalwart savages stood before the two women. Each, as he passed, patted the head of Bridget, who shook them off with moody impatience.

They gathered about the coals in the centre, talking in under tones, while the women prepared some venison which was to furnish forth the repast.

CHAPTER III.

And she who climbed the storm-swept steep, She who the foaming wave would dare, So oft love's vigil here to keep, Stranger, albeit, thou think'st I dote; I know, I know, she watches there.—HOFFMAN.

That night the men sat long around the fire, and talked of a deadly feud and a deadly prospect of revenge. Ascashe listened and counseled, and her suggestions were often hailed with intimations of approval—for the woman was possessed of a keen and penetrating mind, heightened by passions at once powerful and malevolent. Had the group observed the white occupant of the skins, they would have seen a pair of dark, bright eyes peering through those snowy locks, and red lips parted, in the eagerness of the intent ear.

"How far distant are they now?" asked the woman.

"A three hours walk down stream," was the answer. "To-morrow they will ascend the falls to surprise our people, and burn the village. To-night, when the moon is down, we are to light a fire at still-water above the falls, and the Terrentines will join us at the signal, leave their canoes in the care of the women, and descend upon our foes. The fire will warn our people how near to approach the falls, for the night will be dark." This was told at intervals, and to the questionings of the woman.

"Where is the Sagamore of Saco," asked Ascashe.

"John Bonyton heads our foes, but to-night is the last one to the Sagamore."

At this name the white hair stirred violently, and then a low wail escaped from beneath. The group started, and one of the men, with Ascashe, scanned the face of the girl, who seemed to sleep in perfect unconsciousness; but the panther rolled itself over, stretched out its claws, and threw back his head, showing his long, red tongue, and uttered a yawn so nearly a howl, that the woman declared the sounds must have been the same.

Presently the group disposed themselves to sleep till the moon should set, when they must once more be upon the trail. Previous to this, many were the charges enjoined upon the woman in regard to Bridget.

"Guard her well," said the leader of the band. "In a few suns more she will be a great medicine woman, foretelling things that shall come to the tribes."

We must now visit the encampment of John Bonyton, where he and his followers slept, waiting till the first dawn of day should send them on their deadly path. The moon had set; the night was intensely dark, for clouds flitted over the sky, now and then disburdening themselves with gusts of wind, which swayed the old woods to and fro, while big drops of rain fell amid the leaves and were hushed.

Suddenly a white figure stood over the sleeping chief, so slight, so unearthly in its shroud of wet, white hair, that one might well be pardoned a superstitious tremor. She wrung her hands and wept bitterly as she gazed—then she knelt down and looked more closely; then, with a quick cry, she flung herself into his bosom.

"Oh, John Bonyton, did I not tell you this? Did I not tell you, years ago, that little Hope stood in my path, with hair white as snow?"

The man raised himself up, he gathered the slight figure in his arms—he uncovered a torch and held it to her face.

"Oh, my God! my God!" he cried—and his strength departed, and he was helpless as a child. The years of agony, the lapse of thirty years were concentrated in that fearful moment. Bridget, too, lay motionless and silent, clinging to his neck. Long, long was that hour of suffering to the two. What was life to them! stricken and changed, living and breathing, they only felt that they lived and breathed by the pangs that betrayed the beating pulse. Oh, life! life! thou art a fearful boon, and thy love not the least fearful of thy gifts.

At length Bridget raised herself up, and would have left his arms; but John Bonyton held her fast.

"Nay, Hope, never again. My tender, my beautiful bird, it has fared ill with thee;" and smoothing her white locks, the tears gushed to the eyes of the strong man. Indeed, he, in his full strength and manhood, she, diminutive and bleached by solitude and grief, contrasted so powerfully in his mind, that a paternal tenderness grew upon him, and he kissed her brow reverently, saying,

"How have I searched for thee, my birdie, my child; I have been haunted by the furies, and goaded well nigh to murder—but thou art here—yet not thou. Oh, Hope! Hope!"

The girl listened intent and breathless.

"I knew it would be so, John Bonyton; I knew if parted we could never be the same again—the same cloud returns not to the sky; the same blossom blooms not twice; human faces wear never twice the same look; and, alas! alas! the heart of to-day is not that of to-morrow."

"Say on, Hope—years are annihilated, and we are children again, hoping, loving children."

But the girl only buried her face in his bosom, weeping and sobbing. At this moment a red glare of light shot up into the sky, and Bridget sprung to her feet.

"I had forgotten. Come, John Bonyton, come and see the only work that poor little Hope could do to save thee;" and she darted forward with the eager step which Bonyton so well remembered. As they approached the falls, the light of the burning tree, kindled by the hands of Bridget below the falls, flickered and glared upon the waters; the winds had died away; the stars beamed forth, and nothing mingled with the roar of waters, save an occasional screech of some nocturnal creature prowling for its prey.

Ever and ever poured on the untiring flood, till one wondered it did not pour itself out; and the heart grew oppressed at the vast images crowding into it, swelling and pressing, as did the tumultuous waves over their impediment of granite—water, still water, till the nerves ached from weariness at the perpetual flow, and the mind questioned if the sound itself were not silence, so lonely was the spell—questioned if it were stopped if the heart would not cease to beat, and life become annihilate.

Suddenly the girl stopped with hand pointing to the falls. A black mass gleamed amid the foam—one wild, fearful yell arose, even above the roar of waters, and then the waves flowed on as before.

"Tell me, what is this?" cried John Bonyton, seizing the hand of Bridget, and staying her flight with a strong grasp.

"Ascashe did not know I could plunge under the falls—she did not know the strength of little Hope, when she heard the name of John Bonyton. She then went on to tell how she had escaped the cave—how she had kindled a signal fire below the falls in advance of that to be kindled above—and how she had dared, alone, the terrors of the forest, and the black night, that she might once more look upon the face of her lover. When she had finished, she threw her arms tenderly around his neck, she pressed her lips to his, and then, with a gentleness unwonted to her nature, would have disengaged herself from his arms.

"Why do you leave me, Hope—where will you go?" asked the Sagamore.

She looked up with a face so pale, so hopeless, so mournfully tender, as was most affecting to behold. "I will go under the falls, and there sleep—oh! so long will I sleep, John Bonyton.

He folded her like a little child to his bosom. "You must not leave me, Hope—do you not love me?"

She answered only by a low wail, that was more affecting than any words; and when the Sagamore pressed her again to his heart, she answered, calling him John Bonyton, as she used to call him in the days of her childhood.

"Little Hope is a terror to herself, John Bonyton. Her heart is all love—all lost in yours; but she is a child, a child just as she was years ago; but you, you are not the same—more beautiful—greater; poor little Hope grows fearful before you;" and again her voice was lost in tears.

The sun now began to tinge the sky with his ruddy hue; the birds filled the woods with an out-gush of melody; the rainbow, as ever, spanned the abyss of waters, while below, drifting in eddies, were fragments of canoes, and still more ghastly fragments telling of the night's destruction. The stratagem of the girl had been entirely successful—deluded by the false beacon, the unhappy savages had drifted on with the tide, unconscious of danger, till the one terrible pang of danger, and the terrible plunge of death came at the one and same moment.

Upon a headland overlooking the falls stood the group of the cavern, stirred with feelings to which words give no utterance, and which find expression only in some deadly act. Ascashe descended stealthily along the bank, watching intently the group upon the opposite shore, in the midst of which floated the white, abundant locks of Bridget Vines, visible at a great distance. She now stood beside the Sagamore, saying,

"Forget poor little Hope, John Bonyton, or only remember that her life was one long, long thought of thee."

She started—gave one wild look of love and grief at the Sagamore—and then darted down the bank, marking her path with streams of blood, and disappeared under the falls. The aim of the savage had done its work.

"Ascashe is revenged, John Bonyton," cried a loud voice—and a dozen arrows stopped it in its utterance. Fierce was the pursuit, and desperate the flight of the few surviving foes. The "Sagamore of Saco" never rested day nor night till he and his followers had cut off the last vestige of the Terrantines, and avenged the blood of the unhappy maiden. Then for years did he linger about the falls in the vain hope of seeing once more her wild spectral beauty—but she appeared no more in the flesh; though to this, men not romantic nor visionary declare they have seen a figure, slight and beautiful, clad in robe of skin, with moccasoned feet, and long, white hair, nearly reaching to the ground, hovering sorrowfully around the falls; and this strange figure they believe to be the wraith of the lost Bridget Vines.



THE SACHEM's HILL.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

'T was a green towering hill-top: on its sides June showered her red delicious strawberries, Spotting the mounds, and in the hollows spread Her pink brier roses, and gold johnswort stars. The top was scattered, here and there, with pines, Making soft music in the summer wind, And painting underneath each other's boughs Spaces of auburn from their withered fringe. Below, a scene of rural loveliness Was pictured, vivid with its varied hues; The yellow of the wheat—the fallow's black— The buckwheat's foam-like whiteness, and the green Of pasture-field and meadow, whilst amidst Wound a slim, snake-like streamlet. Here I oft Have come in summer days, and with the shade Cast by one hollowed pine upon my brow, Have couched upon the grass, and let my eye Roam o'er the landscape, from the green hill's foot To where the hazy distance wrapped the scene. Beneath this pine a long and narrow mound Heaves up its grassy shape; the silver tufts Of the wild clover richly spangle it, And breathe such fragrance that each passing wind Is turned into an odor. Underneath A Mohawk Sachem sleeps, whose form had borne A century's burthen. Oft have I the tale Heard from a pioneer, who, with a band Of comrades, broke into the unshorn wilds That shadowed then this region, and awoke The echoes with their axes. By the stream They found this Indian Sachem in a hut Of bark and boughs. One of the pioneers Had lived a captive 'mid the Iroquois. And knew their language, and he told the chief How they had come to mow the woods away, And change the forest earth to meadows green, And the tall trees to dwellings. Rearing up His aged form, the Sachem proud replied, That he had seen a hundred winters pass Over this spot; that here his tribe had died, Parents and children, braves, old men and all, Until he stood a withered tree amidst His prostrate kind; that he had hoped he ne'er Would see the race, whose skin was like the flower Of the spring dogwood, blasting his old sight; And that beholding them amidst his haunts, He called on Hah-wen-ne-yo to bear off His spirit to the happy hunting-grounds. Shrouding his face within his deer-skin robe, And chanting the low death-song of his tribe, He then with trembling footsteps left the hut And sought the hill-top; here he sat him down With his back placed within this hollowed tree, And fixing his dull eye upon the scene Of woods below him, rocked with guttural chant The livelong day, whilst plyed the pioneers Their axes round him. Sunset came, and still There rocked his form. The twilight glimmered gray, Then kindled to the moon, and still he rocked; Till stretched the pioneers upon the earth Their wearied limbs for sleep. One, wakeful, left His plump moss couch, and strolling near the tree Saw in the pomp of moonlight that old form Still rocking, and, with deep awe at his heart, Hastened to join his comrades. Morn awoke, And the first light discovered to their eyes That weird shape rocking still. The pioneers, With kindly hands, took food and at his side Placed it, and tried to rouse him, but in vain. He fixed his eye still dully down the hill, And when they took their hands from off his frame It still renewed its rocking. Morning went, And noon and sunset. Often had they glanced From their hard toil as passed the hours away Upon that rocking form, and wondered much; And when the sunset vanished they approached Their kindness to renew; but suddenly, As came they near, they saw the rocking cease, And the head drop upon his naked breast. Close came they, and the shorn head lifting up, In the glazed eye and fallen jaw beheld Death's awful presence. With deep sorrowing hearts They scooped a grave amidst the soft black mould, Laid the old Sachem in its narrow depth, Then heaped the sod above, and left him there To hallow the green hill-top with his name.



VISIT TO GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

City of marble! whose lone structures rise In pomp of sculpture beautifully rare, On thy still brow a mournful shadow lies, For round thy haunts no busy feet repair; No curling smoke ascends from roof-tree fair, Nor cry of warning time the clock repeats— No voice of Sabbath-bell doth call to prayer— There are no children playing in thy streets, Nor sounds of echoing toil invade thy green retreats.

Rich vines around thy graceful columns wind, Young buds unfold, the dewy skies to bless, Yet no fresh wreaths thine inmates wake to bind— Prune no wild spray, nor pleasant garden dress— From no luxuriant flower its fragrance press— The golden sunsets through enwoven trees Tremble and flash, but they no praise express— They lift no casement to the balmy breeze, For fairest scenes of earth have lost their power to please.

A ceaseless tide of emigration flows On through thy gates, for thou forbiddest none In thy close-curtained couches to repose, Or lease thy narrow tenements of stone, It matters not where first the sunbeam shone Upon their cradle—'neath the foliage free Where dark palmettos fleck the torrid zone, Or 'mid the icebergs of the Arctic sea— Thou dost no questions ask; all are at home with thee.

One pledge alone they give, before their name Is with thy peaceful denizens enrolled— The vow of silence thou from each dost claim, More strict and stern than Sparta's rule of old, Bidding no secrets of thy realm be told, Nor slightest whisper from its precincts spread— Sealing each whitened lip with signet cold, To stamp the oath of fealty, ere they tread Thy never-echoing halls, oh city of the dead!

'Mid scenes like thine, fond memories find their home, For sweet it was to me, in childhood's hours, 'Neath every village church-yard's shade to roam, Where humblest mounds were decked with grassy flowers, And I have roamed where dear Mount Auburn towers, Where Laurel-Hill a cordial welcome gave To the rich tracery of its hallowed bowers, And where, by quiet Lehigh's crystal wave, The meek Moravian smooths his turf-embroidered grave:

Where too, in Scotia, o'er the Bridge of Sighs, The Clyde's Necropolis uprears its head, Or that old abbey's sacred turrets rise Whose crypts contain proud Albion's noblest dead,— And where, by leafy canopy o'erspread, The lyre of Gray its pensive descant made— And where, beside the dancing city's tread, Famed Pere La Chaise all gorgeously displayed Its meretricious robes, with chaplets overlaid.

But thou, oh Greenwood! sweetest art to me, Enriched with tints of ocean, earth and sky, Solemn and sweet, to meditation free, Most like a mother, who with pleading eye Dost turn to Him who for the lost did die— And with thy many children at thy breast, Invoke His aid, with low and prayerful sigh, To bless the lowly pillow of their rest, And shield them, when the tomb no longer guards its guest.

Calm, holy shades! we come to you for health,— Sickness is with the living—wo and pain— And dire diseases thronging on, by stealth From the worn heart its vital flood to drain, Or smite with sudden shaft the reeling brain, Till lingering on, with nameless ills distrest, We find the healer's vaunted armor vain, The undrawn spear-point in our bleeding breast,— Fain would we hide with you, and win the boon of rest.

Sorrow is with the living! Youth doth fade— And Joy unclasp its tendril green, to die— The mocking tares our harvest-hopes invade, On wrecking blasts our garnered treasures fly, Our idols shame the soul's idolatry, Unkindness gnaws the bosom's secret core, Long-trusted friendship turns an altered eye When, helpless, we its sympathies implore— Oh! take us to your arms, that we may weep no more.



THE HALL OF INDEPENDENCE.

BY GEO. W. DEWEY.

This is the sacred fane wherein assembled The fearless champions on the side of Right; Men, at whose declaration empires trembled, Moved by the truth's immortal might.

Here stood the patriot band—one union folding The Eastern, Northern, Southern sage and seer, Within that living bond which truth upholding, Proclaims each man his fellow's peer.

Here rose the anthem, which all nations hearing, In loud response the echoes backward hurled; Reverberating still the ceaseless cheering, Our continent repeats it to the world.

This is the hallowed spot where first, unfurling, Fair Freedom spread her blazing scroll of light; Here, from oppression's throne the tyrant hurling, She stood supreme in majesty and might!



THE LAST OF THE BOURBONS.

A FRENCH PATRIOTIC SONG,

WRITTEN BY ALEXANDRE PANTOLEON, THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND DEDICATED TO THE NATIONAL GUARD OF FRANCE, BY

J. C. N. G.

Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chesnut Street, Philad'a.—Copyright secured.



II.

Oh thou spirit of lightning That movest the French From the hands of the tyrant, The sceptre to wrench. Thou no more wilt be cheated But keep under arms Till the sway thou upholdest Is free from alarms! Hurrah! hurrah! &c.

II.

J'entends gronder la foudre Des braves Francais Ils ont reduit en poudre Le siege des forfaits. Leurs eclairs epouvantent Les rois etrangers Dont les glaives tourmentent Des coeurs opprimes. Vive, vive, &c.

III.

Tis too late for an Infant To govern a land Which a tyrant long practiced Has failed to command. For the men of fair Gallia At home will be free, And extend independence To lands o'er the sea! Hurrah! hurrah! &c.

III.

Desormais soyez sages Restez tous armes Protegeant vos suffrages Et vos droits sacres. Comblez l'espoir unique De France! en avant! Vive la Republique! A bas les tyrans! Vive, vive, &c.



TO AN ISLE OF THE SEA.[15]

BY MRS. J. W. MERCUR.

Bright Isle of the Ocean, and gem of the sea, Thou art stately and fair as an island can be, With thy clifts tow'ring upward, thy valleys outspread, And thy fir-crested hills, where the mountain deer tread, So crowned with rich verdure, so kissed by each ray Of the day-god that mounts on and upward his way, While thy wild rushing torrent, thy streams in their flow, Reflect the high archway of heaven below, Whose clear azure curtains, so cloudless and bright, Are here ever tinged with the red gold at night; Then with one burst of glory the sun sinks to rest, And the stars they shine out on the land that is blest.

Thy foliage is fadeless, no chilling winds blow, No frost has embraced thee, no mantle of snow; Then hail to each sunbeam whose swift airy flight Speeds on for thy valleys each hill-top and height! To clothe them in glory then die 'mid the roar Of the sea-waves which echo far up from the shore! They will rest for a day, as if bound by a spell, They will noiselessly fall where the beautiful dwell, They will beam on thy summits so lofty and lone, Where nature hath sway and her emerald throne, Then each pearly dew-drop descending at even, At morn they will bear to the portals of Heaven.

Thou art rich in the spoils of the deep sounding sea, Thou art blest in thy clime, (of all climates for me,) Thou hast wealth on thy bosom, where orange-flowers blow, And thy groves with their golden-hued fruit bending low, In thy broad-leafed banana, thy fig and the lime, And grandeur and beauty, in palm-tree and vine. Thou hast wreaths on thy brow, and gay flowers ever bloom, Wafting upward and onward a deathless perfume, While round thee the sea-birds first circle, then rise, Then sink to the wave and then glance tow'rd the skies!

While their bright plumage glows 'neath the sun's burning light, And their screams echo back in a song of delight. Thou hast hearts that are noble, and doubtless are brave, Thou hast altars to bow at, for worship and praise, Thou hast light when night's curtains around thee are driven From the Cross which beams out in the far southern heaven, Yet one spot of darkness remains on thy breast, As a cloud in the depth of a calm sky at rest.

Like a queen that is crowned, or a king on his throne, In grandeur thou sittest majestic and lone, And the power of thy beauty is breathed on each gale As it sweeps o'er thy hills or descends to the vale; And homage is offered most boundless and free, Oh, Isle of the Ocean, in gladness to thee, So circled with waters, so dashed by the spray Of the waves which leap upward then stop in their way.

And lo! thou art loved by a child of the West, For the beauty and bloom of thy tropical breast, Yet dearer by far is that land where the skies Though colder bends o'er it and bleak winds arise, Where the broad chart of Nature is boldly unfurled, And a light from the free beameth out o'er the world.

Yes, dearer that land where the eagle on high Spreads his wings to the wind as he cleaves the cold sky, Where mountain, and torrent, and forest and vale, Are swept by the path of the storm-ridden gale, And each rock is an altar, each heart is a shrine, Where Freedom is worshiped in Liberty clime, And her banners float out on the breath of the gale, Bright symbols of glory which proudly we hail, And her bulwarks are reared where the heart of the brave Refused to be subject, and scorned to be slave.

[Footnote 15: Santa Cruz.]



SONNET:—TO ARABELLA,

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

There is a pathos in those azure eyes, Touching, and beautiful, and strange, fair child! When the fringed lids upturn, such radiance mild Beams out as in some brimming lakelet lies, Which undisturbed reflects the cloudless skies: No tokens glitter there of passion wild, That into ecstasy with time shall rise; But in the deep of those clear orbs are signs— Which Poesy's prophetic eye divines— Of woman's love, enduring, undefiled! If, like the lake at rest, through life we see Thy face reflect the heaven that in it shines, No idol to thy worshipers thou'lt be, For he will worship HEAVEN, who worships thee.



PROTESTATION.

No, I will not forget thee. Hearts may break Around us, as old lifeless trees are snapt By the swift breath of whirlwinds as they wake Their path amid the forest. Lightning-wrapt, (For love is fire from Heaven,) we calmly stand— Heart pressed to answering heart—hand linked with hand.



REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Endymion. By Henry B. Hirst. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

It was Goethe, we believe, who objected to some poet, that he put too much water in his ink. This objection would apply to the uncounted host of our amateur versifiers, and poets by the grace of verbiage. If an idea, or part of an idea, chances to stray into the brain of an American gentleman, he quickly apparels it in an old coat from his wardrobe of worn phrases, and rushes off in mad haste to the first magazine or newspaper, in order that the public may enjoy its delectable beauty at once. We have on hand enough MSS. of this kind, which we never intend to print, to freight the navy of Great Britain. But mediocrity and stupidity are not the only sinners in respect to this habit of writing carelessly. Hasty composition is an epidemic among many of our writers, whose powers, if disciplined by study, and directed to a definite object, would enable them to produce beautiful and permanent works. So general is the mental malady to which we have alluded, that it affects the judgments of criticism, and if a collection of lines, going under the name of a poem, contains fine passages, or felicitous flashes of thought, it commonly passes muster as satisfying the requirements of the critical code. Careless writers, therefore, are sustained by indulgent critics, and between both good literature is apt to be strangled in its birth.

Now it is due to Mr. Hirst to say that his poem belongs not to the class we have described. It is no transcript of chance conceptions, expressed in loose language, and recklessly huddled together, without coherence and without artistic form, but a true and consistent creation, with a central principle of vitality and a definite shape. He has, in short, produced an original poem on a classic subject, written in a style of classic grace, sweetness and simplicity, rejecting all superfluous ornament and sentimental prettinesses, and conveying one clear and strong impression throughout all its variety of incident, character and description. It is no conglomeration of parts, but an organic whole. This merit alone should give him a high rank among the leading poets of the country, for it evidences that he has a clear notion of what the word poem means.

We have neither time nor space to analyze the poem, and indicate its merits as a work of art. It displays throughout great force and delicacy of conception, a fine sense of harmony, and a power and decision of expression which neither overloads nor falls short of the thought. In tone it is half way between Shelley and Keats, neither so ideal as the one nor so sensuous as the other. Keat's Endymion is so thick with fancies, and verbal daintinesses, and sweet sensations, that with all its wonderful affluence of beautiful things it lacks unity of impression. The mind of the poet is so possessed by his subject that, in an artistic sense, he becomes its victim, and wanders in metaphor, and revels in separate images, and gets entangled in a throng of thoughts, until, at the end, we have a sense of a beautiful confusion of "flowers of all hues, and weeds of glorious feature," and applaud the fertility at the expense of the force of his mind. The truth is that will is an important element of genius, and without it the spontaneous productions of the mind must lack the highest quality of poetic art. True intellectual creation is an effort of the imagination, not its result, and without force of will to guide it, it does not obey its own laws, and gives little impression of real power. Art is not the prize of luck or the effect of chance, but of conscious combination of vital elements. Mr. Hirst, though he does give evidence of Keats' fluency of fancy and expression, has really produced a finer work of art. We think it is so important that a poem, to be altogether worthy of the name, should be deeply meditated and carefully finished, that we hazard this last opinion at the expense of being berated by all the undeveloped geniuses of the land, as having no true sense of the richness of Keats' mind, or the great capacity implied, rather than fully expressed, in his Endymion.

Mere extracts alone can give no fair impression of the beauty of Mr. Hirst's poem as a whole, but we cannot leave it without quoting a few passages illustrative of the author's power of spiritualizing the voluptuous, and the grace, harmony and expressiveness of his verse:

And still the moon arose, serenely hovering, Dove-like, above the horizon. Like a queen She walked in light between The stars—her lovely handmaids—softly covering Valley and wold, and mountain-side and plain With streams of lucid rain.

She saw not Eros, who on rosy pinion Hung in the willow's shadow—did not feel His subtle searching steel Piercing her very soul, though his dominion Her breast had grown: and what to her was heaven If from Endymion riven?

Nothing; for love flowed in her, like a river, Flooding the banks of wisdom; and her soul, Losing its self-control, Waved with a vague, uncertain, tremulous quiver, And like a lily in the storm, at last She sunk 'neath passion's blast.

Flowing the fragrance rose—as though each blossom Breathed out its very life—swell over swell, Like mist along the dell, Wooing his wondering heart from out his bosom— His heart, which like a lark seemed slowly winging Its way toward heaven, singing.

Dian looked on; she saw her spells completing, And sighing, bade the sweetest nightingale That ever in Carian vale Sang to her charms, rise, and with softest greeting Woo from its mortal dreams and thoughts of clay Endymion's soul away.

From the conclusion of the poem we take a few stanzas, describing the struggle of Dian with her passion, when Endymion asserts his love for Chromia:

The goddess gasped for breath, with bosom swelling: Her lips unclosed, while her large, luminous eyes Blazing like Stygian skies, With passion, on the audacious youth were dwelling: She raised her angry hand, that seemed to clasp Jove's thunder in its grasp.

And then she stood in silence, fixed and breathless; But presently the threatening arm slid down; The fierce, destroying frown Departed from her eyes, which took a deathless Expression of despair, like Niobe's— Her dead ones at her knees.

Slowly her agony passed, and an Elysian, Majestic fervor lit her lofty eyes, Now dwelling on the skies: Meanwhile, Endymion stood, cheek, brow and vision, Radiant with resignation, stern and cold, In conscious virtue bold,

In conclusion, we cannot but congratulate Mr. Hirst on his success in producing a poem conceived with so much force and refinement of imagination, and finished with such consummate art, as the present. It is a valuable addition to the permanent poetical literature of the country.

Memoir of William Ellery Channing. With Extracts from His Correspondence and Manuscripts. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 3 vols. 12mo.

This long expected work has at last been published, and we think it will realize the high expectations raised by its announcement two or three years ago. It is mostly composed of extracts from the letters, journals, and unpublished sermons of Dr. Channing, and is edited by his nephew, Wm. H. Channing, who has also supplied a memoir. It conveys a full view of Dr. Channing's interior life from childhood to old age, and apart from its great value and interest, contains, in the exhibition of the steps of his intellectual and spiritual growth, as perfect a specimen of psychological autobiography as we have in literature. Such a work subjects its author to the severest tests which can be applied to a human mind in this life, and we have risen from its perusal with a new idea of the humility, sincerity, and saintliness of Dr. Channing's character. In him self-distrust was admirably blended with a sublime conception of the capacity of man, and a sublime confidence in human nature. He was not an egotist, as passages in his writings may seem to indicate, for he was more severe upon himself than upon others, and numberless remarks in the present volumes show how sharp was the scrutiny to which he subjected the most elusive appearances of pride and vanity. But with his high and living sense of the source and destiny of every human mind, and his almost morbid consciousness of the deformity of moral evil, he reverenced in himself and in others the presence of a spirit which connected humanity with its Maker, and by unfolding the greatness of the spiritual capacities of men, he hoped to elevate them above the degradation of sensuality and sin. He was not a teacher of spiritual pride, conceit and self-worship, but of those vital principles of love and reverence which elevate man only by directing his aspirations to God.

The present volumes give a full length portrait of Dr. Channing in all the relations of life, and some of the minor details regarding his opinions and idiosyncrasies are among the most interesting portions of the book. We are glad to perceive that he early appreciated Wordsworth. The Excursion he eagerly read on its first appearance, and while so many of the Pharisees of taste were scoffing at it, he manfully expressed his sense of its excellence. This poem he recurred to oftener than to any other, and next to Shakspeare, Wordsworth seems to have been the poet he read with the most thoughtful delight. When he went to Europe, in 1822, he had an interview with Wordsworth, and of the impression he himself made on the poet there can be no more pertinent illustration, than the fact that, twenty years afterward, Wordsworth mentioned to an American gentleman that one observation of Channing, respecting the connection of Christianity with progress, had stamped itself ineffaceably upon his mind. Coleridge he appears to have profoundly impressed. In a letter to Washington Allston, Coleridge says of him—"His affection for the good as the good, and his earnestness for the true as the true—with that harmonious subordination of the latter to the former, without encroachment on the absolute worth of either—present in him a character which in my heart's heart I believe to be the very rarest on earth. . . . . Mr. Channing is a philosopher in both the possible renderings of the word. He has the love of wisdom and the wisdom of love. . . . . I am confident that the few differences of opinion between him and myself not only are, but would by him be found to be apparent, not real—the same truth seen in different relations. Perhaps I have been more absorbed in the depth of the mystery of the spiritual life, he more engrossed by the loveliness of its manifestations."

In nothing is Dr. Channing's humility better seen than in his relations to literature. He became an author almost unconsciously. All his intellectual convictions were so indissolubly woven into the texture of his life, so vitalized by his heart and imagination, that writing with him was never an end but a means. Literary fame followed him; he did not follow it. When, however, he found that his reputation not only rung through his own country but was reverberated from Europe, he appears to have feared that it might corrupt his motives for composition. He studiously avoided reading all eulogistic notices of his works or character, though they were interesting to him as indications of the influence his cherished opinions were exerting. The article in the Westminster Review, which exceeded all others in praise, he never read. Dr. Dewey's criticism in the Christian Examiner he only knew as far as related to its objections, and his only disappointment was in finding them so few. Brougham's criticism on his style provoked in him no retort. Hazlitt's coarse attack on him in the Edinburgh Review he considered as an offset to the undue praise he had received from other quarters. "The author of the article," he says, in one of his letters, "is now dead; and as I did not feel a moment's anger toward him during his life, I have no reproach for him now. He was a man of fine powers, and wanted nothing but pure and fixed principles to make him one of the lights of the age."

It would be impossible in our limits to convey an adequate impression of the beauty, value, or interest of the present volumes. They are full of matter. The letters are admirable specimens of epistolary composition, considered as the spontaneous expression of a grave, high and warm nature, to the friends of his heart and mind. They are exceedingly original of their kind, and while they bear no resemblance to those of Cowper, Burns, Byron, or Mackintosh, they are on that very account a positive addition to the literature of epistolary composition. Few biographies have been published within a century calculated to make so deep an impression as this of Dr. Channing, and few could have admitted the reader to so close a communion with the subject, without sacrificing that delicacy in the treatment of frailties due to the character of the departed.

Napoleon and the Marshals of the Empire. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 2 vols. 12mo.

The present work is to some extent an attempt "to head" Mr. Headley. For our part, we profess to have as much patience as any of the descendants of Job, but we must acknowledge that we have broken down in every effort to master the merits of the quarrel between the publishers of the present volumes and the Author of Napoleon and his Marshals. Accordingly we can give no opinion on that matter. In respect to the value of the volumes under consideration, as compared with a similar work by Mr. Headley, there can be little hesitation of judgment. It is idle to say, as some have said, that a work which has run through fifteen editions, as Mr. Headley's has done, is a mere humbug. On the contrary, it is a book evincing a mind as shrewd as it is strong, aiming, it is true, rather at popularity than excellence, but obtaining the former by possessing the sagacity to perceive that accounts of battles, to be generally apprehended, must be addressed to the eye and blood rather than to the understanding; and this power of producing vivid pictures of events Mr. Headley has in large measure. Hence the success of his book, in spite of its exaggerations of statement, sentiment and language.

The present work evinces a merit of another kind. It is a keen, accurate, well-written production, devoid of all tumult in its style and all exaggeration in its matter, and giving close and consistent expositions of the characters, and a clear narrative of the lives, of Napoleon and his Marshals. It is evidently the work of a person who understands military operations, and conveys a large amount of knowledge which we have seen in no other single production on the subject of the wars springing out of the French Revolution. The portraits of fifteen of the marshals, in military costume, are very well executed.

The portion of the work devoted to Napoleon, about one third of the whole, is very able. Its defect consists in the leniency of its judgment on that gigantic public criminal. Napoleon was a grand example of a great man, who demonstrated, on a wide theatre of action, what can be done in this world by a colossal intellect and an iron will without any moral sense. In his disregard of humanity, and his reliance on falsehood and force, he was the architect at once of his fortune and his ruin. No man can be greatly and wisely politic who is incapable of grasping those universal sentiments which underlie all superficial selfishness in mankind, and of discerning the action of the moral laws of the universe. Without this, events cannot be read in their principles. The only defect in Napoleon's mind was a lack of moral insight, the quality of perceiving the moral character and relations of objects, and, wanting this, he must necessarily have been in the long run unsuccessful. It is curious that of all the great men which the Revolution called forth, Lafayette was almost the only one who never violated his conscience, and the only one who came out well in the end. Intellectually he was below a hundred of his contemporaries, but his instinctive sense of right pushed him blindly in the right direction, when all the sagacity and insight of the masters in intrigue and comprehensive falsehood signally failed.

Romance of the History of Louisiana. A Series of Lectures. By Charles Gayarre. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

The romantic element in historical events is that which takes the strongest hold upon the imagination and sensibility; and it puts a certain degree of life into the fleshless forms of even the commonplace historian. The incidents of a nation's annals cannot be narrated in a style sufficiently dry and prosaic to prevent the soul of poetry from finding some expression, however short of the truth. It seems to us that there is much error in the common notions regarding matters of fact. Starting from the unquestionable axiom that historians should deal with facts and principles, not with fictions and sentimentalities, most people have illogically concluded that those histories are the worthiest of belief which address the understanding alone, and studiously avoid all the arts of representation. Now this is false in two respects—such histories not only giving imperfect and partial views of facts, but disabling the memory from retaining even them. Facts and events, whether we regard them singly or in their relations, can be perceived and remembered only as they are presented to the whole nature. They must be realized as well as generalized. The sensibility and imagination, as well as the understanding are to be addressed. As far as possible they should be made as real to the mind as any event which experience has stamped on the memory. History thus written, is written close to the truth of things, and conveys real knowledge. Far from departing from facts, or exaggerating them, it is the only kind of history which thoroughly comprehends them. We should never forget that the events which have occurred in the world, are expressions of the nature of man under a variety of circumstances and conditions, and that these events must be interpreted in the light of that common humanity which binds all men together. History, therefore, differs from true poetry, not so much in intensity and fullness of representation; not so much in the force, vividness and distinctness with which things are brought home to the heart and brain, as in difference of object. The historian and the poet are both bound to deal with human nature, but one gives us its actual development, the other its possible; one shows us what man has done, the other what man can do. The annalist who does not enable us to see mankind in real events, is as unnatural as the poetaster who substitutes monstrosities for men in fictitious events.

We accordingly welcome with peculiar heartiness all attempts at realizing history, by evolving its romantic element, and thus demonstrating to the languid and lazy readers of ninepenny nonsense, that the actual heroes and heroines of the world have surpassed in romantic daring the fictitious ones who swell and swagger in most novels and poems. Mr. Gayarre's work is more interesting, both as regards its characters and incidents, than Jane Eyre or James's "last," for, in truth, it requires a mind of large scope to imagine as great things as many men, in every country, have really performed. The History of Louisiana affords a rich field to the poet and romancer, who is content simply to reproduce in their original life some of its actual scenes and characters; and Mr. Gayarre has, to a considerable extent, succeeded in this difficult and delicate task. The work evinces a mind full of the subject; and if defective at all, the defect is rather in style than matter. The author evidently had two temptations to hasty composition—a copious vocabulary and complete familiarity with his subject. There is an occasional impetuosity and recklessness in his manner, and a general habit of tossing off his sentences with an air of disdainful indifference, which characterizes a large class of amateur southern writers. Such a style is often rapid from heedlessness rather than force, and animated from caprice rather than fire. The timid correctness of an elegant diction is not more remote from beauty than the defiant carelessness of a reckless one is from power; and to avoid Mr. Prettyman, it is by no means necessary to "fraternize" with Sir Forcible Feeble. Mr. Gayarre has produced so pleasant a book, and gives evidence of an ability to do so much toward familiarizing American history to the hearts and imaginations of the people, that we trust he will not only give us more books, but subject their style to a more scrupulous examination than he has the present.

Universal and Critical Dictionary of the English Language. By Joseph E. Worcester. Boston: Wilkins, Carter, & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

The present century has been distinguished above all others in the history of English lexicography, for the number and excellence of its dictionaries. It is a matter of pride to Americans that so far the United States are in advance of England, in regard to the sagacity and labor devoted to the English language. Of those who have done most in this department, the pre-eminence belongs to Dr. Webster and Dr. Worcester. Each has published a Dictionary of great value; and that of the latter is now before us. It bears on every page marks of the most gigantic labor, and must have been the result of many long years of thought and investigation. Its arrangement is admirable, and its definitions clear, concise, critical, and ever to the purpose. The introduction, devoted to the principles of pronunciation, orthography, English Grammar, the origin, formation, and etymology of the English language; and the History of English Lexicography is laden with important information, drawn from a wide variety of sources. Dr. Worcester has also, in the appendix, enlarged and improved Walker's Key to the Classical Pronunciation of Greek, Latin, and Scripture Names, and added the pronunciation of modern geographical names. Taken as a whole, we think the dictionary one which not even the warmest admirers of Dr. Webster can speak of without respect. The advantage which Dr. Worcester's dictionary holds over Dr. Webster's may be compressed in one word—objectiveness. The English language, as a whole, is seen through a more transparent medium in the former than in the latter. Dr. Webster, with all his great merits as a lexicographer, loved to meddle with the language too much. Dr. Worcester is content to take it as it is, without any intrusion of his own idiosyncracies. We think that both dictionaries are honorable to the country, and that each has its peculiar excellencies. Perhaps the student of lexicography could spare neither.

The History of Don Quixote de la Mancha. From the Spanish of Cervantes. With Illustrations by Schoff. Boston: Charles H. Peirce. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is a very handsome edition of one of the most wonderful creations of the human intellect, elegantly illustrated with appropriate engravings. It is to a certain extent a family edition, omitting only those portions of the original which would shock the modesty of modern times. We know that there is a great opposition among men of letters to the practice of meddling with a work of genius, and suppressing any portion of it. To a considerable extent we sympathize with this feeling. But when the question lies between a purified edition and the withdrawal of the book from popular circulation, we go for the former. Don Quixote is a pertinent instance. It is not now a book generally read by many classes of people, especially young women, and the younger branches of a family. The reason consists in the coarseness of particular passages and sentences. Strike these out, and there remains a body of humor, pathos, wisdom, humanity, expressed in characters and incidents of engrossing interest, which none can read without benefit and pleasure. The present volume, which might be read by the fireside of any family, is so rich in all the treasures of its author's beautiful and beneficent genius, that we heartily wish it an extensive circulation. It is got up with great care by one who evidently understands Cervantes; and the unity of the work, with all its beautiful episodes, is not broken by the omissions.

Wuthuring Heights. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

This novel is said to be by the author of Jane Eyre, and was eagerly caught at by a famished public, on the strength of the report. It afforded, however, but little nutriment, and has universally disappointed expectation. There is an old saying that those who eat toasted cheese at night will dream of Lucifer. The author of Wuthuring Heights has evidently eat toasted cheese. How a human being could have attempted such a book as the present without committing suicide before he had finished a dozen chapters, is a mystery. It is a compound of vulgar depravity and unnatural horrors, such as we might suppose a person, inspired by a mixture of brandy and gunpowder, might write for the edification of fifth-rate blackguards. Were Mr. Quilp alive we should be inclined to believe that the work had been dictated by him to Lawyer Brass, and published by the interesting sister of that legal gentleman.

A Discourse on the Life, Character, and Public Services of James Kent, late Chancellor of the State of New York. By John Duer. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

This discourse was originally delivered before the Judiciary and Bar of the city and State of New York. In a style of unpretending simplicity it gives a full length portrait of the great chancellor, doing complete justice to his life and works, and avoiding all the vague commendations and meaningless generalities of commonplace eulogy. One charm of the discourse comes from its being the testimony of a surviving friend to the intellectual and moral worth of a great man, without being marred by the exaggeration of personal attachment. Judge Kent's mind and character needed but justice, and could dispense with charity, even when friendship was to indicate the grasp of the one and the excellence of the other.

Memorials of the Introduction of Methodism into the Eastern States. By Rev. A. Stevens, A. M. Boston: Charles H. Peirce. 1 vol. 12mo.

Mr. Stevens takes a high rank among the leading minds of his denomination. The present work shows that he combines the power of patient research with the ability to express its results in a lucid, animated, and elegant style. His biographies of the Methodist preachers have the interest of a story. Indeed, out of the Catholic Church, there is no religious chivalry whose characters and actions partake so much of heroism, and of that fine enthusiasm which almost loses its own identity in the objects it contemplates, as the Methodist priests.

The Inundation; or Pardon and Peace. A Christmas Story. By Mrs. Gore. With Illustrations by Geo. Cruikshank. Boston: C. H. Peirce. 1 vol. 18mo.

This is a delightful little story, interesting from its incidents and characters, and conveying excellent morality and humanity in a pleasing dress. The illustrations are those of the London edition, and are admirably graphic. Cruikshank's mode of making a face expressive of character by caricaturing it, is well exhibited in his sketches in the present volume.

The Book of Visions, being a Transcript of the Record of the Secret Thoughts of a Variety of Individuals while attending Church.

The design of this little work is original and commendable. It is written to do good, and we trust may answer the expectations of its author. It enters the bosoms of members of the cabinet, members of congress, bankers, lawyers, editors, &c

., and reports the secret meditations of those who affect to be worshipers. It is published by J. W. MOORE of this city.



DESCRIPTION OF THE FASHION PLATE.

TOILETTE DE VILLE.—Dress of Nankin silk, ornamented in the front of the skirt with bias trimming of the same stuff, fastened by silk buttons; corsage plain, with a rounded point, ornamented at the skirt; sleeves half long, with bias trimming; under sleeves of puffed muslin; capote of white crape, ornamented with two plumes falling upon the side.

SUR LE COTE.—Dress of blue glace taffetas, trimmed with two puffs alike, disposed (en tablier;) corsage plain, low in the neck, and trimmed with puffs from the shoulder to the point, and down the side seam; sleeves short, and puffed; stomacher of plaited muslin, (under sleeves of puffed muslin;) cap of lace, lower part puffed, without trimming, ornamented with two long lappets, fastened with some bows of yellow ribbon.

Transcriber's Note:

Small errors in punctuation and obvious printer's errors have been corrected silently. Minor irregularities in spelling have been maintained as in the original.

THE END