"In the third column of his 'review' the critic says:—'He asserts that each soul is its own God—its own Creator.' What I do assert is, that 'each soul is, in part, its own God—its own Creator.' Just below, the critic says:—'After all these contradictory propoundings concerning God we would remind him of what he lays down on page 23—'of this Godhead in itself he alone is not imbecile—he alone is not impious who propounds nothing. A man who thus conclusively convicts himself of imbecility and impiety needs no further refutation.' Now the sentence, as I wrote it, and as I find it printed on that very page which the critic refers to and which must have been lying before him while he quoted my words, runs thus:—'Of this Godhead, in itself, he alone is not imbecile, &c., who propounds nothing.' By the italics, as the critic well knew, I design to distinguish between the two possibilities—that of a knowledge of God through his works and that of a knowledge of Him in his essential nature. The Godhead, in itself, is distinguished from the Godhead observed in its effects. But our critic is zealous. Moreover, being a divine, he is honest—ingenuous. It is his duty to pervert my meaning by omitting my italics—just as, in the sentence previously quoted, it was his Christian duty to falsify my argument by leaving out the two words, 'in part,' upon which turns the whole force—indeed the whole intelligibility of my proposition.

"Were these 'misrepresentations' (is that the name for them?) made for any less serious a purpose than that of branding my book as 'impious' and myself as a 'pantheist,' a 'polytheist,' a Pagan, or a God knows what (and indeed I care very little so it be not a 'Student of Theology'), I would have permitted their dishonesty to pass unnoticed, through pure contempt of the boyishness—for the turn-down-shirt-collar-ness of their tone:—but, as it is, you will pardon me, Mr. Editor, that I have been compelled to expose a 'critic' who courageously preserving his own anonymosity, takes advantage of my absence from the city to misrepresent, and thus vilify me, by name. EDGAR A. POE.

"Fordham, September 20, 1848."

From this time Poe did not write much; he had quarreled with the conductors of the chief magazines for which he had previously written, and they no longer sought his assistance. In a letter to a friend, he laments the improbabilities of an income from literary labor, saying:

"I have represented —— to you as merely an ambitious simpleton, anxious to get into society with the reputation of conducting a magazine which somebody behind the curtain always prevents him from quite damning with his stupidity; he is a knave and a beast. I cannot write any more for the Milliner's Book, where T——n prints his feeble and very quietly made Dilutions of other people's reviews; and you know that —— can afford to pay but little, though I am glad to do anything for a good fellow like ——. In this emergency I sell articles to the vulgar and trashy ——, for $5 a piece. I inclose my last, cut out, lest you should see by my sending the paper in what company I am forced to appear."

His name was now frequently associated with that of one of the most brilliant women of New England, and it was publicly announced that they were to be married. He had first seen her on his way from Boston, when he visited that city to deliver a poem before the Lyceum there. Restless, near the midnight, he wandered from, his hotel near where she lived, until he saw her walking in a garden. He related the incident afterward in one of his most exquisite poems, worthy of himself, of her, and of the most exalted passion.

"I saw thee—once only—years ago; I must not say how many—but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken vail of light, With quietude, and sultriness and slumber, Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an estatic death— Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

"Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses, And on thine own, upturn'd—alas, in sorrow!

"Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight— Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before the garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those Slumbering roses? No footstep stirred; the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked— And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) The pearly luster of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs, All—all expired save thee—save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes— Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them—they were the world to me. I saw but them—saw only them for hours— Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart histories seemed to lie enwritten Upon those crystalline celestial spheres! How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition! Yet how deep— How fathomless a capacity for love!

"But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go—they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me—they lead me through the years They are my ministers—yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle— My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,) And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still—two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!"

They were not married, and the breaking of the engagement affords a striking illustration of his character. He said to an acquaintance in New York, who congratulated with him upon the prospect of his union with a person of so much genius and so many virtues—"It is a mistake: I am not going to be married." "Why, Mr. Poe, I understand that the bans have been published." "I cannot help what you have heard, my dear Madam: but mark me, I shall not marry her." He left town the same evening, and the next day was reeling through the streets of the city which was the lady's home, and in the evening—that should have been the evening before the bridal—in his drunkenness he committed at her house such outrages as made necessary a summons of the police. Here was no insanity leading to indulgence: he went from New York with a determination thus to induce an ending of the engagement; and he succeeded.

Sometime in August, 1849, Mr. Poe left New York for Virginia. In Philadelphia he encountered persons who had been his associates in dissipations while he lived there, and for several days he abandoned himself entirely to the control of his worst appetites. When his money was all spent, and the disorder of his dress evinced the extremity of his recent intoxication, he asked in charity means for the prosecution of his journey to Richmond. There, after a few days, he joined a temperance society, and his conduct showed the earnestness of his determination to reform his life. He delivered in some of the principal towns of Virginia two lectures, which were well attended, and renewing his acquaintance with a lady whom he had known in his youth, he was engaged to marry her, and wrote to his friends that he should pass the remainder of his days among the scenes endeared by all his pleasantest recollections of youth.

On Thursday, the 4th of October, he set out for New York, to fulfill a literary engagement, and to prepare for his marriage. Arriving in Baltimore he gave his trunk to a porter, with directions to convey it to the cars which were to leave in an hour or two for Philadelphia, and went into a tavern to obtain some refreshment. Here he met acquaintances who invited him to drink; all his resolutions and duties were soon forgotten; in a few hours he was in such a state as is commonly induced only by long-continued intoxication; after a night of insanity and exposure, he was carried to a hospital; and there, on the evening of Sunday, the 7th of October, 1849, he died, at the age of thirty-eight years.

It is a melancholy history. No author of as much genius had ever in this country as much unhappiness; but Poe's unhappiness was in an unusual degree the result of infirmities of nature, or of voluntary faults in conduct. A writer who evidently knew him well, and who comes before us in the "Southern Literary Messenger" as his defender, is "compelled to admit that the blemishes in his life were effects of character rather than of circumstances."[A] How this character might have been modified by a judicious education of all his faculties I leave for the decision of others, but it will be evident to those who read this biography that the unchecked freedom of his earlier years was as unwise as its results were unfortunate.

[Footnote A: Southern Literary Messenger, March, 1850, p. 179.]

It is contended that the higher intelligences, in the scrutiny to which they appeal, are not to be judged by the common laws; but I apprehend that this doctrine, as it is likely to be understood, is entirely wrong. All men are amenable to the same principles, to the extent of the parallelism of these principles with their experience; and the line of duty becomes only more severe as it extends into the clearer atmosphere of truth and beauty which is the life of genius. De mortuis nil nisi bonum is a common and an honorable sentiment, but its proper application would lead to the suppression of the histories of half of the most conspicuous of mankind; in this case it is impossible on account of the notoriety of Mr. Poe's faults; and it would be unjust to the living against whom his hands were always raided and who had no resort but in his outlawry from their sympathies. Moreover, his career is full of instruction and warning, and it has always been made a portion of the penalty of wrong that its anatomy should be displayed for the common study and advantage.

The character of Mr. Poe's genius has been so recently and so admirably discussed by Mr. Lowell, with whose opinions on the subject I for the most part agree, that I shall say but little of it here, having already extended this notice beyond the limits at first designed. There is a singular harmony between his personal and his literary qualities. St. Pierre, who seemed to be without any nobility in his own nature, in his writings appeared to be moved only by the finest and highest impulses. Poe exhibits scarcely any virtue in either his life or his writings. Probably there is not another instance in the literature of our language in which so much has been accomplished without a recognition or a manifestation of conscience. Seated behind the intelligence, and directing it, according to its capacities, Conscience is the parent of whatever is absolutely and unquestionably beautiful in art as well as in conduct. It touches the creations of the mind and they have life; without it they have never, in the range of its just action, the truth and naturalness which are approved by universal taste or in enduring reputation. In Poe's works there is constantly displayed the most touching melancholy, the most extreme and terrible despair, but never reverence or remorse.

His genius was peculiar, and not, as he himself thought, various. He remarks in one of his letters:

"There is one particular in which I have had wrong done me, and it may not be indecorous in me to call your attention to it. The last selection of my tales was made from about seventy by one of our great little cliquists and claquers, Wiley Putnam's reader, Duyckinck. He has what he thinks a taste for ratiocination, and has accordingly made up the book mostly of analytic stories. But this is not representing my mind in its various phases—it is not giving me fair play. In writing these tales one by one, at long intervals. I have kept the book unity always in mind—that is, each has been composed with reference to its effect as part of a whole. In this view, one of my chief aims has been the widest diversity of subject, thought, and especially tone and manner of handling. Were all my tales now before me in a large volume, and as the composition of another, the merit which would principally arrest my attention would be their wide diversity and variety. You will be surprised to hear me say that, (omitting one or two of my first efforts,) I do not consider any one of my stories better than another. There is a vast variety of kinds, and, in degree of value, these kinds vary-but each tale is equally good of its kind. The loftiest kind is that of the highest imagination—and for this reason only 'Ligeia' may be called my best tale."

But it seems to me that this selection of his tales was altogether judicious. Had it been submitted to me I might indeed have changed it in one or two instances, but I should not have replaced any tale by one of a different tone. One of the qualities upon which Poe prides himself was his humor, and he has left us a large number of compositions in this department, but except a few paragraphs in his "Marginalia," scarcely anything which it would not have been injurious to his reputation to republish. His realm was on the shadowy confines of human experience, among the abodes of crime, gloom, and horror, and there he delighted to surround himself with images of beauty and of terror, to raise his solemn palaces and towers and spires in a night upon which should rise no sun. His minuteness of detail, refinement of reasoning, and propriety and power of language—the perfect keeping (to borrow a phrase from another domain of art) and apparent good faith with which he managed the evocation and exhibition of his strange and spectral and revolting creations—gave him an astonishing mastery over his readers, so that his books were closed as one would lay aside the nightmare or the spells of opium. The analytical subtlety evinced in his works has frequently been overestimated, as I have before observed, because it has not been sufficiently considered that his mysteries were composed with the express design of being dissolved. When Poe attempted the illustration of the profounder operations of the mind, as displayed in written reason or in real action, he frequently failed entirely.

In poetry, as in prose, he was eminently successful in the metaphysical treatment of the passions. Hia poems are constructed with wonderful ingenuity, and finished with consummate art. They display a somber and weird imagination, and a taste almost faultless in the apprehension of that sort of beauty which was most agreeable to his temper. But they evince little genuine feeling, and less of that spontaneous ecstasy which gives its freedom, smoothness and naturalness to immortal verse. His own account of the composition of "The Raven," discloses his methods—the absence of all impulse, and the absolute control of calculation and mechanism. That curious analysis of the processes by which he wrought would be incredible if from another hand.

He was not remarkably original in invention. Indeed some of his plagiarisms are scarcely paralleled for their audacity in all literary history: For instance, in his tale of "The Pit and the Pendulum," the complicate machinery upon which the interest depends is borrowed from a story entitled "Vivenzio, or Italian Vengeance," by the author of "The First and Last Dinner," in "Blackwood's Magazine." And I remember having been shown by Mr. Longfellow, several years ago, a series of papers which constitute a demonstration that Mr. Poe was indebted to him for the idea of "The Haunted Palace," one of the most admirable of his poems, which he so pertinaciously asserted had been used by Mr. Longfellow in the production of his "Beleaguered City." Mr. Longfellow's poem was written two or three years before the first publication of that by Poe, and it was during a portion of this time in Poe's possession; but it was not printed, I believe, until a few weeks after the appearance of "The Haunted Palace." "It would be absurd," as Poe himself said many times, "to believe the similarity of these pieces entirely accidental." This was the first cause of all that malignant criticism which for so many years he carried on against Mr. Longfellow. In his "Marginalia" he borrowed largely, especially from Coleridge, and I have omitted in the republication of these papers, numerous paragraphs which were rather compiled than borrowed from one of the profoundest and wisest of our own scholars.[D]

[Footnote D: I have neither space, time, nor inclination for a continuation of this subject, and I add but one other instance, in the words of the Philadelphia "Saturday Evening Post," published while Mr. Poe was living:

"One of the most remarkable plagiarisms was perpetrated by Mr. Poe, late of the Broadway Journal, whose harshness as a critic and assumption of peculiar originality make the fault in his case more glaring. This gentleman, a few years ago, in Philadelphia, published a work on Conchology as original, when in reality it was a copy, near verbatim, of 'The Text-book of Conchology, by Captain Thomas Brown,' printed in Glasgow in 1833, a duplicate of which we have in our library, Mr. Poe actually took out a copyright for the American edition of Captain Brown's work, and, omitting all mention of the English original pretended, in the preface, to have been under great obligations to several scientific gentlemen of this city. It is but justice to add, that in the second edition of this book, published lately in Philadelphia, the name of Mr. Poe is withdrawn from the titlepage, and his initials only affixed to the preface. But the affair is one of the most curious on record."]

In criticism, as Mr. Lowell justly remarks, Mr. Poe had "a scientific precision and coherence of logic;" he had remarkable dexterity in the dissection of sentences; but he rarely ascended from the particular to the general, from subjects to principles; he was familiar with the microscope but never looked through the telescope. His criticisms are of value to the degree in which they are demonstrative, but his unsupported assertions and opinions were so apt to be influenced by friendship or enmity, by the desire to please or the fear to offend, or by his constant ambition to surprise, or produce a sensation, that they should be received in all cases with distrust of their fairness. A volume might be filled with literary judgments by him as antagonistical and inconsistent as the sharpest antitheses. For example, when Mr. Laughton Osborn's romance, "The Confessions of a Poet," came out, he reviewed it in "The Southern Literary Messenger," saying:

"There is nothing of the vates about the author. He is no poet-and most positively he is no prophet. He avers upon his word of honor that in commencing this work he loads a pistol and places it upon the table. He further states that, upon coming to a conclusion, it is his intention to blow out what he supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent. But, even with so rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be, there would be some little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days or thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so long 'in the load.' We sincerely hope the gentleman took the precaution to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A flash in the pan—and in such a case—were a thing to be lamented. Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even have a second series of the 'Confessions.'"—Southern Literary Messenger, i. 459.

This review was attacked, particularly in the Richmond "Compiler," and Mr. Poe felt himself called upon to vindicate it to the proprietor of the magazine, to whom he wrote:

"There is no necessity of giving the 'Compiler' a reply. The book is silly enough of itself, without the aid of any controversy concerning it. I have read it, from beginning to end, and was very much amused at it. My opinion of it is pretty nearly the opinion of the press at large. I have heard no person offer one serious word in its defense."—Letter to T.W. White.

Afterward Mr. Poe became personally acquainted with the author, and he then wrote, in his account of "The Literati of New-York City," as follows:

"The Confessions of a Poet made much noise in the literary world, and no little curiosity was excited in regard to its author, who was generally supposed to be John Neal.... The 'Confessions,' however, far surpassed any production of Mr. Neal's.... He has done nothing which, as a whole, is even respectable, and 'The Confessions' are quite remarkable for their artistic unity and perfection. But on higher regards they are to be commended. I do not think, indeed, that a better book of its kind has been written in America....Its scenes of passion are intensely wrought, its incidents are striking and original, its sentiments audacious and suggestive at least, if not at all times tenable. In a word, it is that rare thing, a fiction of power without rudeness."

I will adduce another example of the same kind. In a notice of the "Democratic Review," for September, 1845, Mr. Poe remarks of Mr. William A. Jones's paper on American Humor:

"There is only one really bad article in the number, and that is insufferable: nor do we think it the less a nuisance because it inflicts upon ourselves individually a passage of maudlin compliment about our bring a most 'ingenious critic' 'and prose poet,' with some other things of a similar kind. We thank for his good word no man who gives palpable evidence, in other cases than our own, of his incapacity to distinguish the false from the true—the right from the wrong. If we are an ingenious critic, or a prose poet, it is not because Mr. William Jones says so. The truth is that this essay on 'American Humor' is Contemptible both in a moral and literary sense—is the composition of an imitator and a quack—and disgraces the magazine in which it makes its appearance."—Broadway Journal, Vol. ii. No. 11.

In the following week he reconsidered this matter, opening his paper for a defense of Mr. Jones; but at the close of it said—

"If we have done Mr. Jones injustice, we beg his pardon: but we do not think we have."

Yet in a subsequent article in "Graham's Magazine," on "Critics and Criticism," he says of Mr. Jones, referring only to writings of his that had been for years before the public when he printed the above paragraphs:

"Our most analytic, if not altogether our best critic, (Mr. Whipple, perhaps, excepted,) is Mr. William A. Jones, author of 'The Analyst.' How he would write elaborate criticisms I cannot say; but his summary judgments of authors are, in general, discriminative and profound. In fact, his papers on Emerson and on Macaulay, published in 'Arcturus.' are better than merely 'profound,' if we take the word in its now desecrated sense; for they are at once pointed, lucid, and just:—as summaries leaving nothing to be desired."

I will not continue the display of these inconsistencies. As I have Already intimated, a volume might be filled with passages to show that his criticisms were guided by no sense of duty, and that his opinions were so variable and so liable to be influenced by unworthy considerations as to be really of no value whatever.

It was among his remarkable habits that he preserved with scrupulous care everything that was published respecting himself or his works, and everything that was written to him in letters that could be used in any way for the establishment or extension of his reputation. In Philadelphia, in 1843, he prepared with his own hands a sketch of his life for a paper called "The Museum." Many parts of it are untrue, but I refer to it for the purpose of quoting a characteristic instance of perversion in the reproduction of compliments:

"Of 'William Wilson,' Mr. Washington Irving says: 'It is managed in a highly picturesque style, and its singular and mysterious interest is ably sustained throughout. In point of mere style, it is, perhaps, even superior to 'The House of Usher.' It is simpler. In the latter composition, he seems to have been distrustful of his effects, or, rather, too solicitous of bringing them forth fully to the eye, and thus, perhaps, has laid on too much coloring. He has erred, however, on the safe side, that of exuberance, and the evil might easily be remedied, by relieving the style of some of its epithets;' [since done.] 'There would be no fear of injuring the graphic effect, which is powerful.' The italics are Mr. Irving's own."

Now Mr. Irving had said in a private letter that he thought the "House of Usher" Was clever, and that "a volume of similar stories would be well received by the public." Poe sent him a magazine containing "William Wilson," asking his opinion of it, and Mr. Irving, expressly declining to publish a word upon the subject, remarked in the same manner, that "the singular and mysterious interest is well sustained," and that in point of style the tale was "much better" than the "House of Usher," which, he says, "might be improved by relieving the style from some of the epithets: there is no danger of destroying the graphic effect, which is powerful." There is not a word in italics in Mr. Irving's letter, the meaning of which is quite changed by Mr. Poe's alterations. And this letter was not only published in the face of an implied prohibition, but made to seem like a deliberately-expressed judgment in a public reviewal. In the same way Mr. Poe published the following sentence as an extract from a letter by Miss Barrett:

"Our great poet, Mr. Browning, the author of 'Paracelsus,' etc., is enthusiastic in his admiration of the rhythm."

But on turning to Miss Barrett's letter, I find that she wrote:

"Our great poet, Mr. Browning, author of 'Paracelsus,' and 'Bells and Pomegranates,' was struck much by the rhythm of that poem."

The piece alluded to is "The Raven."

It is not true, as has been frequently alleged since Mr. Poe's death, that his writings were above the popular taste, and therefore without a suitable market in this country. His poems were worth as much to magazines as those of Bryant or Longfellow, (though none of the publishers paid him half as large a price for them,) and his tales were as popular as those of Willis, who has been commonly regarded as the best magazinist of his time. He ceased to write for The Lady's Book in consequence of a quarrel induced by Mr. Godey's justifiable refusal to print in that miscellany his "Reply to Dr. English," and though in the poor fustian published under the signature of "George R. Graham," in answer to some remarks upon Poe's character in The Tribune, that individual is made to assume a passionate friendship for the deceased author that would have become a Pythias, it is known that the personal ill-will on both sides was such that for some four or five years not a line by Poe was purchased for Graham's Magazine. To quote again the "Defense of Mr. Poe" in the Southern Literary Messenger:

"His changeable humors, his irregularities, his caprices, his total disregard of everything and body, save the fancy in his head, prevented him from doing well in the world. The evils and sufferings that poverty brought upon him, soured his nature, and deprived him of faith in human beings. This was evident to the eye—he believed in nobody, and cared for nobody. Such a mental condition of course drove away all those who would otherwise have stood by him in his hours of trial. He became, and was, an Ishmaelite."

After having, in no ungenerous spirit, presented the chief facts in Mr. Poe's history, not designedly exaggerating his genius, which none held in higher admiration, not bringing into bolder relief than was just and necessary his infirmities. I am glad to offer a portraiture of some of his social qualities, equally beautiful, and—so changeable and inconsistent was the man—as far as it goes, truthful. Speaking of him one day soon after his death, with the late Mrs. Osgood, the beauty of whose character had made upon Poe's mind that impression which it never failed to produce upon minds capable of the apprehension of the finest traits in human nature, she said she did not doubt that my view of Mr. Poe, which she knew indeed to be the common view, was perfectly just, as it regarded him in his relations with men; but to women he was different, and she would write for me some recollections of him, to be placed beside my harsher judgments in any notice of his life that the acceptance of the appointment to be his literary executor might render it necessary for me to give to the world. She was an invalid—dying of that consumption by which in a few weeks she was removed to heaven, and calling for pillows to support her while she wrote, she drew this sketch:

"You ask me, my friend, to write for you my reminiscences of Edgar Poe. For you, who knew and understood my affectionate interest in him, and my frank acknowledgment of that interest to all who had a claim upon my confidence, for you, I will willingly do so. I think no one could know him—no one has known him personally—certainly no woman-without feeling the same interest. I can sincerely say, that although I have frequently heard of aberrations on his part from the 'straight and narrow path,' I have never seen him otherwise than gentle, generous, well-bred, and fastidiously refined. To a sensitive and delicately-nurtured woman, there was a peculiar and irresistible charm in the chivalric, graceful, and almost tender reverence with which he invariably approached all women who won his respect. It was this which first commanded and always retained my regard for him.

"I have been told, that when his sorrows and pecuniary embarrassments had driven him to the use of stimulants, which a less delicate organization might have borne without injury, he was in the habit of speaking disrespectfully of the ladies of his acquaintance. It is difficult for me to believe this; for to me, to whom he came during the year of our acquaintance for counsel and kindness in all his many anxieties and griefs, he never spoke irreverently of any woman save one, and then only in my defense; and though I rebuked him for his momentary forgetfulness of the respect due to himself and to me, I could not but forgive the offense for the sake of the generous impulse which prompted it. Yet even were these sad rumors true of him, the wise and well-informed knew how to regard, as they would the impetuous anger of a spoiled infant, balked of its capricious will, the equally harmless and unmeaning phrensy of that stray child of Poetry and Passion. For the few unwomanly and slander-loving gossips who have injured him and themselves only by repeating his ravings, when in such moods they have accepted his society. I have only to vouchsafe my wonder and my pity. They cannot surely harm the true and pure, who, reverencing his genius, and pitying his misfortunes and his errors, endeavored, by their timely kindness and sympathy, to soothe his sad career.

"It was in his own simple yet poetical home, that to me the character of Edgar Poe appeared in its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty, alternately docile and wayward as a petted child-for his young, gentle, and idolized wife, and for all who came, he had, even in the midst of his most harassing literary duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful and courteous attention. At his desk, beneath the romantic picture of his loved and lost Lenore, he would sit, hour after hour, patient, assiduous, and uncomplaining, tracing, in an exquisitely clear chirography, and with almost superhuman swiftness, the lightning thoughts—the 'rare and radiant' fancies as they flashed through his wonderful and ever-wakeful brain. I recollect, one morning, toward the close of his residence in this city, when he seemed unusually gay and light-hearted. Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing invitation to come to them; and I, who never could resist her affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his own home than elsewhere, hastened to Amity-street. I found him just completing his series of papers entitled 'The Literati of New York.' 'See,' said he, displaying, in laughing triumph, several little rolls of narrow paper, (he always wrote thus for the press,) 'I am going to show you, by the difference of length in these, the different degrees of estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In each of these, one of you is rolled up and fully discussed. Come, Virginia, help me!' And one by one they unfolded them. At last they came to one which seemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one corner of the room with one end, and her husband to the opposite with the other. 'And whose lengthened sweetness long drawn out is that?' said I. 'Hear her!' he cried, 'just as if her little vain heart didn't tell her it's herself!'

"My first meeting with the poet was at the Astor House. A few days previous. Mr. Willis had handed me, at the table d'hote, that strange and thrilling poem entitled 'The Raven,' saying that the author wanted my opinion of it. Its effect upon me was so singular, so like that of 'weird unearthly music,' that it was with a feeling almost of dread, I heard he desired an introduction. Yet I could not refuse without seeming ungrateful, because I had just heard of his enthusiastic and partial eulogy of my writings, in his lecture on American Literature. I shall never forget the morning when I was summoned to the drawing-room by Mr. Willis to receive him. With his proud and beautiful head erect, his dark eyes flashing with the elective light of feeling and of thought, a peculiar, an inimitable blending of sweetness and hauteur in his expression and manner, he greeted me, calmly, gravely, almost coldly; yet with so marked an earnestness that I could not help being deeply impressed by it. From that moment until his death we were friends; although we met only during the first year of our acquaintance. And in his last words, ere reason had forever left her imperial throne in that overtasked brain, I have a touching memento of his undying faith and friendship.

"During that year, while traveling for my health, I maintained a correspondence with Mr. Poe, in accordance with the earnest entreaties of his wife, who imagined that my influence over him had a restraining and beneficial effect. It had, as far as this—that having solemnly promised me to give up the use of stimulants, he so firmly respected his promise and me, as never once, during our whole acquaintance, to appear in my presence when in the slightest degree affected by them. Of the charming love and confidence that existed between his wife and himself, always delightfully apparent to me, in spite of the many little poetical episodes, in which the impassioned romance of his temperament impelled him to indulge; of this I cannot speak too earnestly—too warmly. I believe she was the only woman whom he ever truly loved; and this is evinced by the exquisite pathos of the little poem lately written, called Annabel Lee, of which she was the subject, and which is by far the most natural, simple, tender and touchingly beautiful of all his songs. I have heard it said that it was intended to illustrate a late love affair of the author; but they who believe this, have in their dullness evidently misunderstood or missed the beautiful meaning latent in the most lovely of all its verses—where he says,

"'A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee, So that her high-born kinsmen came, And bore her away from me.'

"There seems a strange and almost profane disregard of the sacred purity and spiritual tenderness of this delicious ballad, in thus overlooking the allusion to the kindred angels and the heavenly Father of the lost and loved and unforgotten wife.

"But it was in his conversations and his letters, far more than in his published poetry and prose writings, that the genius of Poe was most gloriously revealed. His letters were divinely beautiful, and for hours I have listened to him, entranced by strains of such pure and almost celestial eloquence as I have never read or heard elsewhere. Alas! in the thrilling words of Stoddard,

"'He might have soared in the morning light, But he built his nest with the birds of night; But he lie in dust, and the stone is rolled Over the sepulcher dim and cold; He has canceled the ill he has done or said, And gone to the dear and holy dead. Let us forget the path he trod, And leave him now to his Maker, God.'"

The influence of Mr. Poe's aims and vicissitudes upon his literature, was more conspicuous in his later than in his earlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or three years—including much of his best poetry,—was in some sense biographical: in draperies of his imagination, those who take the trouble to trace his steps, will perceive, but slightly concealed, the figure of himself. The lineaments here disclosed, I think, are not different from those displayed in his biography, which is but a filling up of the picture. Thus far the few criticisms of his life or works that I have ventured have been suggested by the immediate examination of the points to which they referred. I add but a few words of more general description.

In person he was below the middle height, slenderly but compactly formed, and in his better moments he had in an eminent degree that air of gentlemanliness which men of a lower order seldom succeed in acquiring.

His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and his large and variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who listened, while his own face glowed, or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision of genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected the forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of accretion, built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur, or in those of the most airy and delicious beauty—so minutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly, that the attention which was yielded to him was chained till it stood among his wonderful creations—till he himself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearers back to common and base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest passion.

He was at all times a dreamer—dwelling in ideal realms—in heaven or hell—peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his brain. He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer, (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned, but) for their happiness who at the moment were objects of his idolatry;—or, with his glances introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and with a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms; and all night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and rains, would speak as if to spirits that at such times only could be evoked by him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals his disturbed soul sought to forget the ills to which his constitution subjected him—close by the Aidenn which were those he loved—the Aidenn which he might never see, but in fitful glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fiery and more happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of death. He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will and engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of "The Raven" was probably much more nearly than has been supposed, even by those who were very intimate with him, a reflection and an echo of his own history. He was that bird's

"——unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never—never more.'"

Every genuine author, in a greater or less degree, leaves in his works, whatever their design, traces of his personal character; elements of his immortal being, in which the individual survives the person. While we read the pages of the "Fall of the House of Usher," or of "Mesmeric Revelations," we see in the solemn and stately gloom which invests one, and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both, indications of the idiosyncracies—of what was most remarkable and peculiar—in the author's intellectual nature. But we see here only the better phases of his nature, only the symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience had deprived him of all faith, in man or woman. He had made up his mind upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and the whole system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regarded society as composed altogether of villains, the sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villany, while it continually caused him by overshots to fail of the success of honesty. He was in many respects like Francis Vivian, in Bulwer's novel of "The Caxtons." Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural advantages of this poor boy—his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere—had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into prejudices against him. Irascible, envious—bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers. There seemed to him no moral susceptibility; and, what was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the true point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that desire to rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or the love of his species; only the hard wish to succeed—not shine, not serve—succeed, that he might have the right to despise a world which galled his self-conceit.

* * * * *

"LAUGH AND GET FAT!"

BY JOHN KENYON

Lack we motives to laugh? Are not all things, anything, everything, to be laughed at? And if nothing were to be seen, felt, heard, or understood, we would laugh at it too! Merry Beggars.

I. There's nothing here on earth deserves Half of the thought we waste about it, And thinking but destroys the nerves, When we could do so well without it: If folks would let the world go round, And pay their tithes, and eat their dinners, Such doleful looks would not be found, To frighten us poor laughing sinners. Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything!

II.

One plagues himself about the sun, And puzzles on, through every weather, What time he'll rise,—how long he'll run,— And when he'll leave us altogether; Now matters it a pebble-stone, Whether he shines at six or seven? If they don't leave the sun alone, At last they'll plague him out of heaven! Never sigh when you can sing But laugh, like me, at everything!

III.

Another spins from out his brains Fine cobweb, to amuse his neighbors, And gets, for all his toils and pains, Reviewed, and laughed at for his labors: Fame is his star! and fame is sweet; And praise is pleasanter than honey,— I write at just so much a sheet, And Messrs Longman pay the money! Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything!

IV.

My brother gave his heart away To Mercandests[*illegible], when he met her, She married Mr. Ball one day— He's gone to Sweden to forget her I had a charmer, too—and sighed, And raved all day and night about her; She caught a cold, poor thing! and died, And I—am just as fat without her Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything!

V.

For tears are vastly pretty things, But make one very thin and taper; And sighs are music's sweetest strings, But sound most beautiful—on paper! "Thought" is the Sage's brightest star, Her gems alone are worth his finding; But as I'm not particular, Please God! I'll keep on "never minding." Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything!

VI.

Oh! in this troubled world of ours, A laughter-mine's a glorious treasure; And separating thorns from flowers, Is half a pain and half a pleasure: And why be grave instead of gay? Why feel a-thirst while folks are quaffing?— Oh! trust me, whatsoe'er they say, There's nothing half so good as laughing! Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything!

* * * * *

FROM THE GERMAN OF LENAU.

Over that ancient story grass has grown; Myself, I scarce recall my own transgression; Yet, when at twilight hour, I stray alone, At times I feel as I could make confession. But turning from the Past as all unknown. I harbor in the Present! Such opression Of futile sad remorse by me be flown! Why summon bootless woes to Memory's session? When Death, that scythesman stern, thy frame destroyeth, He'll lop the grass, too, which thing actions covers. And that forgotten deed shall cling about thee! Back to the Past! Not vainly Care employeth Labor and pain to pierce where Darkness hovers; Till sin is slain within, it cannot die without thee!

THE LEADER.

* * * * *

EBBA: OR THE EMIGRANTS IN SWEDEN.

TRANSLATION FOR THE INTERNATIONAL, FROM THE FRENCH OF X. MARMIER.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

Toward the end of November, in the year 1831, one of those rude sleighs, met with in winter on all the roads of Sweden, passed rapidly along the shores of the Gulf of Bothnia. For several hours the pale winter sun had been like a lamp extinguished beneath the horizon. The skies, however, had that transparent clearness which is one of the charms of the nights of the north. Myriads of stars covered its surface with a network of gold, and glittered again on the snow which covered the surface of the earth. The wind was calm: space was silent. Nothing was heard but the sounds of the hoofs of two horses attached to a light vehicle, and occasionally the voice of the Swedish postillion, who from time to time urged them on by a word of affectionate reproach, or a joyous eulogium. A traveler sat in the sleigh, wrapped up in heavy furs, and from time to time cast aside the folds of the cloak which covered him, to take a thoughtful glance around him. A stranger in Sweden, he was traveling through it, and during the last month had experienced a multitude of emotions, altogether unexpected, and which seemed to increase as he drew near the north. After having crossed the southern provinces of that kingdom bounded by the Baltic, and those on the vast silver basin of Lake Milar, seen Stockholm in all its pride, Upsal, the city of the ancient gods, and Gebel, the active and industrious, he found himself amid a region entirely silent, inanimate, and wrapped in a snowy pall. Soon he penetrated the bosom of a long pine forest, the shafts of which seemed, as it were, giants wrapped in cloaks of white. Now he ascended steep hills, then rapidly hurried to the Gulf, the shores of which the waves had made to look like point-lace, and looked up at the immense rocks on which the waters broke.

Everywhere the same silence existed. Far in the distance a light was seen to shine, either the glitter of a woodman's fire, or the midnight torch kindled by some invalid. This light, fixed like a point in space, was but another evidence of the isolation of man in these regions.

In this inanimateness of nature, in this sad uniformity of plains of snow, in this desert of fields and woods, such sadness, such distress was evident, that the heart of the traveler, who however was young and brave, was filled with a kind of mysterious fear. Before him, among all the other stars, shone that of the pole, that faithful light which is nightly kindled like a pharos, and in the seasons of storm, smiles on the pilgrim who has gone astray, and guides the navigator's steps. The stranger, for a few instants, kept his eyes fixed on this benevolent light, as if to find some relief to the impressions he had received from the melancholy appearance of the earth. He then tapped the postillion on the shoulder, and said to him, with the laconism compulsory on him from his knowledge of the Swedish tongue, "Aland?" This was the name of the halting-place. "Intet tu," (not yet,) replied the postillion, as he took his arm from the sheepskin which surrounded his shoulders. At the same time he cracked his whip, as if to show how impatient he was to reach his halting-place. The animals, thus excited, set forth at a long gallop across that portion of the Gulf where the frequent passage of the fishermen had to a degree leveled the snow, and ascended with much difficulty a hill covered by trees at least a hundred years old. At the extremity of this forest, the postillion turned toward the traveler, and with his finger pointed out to him a spot so distant that it could be distinguished with difficulty. "Aland!" said he; and with his voice and gestures he encouraged his horses, who doubled their ardor, as if they comprehended that this was the last effort which would be required of them before they reached their destination.

The sleigh soon halted at the foot of a vast wooden house. When the driver cracked his whip, when the sound of the bells was heard, the door opened, and the stranger, it was evident to see, was expected. A servant advanced to meet him, with a lantern in his hand, and led him through a long corridor, introducing him into a room where a man with gray hair sat in an arm-chair.

"My uncle!" said the traveler, rushing toward him.

"Ireneus, my dear child!" said the old man. They stood in silence, clasped in each other's arms, until the old man, taking the young one by the hand, led him to a table on which two lights were burning, looked at him with complaisance, and said, "It is indeed yourself—it is the likeness of my poor brother: the same eyes, the same proud and resolute air. You look as he did thirty years ago, when he was about to cast himself amid the dangers of war; when, unfortunately, he embraced me for the last time."

"My dear uncle," said Ireneus, "instead of the brother you have lost, a son comes to you. In my early youth, my mother taught me to love you. That duty I shall be glad to discharge."

"The very sound of his voice!" continued the old man, who still looked at him; "the very sparkle of his eye! No painter could have made a more exact portrait. May you, however, have a far different destiny. Fatality weighs on the family of Vermondans. May you, the only vigorous offshoot of that old race of soldiers, already stricken by misfortune, already an exile from your country, never learn, as your father and I did, how bitter is the bread of the stranger—how difficult it is to go up and down the stranger's staircase. But what do I say? You are in another father's house. You come to it like a long-expected child, and you meet with two sisters." Then going toward the door of another room, he said, "Ebba, Alete, come to welcome your cousin."

Two young girls entered immediately. One of them was lively and active, with black eyes and a ruddy complexion; the other pale, fair, and delicate. The first gave her hand gaily to Ireneus, and kissed him on both cheeks; the other advanced timidly, and with downcast eyes, leaning her brow forward to be kissed.

"My dear cousins," said Ireneus, "my mother would have been delighted, as I am, to have seen you; but being unable to make this long journey in Sweden, has sent you at least a token of her affection." As he spoke, he took from his pocket a little morocco box, which the agile Alete took and opened with eagerness.

"What pretty ear-rings!" said she; "what a charming ring! See that little blue cross, and the bracelet set with emeralds. Such jewels are made only in Paris. Come look at them, Ebba!"

During all this time, Ebba stood aside motionless and silent. She then approached the table on which her sister had displayed the jewels, and looked at them without speaking.

"Is not this pretty?" said Alete. "We must divide them; and as I have a lover who will make it a point of honor to give me as many ornaments as my whim dictates and his fortune will permit, I wish you to take the larger part."

"No," said Ebba, with a voice soft as that of a child, "as you are about to be married you should have all as a wedding present. If you will however let me keep this little cross, I shall be very grateful."

Alete, who under the mask of frivolity concealed a tender and delicate heart, sought in vain to overcome the modesty of her sister; and finally, with much reluctance, received three-quarters of the jewel-case.

"Now, young ladies," said their father, who had been an observer of this contest of generosity, "remember that your cousin has made a long journey. See if his room is in order and if supper is ready; for when one has passed the whole day in crossing our snow-plains, some comfort is required."

"They are good and affectionate children," continued the father, when they had gone out. "The eldest is a gipsy who delights me with her gayety; the youngest often moves me even to tears. Her mother died in giving birth to her. The poor girl seems constantly under the influence of the misfortune which presided over her birth.

"None of the things in which girls of her age delight, please or excite her. Her silent and retiring life, seems one long act of resignation. She finds interest in story and books alone. She has learned three or four languages, and read all the books either here or at the parsonage. When, however, she is in society, one would fancy her a very ignorant person, so little does she say and so anxious does she appear to conceal her information. Her modesty is disturbed by no vanity, and the placidity of her meditations is interrupted by no vulgar commotion. One might almost fancy her a stranger to this world, indifferent to its calculations, lost to its joys, and submitting without effort to its sorrows. I have never seen her smile, but I have never heard her complain. Delicate and weak, the paleness of her face, the languor of her appearance, betray a physical suffering she herself denies.

"As soon as she perceives that I remark any indisposition in her, her countenance becomes illuminated by a gentle light, her lips are gilded with a sweet smile, as if she begged me to excuse the uneasiness she had inspired me with.

"Forgive me, dear Ireneus, for this unscrupulous thrusting on you of my paternal egotism. I should first have inquired after you and your hopes which were crushed so soon. Ebba, however, is ever a cause of anxiety to me."

Ireneus replied to this confidence by cordially clasping his hand. Just at that moment it was announced that the table was served.

"Come," said the old man, "you will not find here the gastronomical niceties of Paris. Like plain country people, we live on the produce of the soil. A good bottle of old beer, however, has some merit, and varieties of game are found in our forests, for which the gourmets of Paris would willingly exchange their hares and partridges."

Ireneus sat between his two cousins, and his youthful appetite, sharpened by the journey he had made, delighted the old man. As he ate large slices of the haunch of a reindeer, and drank cup after cup of a savory beer, prepared with particular care by Alete, he contrived to look at the young girls on each side of him.

The eldest, always in motion, waited on her cousin and her father, went to the kitchen, sat again at the table, and when she laughed disclosed two rows of pearl between her rose-colored lips. She was indeed a charming girl, round and dimpled as a child, fresh and gay as a bird, with every gesture graceful, though she was a little espiegle and coquettish. Her coquetry, however, was naive and chaste, of a kind which in many women is but the amiable manifestation of a sentiment of benevolence, and an innocent desire to be agreeable.

Ireneus took pleasure in looking at her, and as she immediately acquired self-possession, she conferred the same privilege on others. She already jested with him as if he had been an old friend, and he felt himself as unconstrained as if he had passed his whole life with her. When, however, he looked at Ebba, it was with strange emotion. Nothing in his whole life had ever touched him so. The countenance of the young girl had a cold marble whiteness, making it assume the appearance of a statue, wrought in the most artistic manner.

Two long tresses of yellow hair fell over her cheeks, and disclosed a brow of ideal serenity. Her pale face was lit up with eyes clear as crystal, and blue and deep as lakes reflecting the skies. Any one who had once looked into her eyes could not forget them. Often they drooped beneath the lids, like a heart overcome with grief sheltering itself beneath a cloud. When they were lifted up no earthly desire animated them, and in their vague radiation they seemed to look into the infinite.

There are plants which the dew and sun do not completely develop. There are beings like weak plants, attached to earth by but feeble roots, and who from their very birth seem predestined to misfortune, and who, by a kind of second-sight, made aware of the fate which awaits them, attach themselves with fear and trembling to a world in which they anticipate only an ephemeral existence and cruel deception. Their sadness is reflected on those who approach them. There is as it were a fatal circle around them, in which all feel themselves seized with indescribable fear, and with the evidences of sympathy entertained for them is mingled a kind of commiseration.

Ireneus experienced at the appearance of Ebba this sentiment of uneasiness and melancholy sympathy. When after supper he bade adieu to his uncle and cousins, when he was alone in his room, he smiled when he remembered the amiable gayety of Alete, but became sad and pensive when he recalled the dreamy look of her young sister, the sad melancholy glance which shone over her face like the twilight of an autumn day.

Ireneus was not however one of those sentimental beings belonging to the Byronic or German school. His mind was rather energetic than tender; it was rather ardent than despairing. The son of a brave country gentleman who had devoted fortune and life to the cause of legitimacy, and after having followed the princes in their various emigrations, had died for them in the wilderness of la Vendee. Ireneus had been the inheritor of that obstinate will which never deviates from the end it proposes to itself, and of a chivalric worship of the Royal family, which to him seemed by a law divine to be invested with the imprescriptible right to govern France. Of the large fortune which formerly belonged to his family, the revolution had left him but a dilapidated castle, a few fields and forests, the revenue of which scarcely sufficed to support his mother in comfort.

The condition of his fortune did not permit him to lead an idle life. His birth made his profession certain. He entered Saint-Cyr, and left it with the best possible recommendations. He could also appeal to the traditions of his fathers services. Through the union of these two claims he was so rapidly advanced that at twenty-eight he was already Captain of the Lancers of the Guard, with an honorable name, a handsome person, some intelligence and that elegance of manners inherent in the class to which he belonged, and which to us is known as the aristocracy, the young nobleman might without presumption anticipate a brilliant future. His mother amid the silence of her provincial castle followed him step by step, with pride, and her solitary dreams saw him the husband of a rich heiress, Colonel and aide-de-camp of a prince, deputy and peer of France. Who can tell how vague were the hopes entertained in relation to that child in whom all her hopes were centered!

His mother was lost in this study and observation of castles in the air, when the revolutions of July burst forth like a thunderbolt, and at one blow overturned all her aerial edifices.

Ireneus was at Paris when this terrible contest, the result of which was the overturning of a monarchy, began with the crushing of a throne. He fought with the ardor inspired at once by his love of legitimacy and his innate horror of the revolutionary flag. On the first day he had the honor of resisting with his company a numerous body of insurgents, and succeeded in protecting the post which had been confided to him. On the second day, after a desperate contest, the danger of which served only to magnify his courage, he fell from his horse with a ball through his chest. His soldiers who were devoted to him bore him to a house where he was kindly treated. A few hours after, a General who had seen him in the battle, sent him the brevet of Major. It was an empty honor, for the hand which signed this promotion soon renounced all human grandeur and all command.

The wound of Ireneus was severe. The kind attentions however which surrounded, protected him from danger of death. As soon as he was beginning to grow well, he went to his mother's house, where his cure was completed. There he heard of the new exile of those for whom his father had shed his blood and of the establishment of the new monarchy. Many of his friends were soon induced to connect themselves with the new monarchy which retained them in service, and even conferred special compliments on them, and they wrote to induce him to follow their example. Such a thought never entered his mind. Without partaking of the exaggerated hatred of many of the Legitimists against the new monarchy, he had stated that he would never serve it. He was not a man to violate a promise. But he was subject to the danger of inactivity, the greatest torment of active and strong minds. As an ambitious man examines with great uneasiness the path which leads him to power, as the speculator contemplates the capricious whims of fortune, as the young officer waiting orders looks in every direction for action, did Ireneus. More than once he resolved to join his fortunes with those of the exiled princes in the arena of public opinion. They however had submitted to their fate, and no longer appealed to their faithful servants. The time of Royal crusades had gone by. Sovereigns made uneasy by the effervescence of revolutions, which like a contagion spread over Europe, had enough to do to secure their own thrones, and had no disposition to ruin themselves in lifting up that of a neighbor.

Madame de Vermondans, after striving in vain to amuse her son, induced him to visit his uncle in Sweden, hoping that travel would restore quiet to his mind. It was one of those healthful remedies which often escape the observation of science, and are suggested only by the ingenuity of tenderness. Nothing in certain moral diseases is more efficacious than travel. He who after having enjoyed all the emotions of active life, finds himself at once condemned to the sterility of idleness, suffers under a perpetual fever. Within him there is as it were an ever-acting spring he strives with a constant effort to repress.

His intellectual and physical faculties, his imagination, his senses seek to resume their old power. If the forces with which he is endowed, if the abundant grasp of his mind are paralyzed in their motion, these forces weigh on him like a useless burden. Soon in consequence of the internal contest he has undergone, the constant desires he has given vent to, from the very exuberance of life, which finding no outlet, recoils on itself, he becomes a victim of the demon of satiety. To escape from its rude grasp, air and space are required. The victim must be borne from the narrow circle within which he is riveted as by a chain, which clasps his frame. He must shake from himself every chimera, and to enable him to forget himself, the aspect of strange lands, of scenes and pictures which one after the other exhibit themselves before him, all that forcibly attracts the attention, all that occupies the mind in a new land, material cares, unexpected incidents, the surprises of travel, and yet more the magical influence of nature, are required to restore tone to the sick soul.

Ireneus had really experienced the effect of this moral remedy. In his journey across Germany and the North, he had not recovered his early impetus, his natural ardor, but he at least felt himself master of himself. He reached his uncle's house in the happiest possible disposition of mind.

When he arose on the next day, he took occasion to remark the delicate Precaution taken to render his sojourn pleasant as possible. The furniture of maple or birch was plain, but wonderfully neat; the bed linen was of snowy whiteness and purity; and perfumed by aromatic plants with which in the drawers it had been strewed. Here and there were a few choice engravings, and on the floor was a carpet woven by his two cousins.

At the very dawn of day a servant came to open the earthen stove, which stood on the hearth like a vast column, and placed in it an armfull of the pitch pine, which sent out jets of flame and a perfume which filled the whole room. Double windows protected this room also against the severity of the weather. Between them was a bed of flocks of wool on which the young girls had placed artificial flowers, as if to preserve in the nudity of winter the smiling image of spring. Here windows looked out on a landscape which in the summer time must have presented a charming aspect. The house of M. Vermondans stood on a hill, on the brow of which was a breast of pines. In front of the principal facade was a garden with a proclivity toward the lake, which was surrounded and sheltered by a belt of trees. In the distance the peasants' houses were seen, the tall clock spire of Aland, and far in the distance the chimneys of the furnace belonging to M. de Vermondans. At this moment, the plain, the snow-covered woods, the frozen lake presented one uniform color. Any one, however, might see they would present beautiful landscapes, when the sun called forth the field-flowers, made the forests lifeful, and gilded the water.

Ireneus went to his uncle's room. He found the old man rested in an arm chair, with his legs crossed and a long pipe in his mouth.

M. de Vermondans was not one of those persons who willingly distress themselves about what the poets call the miseries of human life. He took things as they came, and enjoyed prosperity without imagining future troubles.

While young, he had fought with his brothers the battles of legitimacy. Like his brother, he entertained a mortal hatred for revolutionary rabble: gradually, like many others, he had begun to reason on the matter, and become so tolerant that his doctrines reached the point almost of carelessness. Just as her [sic] nephew came in, he was reflecting and quasi confirmed in the wisdom of his principles. "Yes," said he, as if he continued a conversation already begun, "yes, my friend, I am as much opposed as you are to a stormy revolution. I left my father's house, I abandoned my patrimony to accompany our princes into exile. I have fought for them, in their holy cause I received a sabre cut on the arm, which every now and then, by a very disagreeable sensation, recalls my youthful patriotism to me. Soon, however, the idle pretensions of my comrades, the disputes of our chiefs, repressed my ardor. I left one of the cohorts in which reason was treated as treachery, and where boasting alone was listened to with complacency. There firmness and complaisance were paralyzed now by erroneous movements and next by contradictory orders. A faithful servant contrived to save a portion of my estate, and at the peril of his own life brought me twenty thousand francs in gold. With this sum I came to Sweden, knowing that here everything was cheap, and determined to buy a small estate on which I might live, until I could find an opportunity of serving to some purpose that cause to which my heart was devoted, and which I had never yet entirely abandoned.

"At Stockholm one of those strange rencontres which we attribute to chance, but which the pious with more propriety think originate in Providence, made me acquainted with a land-holder in Angermania, named Guldberg, as good a man as ever lived. I am indebted to him for all my prosperity, and I bless his memory. M. Guldberg had discovered a rich mineral deposit on his estate, was anxious to establish a furnace, and sought for some one to aid him in his enterprise. In the course of my studies I had acquired some ideas of hydraulics and mechanics, trifling enough it is true, but one day conversation having been directed to these matters, Guldberg, who knew even less than I did, appeared delighted with my explanations, and asked me to aid him in his projected enterprise. Without reflecting more than he did when he made the offer, I consented. I came hither with him: I superintended the construction and the first labor of the furnace you see glowing there. I was not unlike the ignorant teacher who studies in the morning the lesson he teaches in the afternoon. I made more than one unfortunate experiment. I committed more than one error, but at last I got our establishment under way. Guldberg had suffered patiently, and never complained of the mistakes I had made, and now appeared most grateful for my success. He very generously offered me a share of the profits of an enterprise which from the very commencement promised the most favorable results. From this time commences a series of derogations I now look on as so many wise resolutions, but which many would look on as acts of apostasy. Here I am, a French noble, with I know not how many illustrious quarters, compromising my escatcheon in an industrial occupation. This was the first derogation. Guldberg had an only daughter, very interesting, and who pleased me. She had the kindness to show that I was not disagreeable; she however had not a drop of noble blood, not even a single quartering. I married her, much to your father's discontent. That was my second derogation. This woman during her life was the very impersonation of virtue, but was a protestant, and asked me as a favor that if our children were female, they might be educated in her faith. My two daughters believe as their mother did. That is the third derogation.

"An honest young fellow has courted the eldest of these girls. He is the son of a priest, and will go into orders himself if he does not become professor of a college. I saw my dear Alete had confidence in him. I consented that she should marry a plebeian and a heretic. In this was comprised the fourth and fifth derogation. I suffered the revolutionary crisis of France to pass without exciting me: I have learned through the papers that our dear country, the most intelligent in the world, has successively adulated and cursed the bloody tyranny of Robespiere, the gallantry of Barras, the Consulate, Empire and the Revolution.

"When the lilies replaced the tricolor, and the amiable people of Paris cast themselves before the troops of the white-horse of Monsieur, with the same enthusiasm they had a few years before manifested at the appearance of the proud charger of the conqueror of Wagram and Jena, I remained here and never changed my colors: I never cried 'down with the Corsican Ogre.' Smoking my pipe in peace, I watched my furnace, smiled on my children and my harvests, in the sunlight of Sweden, which would be so delightful if it were a little less rare. This was another and a terrible derogation.

"Gradually, however, dear Ireneus, I built up a faith to suit myself, found, I think, in the works of no philosopher (I read but little), but which yet seems to me a very good rule of conduct, inasmuch as it leaves the conscience at ease and makes me as happy as any one can be in this valley of tears. I therefore think, dear Ireneus, that in our benevolence we make monsters of certain ideas which we imbibe when we are children, and to which, without examination, we always submit ourselves. I think that without violating any true principle of morality, without ceasing to be, in any respect, a moral man, we may break some links of that network of traditions spun for us by our teachers at so much an hour, and which throws a hood over us as it is thrown over a falcon, to keep it from flying in the infinitude of space. I respect every sincere belief, even hat which I look on as a prejudice, and I insist that my own be respected. As a conclusion of my profession of faith, I am willing to admit that even a republican convinced of the justness of his opinions appears as reasonable to me as a monarchist, and that a quaker or Calvinist is as near heaven as the devout Catholic.

"When my mind lifts itself up toward God, I imagine him the representative and originater of all good, and I am convinced that the surest way to approach him, to merit his favor and win his blessing, is, in the circle in which we are, whether large or small, to do as much good as possible. I say, that the workingman, who toils for a short time to assist his invalid neighbor, acquires more merit than the rich man, who with an icy hand casts his coin into the lap of the indigent. I have the audacity to think that a king, who in the splendor of his court is forgetful of the suffering of his people; that a noble, who abandons himself to all the enjoyments of his fortune, forgetful of misery languishing at his castle gate, are great criminals; and that God will punish their misdeeds, either on them, or, as the Bible says, 'on their children even until the fourth and fifth generation.'"

Ireneus, who had listened in silence to this long profession of faith, asked himself if it was worth while to contradict it. The words of his uncle were contradictory of one of those doctrines, which are the more difficult to shake, as they have their hold in the philosophy of the heart, and are fenced around with many noble sentiments. His loyalty, however, seemed to require some reply, and he spoke as follows:

"I understand well enough, my dear uncle, the chain of circumstances which has led you almost to lay aside the principles which now seem prejudices to you. I myself willingly immolate on the altar of new ideas that pride of nobility which delights in the study of old parchments, and makes a kind of fetish of scutcheons carved on the walls of an ancient castle. I condemn as a foolish error, the airs of superiority affected by old nobles in respect to merit sprung from the people; and if, in the opinion of my father, your marriage with the daughter of your friend, seemed a degradation, forgive him. Remember that he died at an epoch of strife and convulsion in which every noble defended, with the greatest possible ardor, the prerogatives of his rank, which he saw were attacked by the maddest passion, and were in danger of being lost. Since then we have made much progress. The barriers which formerly divided society into two classes have been destroyed, space has been opened for every one to carve his own way, and the people participate in governments, and in the royal councils.

"The majority of the ministers of the Restoration were chosen from among the people. In relation to this, I admit all the reasonings of the philosophers of the eighteenth century, and of the liberals of our own times. In them I find expansion of heart, intelligence, and I care not for genealogy. The qualities of mind, grace and beauty seem to me signs of distinction marked by the finger of God, who is wiser far than D'Hozier.[A] I cannot, however, forget that this race of nobles, so cruelly persecuted thirty years ago, so often trampled on in our own times, was the glory and the power of France. I was forced with pain to see with what incessant malignity this race, though stripped of its ancient power, was attacked. I have often said that in sapping the foundations of the aristocratic edifice, that in crushing the legitimacy of the nobles, an attack was made on the legitimacy of monarchy. The revolution just over has but too well justified my apprehensions. This revolution which by a species of criminal conversion, selects one of the old royal blood to occupy the throne of the exile, which selects the one nearest the throne, is perhaps but the first of a series of convulsions, in which will be engulfed, by ambition and pride, the wisdom and experience of the past."

[Footnote A: A genealogist of great repute in France, twenty years since.]

This conversation between the uncle and nephew was interrupted by the sound of a horse's hoofs, dragging a sleigh rapidly toward the door of the house.

"That is beyond doubt my future son-in-law," said M. de Vermondans, "another philosopher, who, like yourself, does not in every respect agree with you. He is, however, a good fellow, who under a by no means aristocratic exterior conceals the noblest qualities."

When she heard the sleigh, Alete ran to the door sill; and Ebba followed him. At the appearance of the two sisters, like a rose and a lily, the young man hastened to divest himself of the thick fur which enwrapped him, sprang from the sleigh, and hastened to his betrothed. He had not, however, remembered the caprice of Alete, who, instead of giving him her hand as usual, looked sternly at him, and said:

"Sir, you are incorrigible. How comes that waistcoat to be buttoned wrong? And why has that cravat wings, like those of a crow? Why does your shirt-collar come up to your ears? Is this the fruit of the lessons on the toilette, which I have so often given you? Did I not also order you to attend to your hair, and not let it fall on your shoulder, like two bundles of flax, in disorder? You do not know that we have here a cousin from Paris, who will take you for a Goth, or the Lord knows what."

The poor young man, stupefied at this reception, looked down mechanically, with his hand on his waistcoat and his cravat, and did not dare to approach his rigorous mistress.

"Alete, Alete," said Ebba, with a voice of supplication, "how can you be so cruel!"

Alete, satisfied beyond doubt by the respectful submission with which her Reproaches had been received, sprang to the neck of her betrothed, and said,

"But I love my dear Eric truly. If I sometimes play the magnificent with him, it is to make him think that he has himself, in a noble epistle, called me his sovereign. Is not this so, Eric?" added she, leaning toward him like a petted child. "Do you not weary of my little wickednesses? At present, you see, I use the remnant of my liberty: when we are married, however, I shall be a model of obedience."

The face of Eric had already become lighted up, and he kissed with pleasure the little hand placed in his.

Alete seemed to fear nothing so much as these sentimental manifestations, and took him into the room where the uncle and nephew had their political contest, and pausing before Ireneus, said,

"Cousin, permit me to introduce to you M. Eric Goldberg, Doctor of the University of Upsal, and a learned Grecian, who never in his life read a single line of the Journal des Modes, and cannot conceive of the difference between a good and bad tailor; who would not know how to hold a fan; or to perform a contradance, but who, in spite of all that, is one of the best fellows in the world, and is devoted to your cousin."

After this singular introduction, a faint blush spread over the face of the young doctor. A clasp of the hand, and an affectionate word, however, from Ireneus, put an end to all embarrassment.

"A strange girl," said M. de Vermondans, following Alete with his eye as she hurried to the kitchen to take charge of the preparations for dinner. "Is not that an odd introduction of her husband and lover? She never does things, however, like other people. Be seated, dear Eric, though, and tell me why we have not seen you for three days. We had began to be uneasy about you, and Alete often looked toward the window. Had you not come to-day, I should have sent to ask the reason."

"My father has been a little unwell," replied Eric; as he placed his hands, made red by the cold, near the stove. "I had to remain to assist him in some of his duties, and to amuse him by reading to him. This morning, as I learned that Monsieur—Monsieur—"