The word Genesee is of Seneca origin, signifying “Pleasant Valley,” or “Valley of Pleasant Waters.”

It may seem strange to many of the millions who are now reveling in the comforts and prosperity which the last half century has diffused through western New York, that the course of Oliver Phelps and his associates should have been then considered so hazardous, that the whole neighborhood of Granville, Mass., their native town, assembled to bid them adieu—a final adieu, as many thought; for it seemed a desperate chance that any of that intrepid band should ever return from their enterprise through a region to which the Indian title had not been extinguished. The wilderness was penetrated as far as Canandaigua Lake, and I am indebted to an old number of the New York American for the description that follows, of a treaty held on its banks with the Senecas by Phelps and his companions.

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We present our readers this month with two beautiful American plates. The Mandan Indians is one of a series of the spirited pictures of Bodmer, who, in a visit through the west and south-west, made sketches from nature of the most striking scenes, and of incidents in Indian life and warfare. We have still on hand several very fine pictures by this artist; and we think we hazard nothing in saying, that, for artistic effect and skill, these engravings are far superior to any thing that is met with in the Magazines. The dance of the Mandan women was taken, as represented, from a group, by Mr. Bodmer.

Our other engraving, is one of the fine series of Georgia views that we are running through the Magazine; and the “Lover’s Leap” is another evidence of the charming bits of scenery with which that state abounds. We have now in the hands of artists, sketches of scenery in Virginia, North Carolina, Ohio, and other states, and purpose in coming volumes, to present to the readers of Graham, views of every state in the Union, engraved in a style to do credit to the country and the work. The American character of the embellishments and literature of Graham, are rallying around the work thousands of true friends yearly.

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BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

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Late in the evening of the last day of September, A. D. 18—, a stage stopped at a small inn, and deposited two trunks, with their two owners: then rattled on to its final stopping-place, six miles further.

The two trunks with their two owners were shown into the best sleeping-room the house afforded, and left with a “dim, religious light” for company. The light showed them (the trunk’s owners, not the trunks) to be men—good-looking and young. Their conversation proved them to be cousins, and on their way to Beverly Park, the home of the handsomer of the two, whom the less handsome addressed as Frank.

“But, Ned, speaking of pictures, and furniture,” continued Frank, interrupting himself in his description of Beverly Park and its picture gallery, “you never have seen Clara. Three years ago she bid fair to be a beauty. To-morrow will prove whether time has or has not fulfilled his promise. Three years ago she was a fairy thing of sweet fifteen. I say, Ned, did you ever see a more horrid place than this inn?”

“Yes, many.”

Frank laughed. “Any way,” said he, “you must acknowledge it is a most dismal apology for a ‘house of entertainment for man and beast:’ I wonder if his godship, Mr. Morpheus, ever deigns to visit it. I feel wonderfully like making the trial. What say you, Ned, shall we court him to wrap us in his mantle of oblivion?”

“With all my heart.”

The friends resigned themselves to sleep. Blessed be the man who first invented sleeping. There is poetry in sleep: there is music in it.

Have you never watched the young child, with its fair hair reposing so quietly in clustering curls around its cherub, happy face? Its low, soft-breathing—one little dimpled hand grasping a toy—one fair, rounded arm pillowing its young head. The little rosy mouth in a half smile—smiling to the fairies that come whispering to its heart? This is poetry. Were you never in a stage-coach with an old man for one of its passengers, clad in the greasiest snuff-colored coat and vest imaginable; and bearing upon them any quantity of dull brass buttons—a round-crowned, dirty white beaver upon his red-haired Medusa-like head: he himself fast “locked in the arms of omnibus,” and snoring loud enough to awake the seven sleepers? This is music.

Morning came. The landlord was duly paid, and the cousins proceeded on their way to Beverly Park.

“Three years seems a long time to be away from one’s home, eh! Ned?” said Frank, after they had ridden a long way in silence. “I hope you will like my sister Clara.”

“I do not doubt that I shall, if she is any thing like her brother.”

“Thank you. These are fine old elms, are they not? I like elm trees; I like them in the moonlight, when the silver-tipped shadows flit among their dark green leaves; they bring to mind old ruined castles. I can fancy ivy-clad turrets, and the soft eyes of fairy maidens gazing from them. Their eyes, as they gleam forth from amid the night-colored boughs, look dreamy and fitful. I see them twine, with snowy, shadowy arms the dark green ivy amid their coal-black tresses. I love elm trees thus bathed in moonlight, they remind me of all the wild things I have ever read, thought or dreamed.”

“Have a care, Frank, or some one of these same moonlight nights your imagination will carry you off vi et armis.”

“Never fear, Ed. But here is my home. My father had taste, had he not?”

“All around is the perfection of taste. Your father must have spent much of his time in planning such a Paradise.”

Francis made no reply; but with all the impetuosity of his ardent nature rushed into the house. When Edward, left to the guidance of a servant, entered the hall, he found a fair-haired girl clasped to his cousin’s heart—a mild-eyed matron, he knew was Frank’s mother, so strongly did she resemble him, looking love and joy upon him.

That was a happy family assembled at Beverly Park. Within a week from the arrival of its heir, the many chambers of the old Hall were nearly filled with friends and relatives of the Beverlys, who had come to spend the winter with them. So mirth was the order of the day at Beverly Park.

“Cousin Ed,” said Frank, one sunny morning, “you and Clara seem so happy in each other, and have so much to say, there is not room for me to put in a word: I see I am un de trop. Mamma is reading, I cannot talk with her; Kate and George are at that everlasting chess-board; the Miss Linwoods and the rest of our party are out riding, so poor I have nothing to do, nor no one to talk with.”

“A sad case, brother mine,” said Clara, laughing.

“I’ll be revenged some way. I’ll go out on an exploring expedition, all alone. Au revoir!” ....

Upon the grass-green banks of a flower-fringed, dancing stream, a little child, of four bright summer suns, was playing with the pebbles at its edge. She had the “curlingest” little head of gold-brown hair in the world. Her form was faultless: her eyes—warm, soft hazel.

As the child threw the shining pebbles into the water, and laughed with delight to see the bubbles and dimples she created, the step of a man sounded on the mossy sward.

The child looked up but evinced no fear.

“Come here, pretty one.”

The child came bounding toward him, and peered up into his face so winningly, that he caught her up in his arms, and kissed her young brown eyes, and fair round cheek, until she put her little hand upon his mouth and told him he was naughty.

“What is your name, little one?”

“Nina: What is yours?”

“Frank,” replied the other smiling. “What is your mother’s name, pretty Nina?”

“Mamma. What is yours?”

“What is her other name beside mamma?”

“Papa calls her Agnes,” lisped the child.

“Agneth,” said the man; “and what, pretty one, is thy father’s name?”

“Tell me the name of yours first.”

“I have no papa, little one.”

“No papa!”

“None, little Nina; he is dead.”

“Dead! What does that mean?”

“Nina, where do you live?”

“My papa’s name is William: now tell me what dead means.”

“You could not understand me, dear child, if I were to tell you; show me where you live and I will come and explain it all for you.”

“Over there we live,” and the child pointed to a cottage half hid among the trees. It seemed a perfect love of a cottage. Frank felt irresistibly tempted to go and see “Agneth;” but he merely kissed the little Nina good-by and put her down. The child went to her pebbles and Frank turned toward his home. He had gone but a few steps on his homeward path, when a slight scream caused him to look around, his little friend in attempting to cross the small bridge of planks, had slipped and fallen into the brook. An instant more and Frank was on the way toward Nina’s home, with Nina in his arms.

The little girl was wet and frightened, but did not seem hurt. She nestled tremblingly in his bosom, making no complaint, save a low sob that came less and less frequent.

“There is my mamma!” exclaimed she, as Frank entered the garden gate.

Nina sprang from his arms and ran up to her mother. Frank thought he had never seen so beautiful a creature; she did not seem older than his sister Clara.

“See, mamma!” eagerly said the little Nina. “Here is Frank. I fell into the brook and he took me out. Wasn’t he a nice Frank? You must love him, mamma.”

The mother rested her eyes, full of gratitude upon the young man: her eyes, so dark and earnest, spoke to his soul. He felt a new life spring up within him; a life he had only dreamed of till then. Her eyes were of that peculiar shade of hazel, neither light nor dark, sometimes both, at times almost blue: a ring of heaven enclosing a world of earthly love.

Agnes led the way into the cottage, and asked Frank, with a voice as sweet as her eyes were beautiful, to follow her. She left him in the drawing-room, taking with her the little Nina.

Frank had time to admire the rooms, as he stood drying his clothes by the cheerful grate; the days had then begun to be somewhat chilly. All around bespoke the most elegant simplicity, the utmost refinement. The eye of the young man was delighted as it wandered around the room—books, music, flowers—all was softness and ease. Frank was enchanted. Still more was he enchanted when, all radiant, the sweet mistress of the cottage entered. A thousand smiles of joy beamed from every part of her face. “She brightened all over,” like Moore’s Nourmahal. Her face was of that strictly classic mould, so beautiful even unaccompanied by expression. Expression was her chief attraction: the color came and left her face as shadows do beside a bright fire. Soul was in all she did. Her soul was like a blazing mass of pearls—bright and soft. Frank was completely charmed. She thanked him so prettily for rescuing her child—was afraid he would take cold—were his clothes perfectly dry?

“Perfectly,” replied Frank.

They glided from one topic of conversation to another, scarcely knowing they were talking, with so little constraint did their words flow. What she said came so from her heart. Frank had heard the same things uttered, but there was an indefinable charm accompanied her every word, however commonplace the subject was.

Music came up at length. Both her piano and harp were brought into requisition. Agnes played and sang well. Frank was an enthusiastic lover of music, and just what and all he loved did she play. Never sang so sweet a voice as hers.

Music! dear Music! What nurse like thee will soothe the world-worn, weary soul? When we are sad and sullen, what will bring us to ourselves—to hope again—like music? Soft, wild music. Bellini music!

Agnes played, Frank listened. Agnes talked, Frank listened—his heart beat a young whirlwind. Time flew by unheeded—unmarked.

Francis recollected himself before it was quite midnight, and rose to go.

“I am so sorry William is not at home; you would like him. He is very much like you. He went this morning to the city, and will not be home till to-morrow.”

“William!”

“Yes. My husband.”

“True. I had forgotten.”

“But you will come again?”

Frank smiled a bon soir, and went home feeling as he never felt before. He did not own to himself he was in love, but he did own she was a most lovely creation.

Clara rallied him next morning on his silence.

“You seem but moody, brother mine; what change has clouded the spirit of your dream?”

“A spirit of beauty that ministered to my dreams last night.”

“In what shape did it come?”

“In the guise of a mermaid I suspect. Frank is very fond of such mysterious beings.” Edward laughed as he said it. Frank thought there was a little mischief in his cousin’s eye.

“I don’t envy him his visitant,” said Cousin George. “Mermaids are cold creatures, I doubt if they have hearts.”

Frank tried hard to enjoy the party at Beverly Hall, but his thoughts would wander to the cottage, and the afternoon found him again by the side of Agnes.

Some part of every day at length saw him at the cottage; the little Nina learned to welcome him with a wild cry of delight.

He always found some good excuse for going. Agnes was to sing him some new song, from some new opera—or he had promised Nina a ride on his pony—or he had not finished a discussion with the father upon some political question.

Agnes had said right when she told Frank he would like her husband: he did like him, and the husband liked Frank, and was as glad to see him as was either Agnes or Nina.

Little did the husband and wife dream of the chain fastened and tightening around his heart—gnawing to that very heart’s core. He was in a dream—a nightmare. He would have given worlds to have been able to keep away from the cottage, from seeing Agnes, but the more he resisted the fascination the less could he overcome it, and the more often did he find himself at the cottage.

Agnes had too pure a heart, and loved her husband too entirely, to dream even that Frank had other feelings for her than those of friendship. The husband was unsuspecting—he knew not, could not know, how all in all his bright Agnes was to the heart of Frank.

The husband and wife loved each other so truly there was no room for doubt in the heart of either.

The winter months had nearly passed. Each day the little fairy Nina grew more interesting and lovely: and then she loved Frank so—he must go and see her. The pretty Nina.

“How remarkably fond your brother seems of solitary rambles,” said Miss Linwood to Clara one day.

“Very,” quietly responded Clara.

“He is a very singular young man: he has grown so melancholy and reserved, so different from what he used to be. Don’t you think so, Clara?”

Clara did think her brother had altered. He looked so pale and seemed so sad. Something must be the matter with him.

Something was the matter with him undoubtedly. At home he was gloomy, silent, abstracted. He lived only in the light of the brown eyes at the cottage. He loved without owning to himself he loved. And to her! He would sooner have torn out his tongue than to have sullied her pure ear with a whisper of the maddening love that devoured his soul.

The cousins seemed to have changed characters. Edward chatted and laughed with his lively cousin Clara from morning to night. Frank was silent and thoughtful.

The gay party at the Hall wondered not a little at the repeated absences of Frank.

Edward declared his cousin had found some sweet simplicity of a being at whose shrine to worship.

“I would be willing to wager my happiness for a year to come, that you are in love, brother mine,” said Clara, one day when the inmates of the Hall were assembled in the library. “You are not the same brother Frank you were last autumn. I shall have to call you Francis, for you are not frank.”

Frank smiled, made some gay repartee—half acknowledged, in a laughing way, Clara was right.

The party grew more merry, and Francis, from being very low-spirited, became the merriest there. Sparkling words fell from his lips, and sparkling glances fell from his eyes, in uncontrolled profusion.

“Let me take your hand, Francis,” said Clara. “Did you know I was a seer? No! then listen.”

The laughter-loving girl took his hand, and putting on an awful look, she began—“Where grow the tall elms greenest, lies hid a vine-covered cottage. Ha! you start, brother mine. I am right! That we will take for granted. We will also take for granted that the said cottage is a paragon of a cottage. Within—ah! there’s the charm. What! blushing, Frank! Am I not a good diviner? Let me see—oh! she is beautiful! A Peri come down on earth to live. A fairy—for naught but a fairy—no mortal maiden could be fashioned fair enough to suit my perfectionist of a brother. Here is a line I do not quite comprehend. Ah! I see—there is some difficulty: it only proves what the great bard said—‘The course of true love’—you know the rest. The fairy maiden does not look kindly on you. See! these lines cross one another: but the cross line is short; after that all is clear. Her eyes will yet look love on you. Her home will yet be in your heart. So, courage, brother!”

All were now eager to hear their fortunes, but the capricious girl turned to the piano; before she had half finished her song she abruptly asked,?—

“Mamma, what is love?”

“Love, my dear?—why it is a principle inherent within us. The feeling I have for you is love. God is love, and all his creation is ruled by the laws of love.”

“Cousin Edward, what is your definition of love?”

“Love,” said Edward, looking into the depths of her laughing blue eyes, “love is love.”

“Good!—that will do for you. So now, Frank, it is your turn Francis—brother.”

“What, Clara?”

“Where are you wandering?”

“To the vine-covered cottage you were telling me of.”

“Well, come back from there, and tell me what love is.”

“Love? Love is the devil! An angel of light—madness—gladness! Gladness in the presence of the loved one, and?—”

“And madness away from the dear one. Is that it? Yes, you are in love.”

Miss Linwood was appealed to for her opinion of what love was.

“Never having experienced the mysterious influence of the blind deity,” said she, “I feel myself totally unprepared to give an opinion on the all important subject.”

Miss Laura Linwood giggled and said nothing.

Mr. Ralph Linwood gave it as his belief that love was animal magnetism. Much more he said by way of illustration; hardly worth repeating however.

Kate and George agreed with Edward, viz., that love was love.

Another cousin, little Lilla, they called her, a sister of Kate’s—a child—a very pretty one, too, said that love was the son of Venus, and that he was named Cupid—for her Heathen Mythology said so; and that he always kept a bow and arrow to shoot into the hearts of mortals.

The child was right.

One maintained that love was friendship continued, the allegory of a metaphor.

“Love is like a dizziness, confound it, ’t wont let a fellow go about his business,” said George.

And so the merry party kept rattling on;—nonsense, to be sure—but what is this world good for without some nonsense?

The group at length became divided—the conversation less general. Edward and Clara sat over on a lounge by the window, talking with each other in a very animated strain. The rest cut up in small cliques were equally full of life. Frank alone seemed sad. His buoyant spirits had deserted him. He rose to go.

“What, off again, my brother?”

“Yes, I am going in search of that cottage you described. I am impatient to see the lovely fairy it contains.”

“Then you never have seen her? Say not no,” said Clara, shaking the fore-finger of her little hand at him.

Frank was off. He mounted his horse, and as though he were on his way to his last ride.

“I have come to say, good-by,” said he, on entering the conservatory at the cottage, where Agnes was tying up her flowers.

“What! are you going? Where?”

“To—to Lapland.”

“Lapland!”

“Yes! to see if I cannot freeze the burning weight at my heart.”

Agnes looked surprised. The truth half flashed upon her, and when she saw how wretched Frank looked, a thousand little things he had done and said that she thought nothing of at the time, came suddenly to her mind, as though to corroborate her suspicions.

“No, it cannot be,” said she to herself, blushing at having even thought she was beloved by Frank. She warmly expressed her regrets for the departure of her friend. And the little Nina—she hardly knew what to make of it. She crept up to Francis, and climbing upon his knee, hid her face in his bosom, to hide her own tears.

“Is good Frank going to leave his poor Nina? Naughty Frank.”

“Yes, pretty one,” said he, fondly passing his hand through her clustering curls. “Give me one of these sunny ringlets, Nina; I will keep it always.”

Quicker than thought the child sprang down, and ran to her mother. “Mamma, where are your scissors? Frank wants one of my curls.”

The mother gave her the scissors. Nina, selecting the prettiest curl she could find, off it came.

“Here,” said she, handing it to Francis. “Now give me one of your nice curls, and I will keep it forever.”

Frank let her cut off the lock that pleased her best. The child actually screamed with delight; and dancing round the room with true childish glee, she held it up for her mother to admire, and said she would “show it to papa as soon as he came home.”

Francis Beverly went.....

Twelve or thirteen years after, a solitary equestrian was seen to enter the tangled avenue leading to Beverly Park.

He was fine-looking, very. There was a calm, almost subdued look about him; yet the great blue eyes that looked out upon the world through their long, dark lashes, told of passions deep and strong. The brow above them was clear, open, and broad. A mass of chestnut curls clustered around his brow, glancing out from under the thick folds of his traveling cap. Such was the master of Beverly Park. All around the Hall looked overgrown and neglected, as though the place had long stood sadly in want of a master......

“Do you know, Mr. Bev—”

“Call me Frank. You always did when you were a child, sweet Nina.”

“Frank,” repeated the soft voice of Nina.

“What were you going to say?”

“Oh, I have forgotten.”

“Nina, when I went away you begged some of my hair—have you it yet?”

“Why, Mr. Bev—, Frank, I mean, how do you think I could keep a little lock of hair thirteen long years?”

“Then you have lost it, or thrown it by; yet I remember, you said you would keep it forever.”

“I did not say I had thrown it away, or lost it, for I have done neither. I had it imprisoned right away in this little locket, and have worn it around my neck ever since, for fear of breaking the promise I made.”

“That was the only reason of your wearing it?”

“Certainly, if I except a strong childish liking I had for ‘Frank.’”

“Your hair has grown darker, dear Nina. See! I have worn this bright tress upon my heart ever since you gave it to me. I would, dearest Nina, its owner would make her home there. Nina?—”

Just then the door opened and Agnes entered. Thirteen years had trodden lightly over her head. She was scarce altered from the bright Agnes of his first love-dream.

The inmates of the cottage had warmly welcomed Frank, after his long absence. Since his return he had gradually gone more and more often to the cottage, until he had almost become its inmate. The charm now was not Agnes, or rather it was Agnes—a second Agnes. Francis could hardly persuade himself that the gentle, playful Nina, was not the Agnes he once loved so madly. The wild, unsettled years that had passed; the thirteen restless years of wandering through foreign lands in search of happiness—of oblivion, seemed like a troubled dream to him. He lived again in the present—in the sunshine of Nina’s warm, brown eyes. He was happy in the present, with the sunny-hearted Nina beside him, playing for him, singing for him, laughing for him. Frank told her he was going to have her laugh set to music by the fairies, and have it sung by the brightest birds of Eden.

The afternoon was warm and dreamy; a soft haze shrouded the air; the softest breeze floated through the thick summer foliage.

Nina was mounted upon her coal-black Zephyr—a most zepherial little piece of horse-flesh, fleet as the wind. Frank was by her side.

“Which way to-day, dear Nina?”

“Which ever way Zephyr takes.”

Zephyr took the road to Beverly Park. The Hall had been refitted, and looked itself again. The two rode through the park and grounds, viewing the improvements that had been made, alighting at length before the great door of the Hall.

“Stay, sweet Nina; there is one spot I wish to show you, you never have seen it. It was not completed till yesterday.”

Frank led her through the garden to the most poetic little arbor ever Eastern dame sighed in. Recal to your mind the most beautiful poetry you ever read or dreamed of—your beau-ideal of poetry—whether it be Byron’s, Shelley’s, Shakspeare’s, your own, or Mother Goose’s, and the little poem of an arbor stands in its beauty before you.

Nina’s delight was rapturous. After exhausting all the known adjectives in its praise, Nina sat quietly down within it, Francis by her side, and talked with him about music, and flowers, and poetry, and all the bright things in nature. She was playful and enthusiastic by turns. Every thing by fits, and nothing long.

Frank took her hand at last—her little, soft, warm hand—and calling up a serious, tender look?—

“Nina,” said he, “I have traveled the world over, ay, more than once; I have seen many, very many beautiful beings; but never one like thee, sweet Nina. I will not say thou art the most beautiful, but I will say, thou art the most necessary to my existence, to my whole nature, of all earth contains. I love thee. Dearest Nina, may I call thee mine?”

“Whew! The girl and her fleet Zephyr were gone.”

“Gone!—well—”

“Well what, good Sprite?”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, my very good Sprite. What then?”

“I may be allowed to criticise?”

“Certainly.”

“I do not like your story. It is not—”

“No!”

“It is neither well expressed, nor well arranged, nor at all satisfactory. The sequel! Were they, Frank and Nina, married? What’s a story without a wedding?”

“The sequel thou shalt have; the wedding too. They were married, just three weeks after the arbor scene—Frank and Nina.”

“What became of Edward and Clara?”

“They became one, shortly after Frank started on his thirteen years pilgrimage.”

“Frank’s mother?”

“Went to live with Edward and Clara. She died at a happy old age, blessed with good children, and good grand—”

“Kate and George?”

“Were united in the holy bands of wedlock.”

“The Miss Linwoods?”

“Miss Linwood, never having made up her mind on ‘the all-important subject,’ remained in statu quo. Miss Laura Linwood eloped with a younger son’s younger son.”

“Was Edward a Beverly?”

“Yes.”

“What was Nina’s name? Nina what, before she became a Beverly?”

“Nina—I have forgotten what.”

“Strange.”

“Any thing more, good Sprite?”

“Much more; you seem to forget the great importance of a moral.”

“Not in the least, good natured Sprite. The moral is, doing right is its own exceeding great reward.”

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OR, ROSE BUDD.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

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(Continued from page 228.)