Will nothing move him? The Two Foscari. The streets of a crowded metropolis, which, with their noise and clamor, their variety of lights, and the eternally changing bustle of their hundred groups, offer, by night especially, a spectacle which, though composed of the most vulgar materials, when they are separately considered, has, when they are combined, a striking and powerful effect upon the imagination. At a late hour on the following night, when London presented such a scene as we have described, two persons were winding their way to the Palace of Whitehall. One was an individual of the male sex, in whom might have been seen, even through the gloom, a polished and dignified bearing, which, together with his dress—though of the Puritanic order—declared him a gentleman of more than ordinary rank. His companion was a delicate woman, evidently like himself of the most genteel class, but attired in the simplest and plainest walking costume of the times. She leaned on his arm with much appearance of womanly trust, although there was an air of self-confidence in her step, suggesting the idea of one capable of acting alone on occasion of emergency, and a striking yet perfectly feminine dignity presiding over her whole aspect. “I have counseled your visiting him at this late hour,” said the gentleman, “because, as the only hope lies in striking terror into his conscience, the purpose may be best answered in the solitude and silence of a season like this. Conscience is a coward in the daylight, but darkness and night generally give her courage to assert her power.” “True, William,” replied Alice Heath, (for she it was, and her companion, as the reader is aware by this time, was her husband,) “true—but alas! I fear for the success of my visit; the individual of whom we are speaking deceives himself no less than others, and therefore to him she is a coward at all times. Hast thou not read what my poor dead grandfather’s old acquaintance has written about a man’s ‘making such a sinner of his conscience as to believe his own lies’?” “I have not forgotten the passage, my Alice, and ever correct in your judgment, you have penetrated rightly into the singular character we are alluding to. I wot it were hard for himself to say how far he has been actuated by pure, and how far by ambitious motives, in the hand he has had in the sentence of the king. Nevertheless, you would believe his conscience to be not altogether dead, had you seen him tremble and grow pale yesterday in the court, during the reading of the warrant, (which, by the way, he had worded and written with his own hands,) when Charles Stuart raised his eyes and looked upon him as if to imply that he knew him for the instigator, and no unselfish one either, of his doom. The emotion he then testified, it was, which led me to hope he may yet be operated upon to prevent the fatal judgment from taking effect. It is true, Charles is a traitor, and I cannot regret that in being arraigned and tried, an example has been made of him. But having from the first anticipated this result, except for your father, Alice, I would have had no part in the matter, being entirely opposed to the shedding of his blood. All ends which his death can accomplish have already been answered; and I devoutly pray that the effort your gentle heart is now about to make for the saving of his life, may be blessed in procuring that merciful result.” At this moment they paused before the magnificent structure known as the Palace of Whitehall, and applied for admission. Vacated some time since by the king, it was now occupied by his rival in power, the aspiring Cromwell; and although the hour was so late, the vast pile was still illuminated. Having gained speedy access to the main building, the visiters were admitted by a servant in the gorgeous livery of the fallen monarch. Heath requested to be shown to an anteroom, while Alice solicited to be conducted without previous announcement to the presence of his master. After a moment’s hesitation on the part of the servant, which, however, was quickly overcome by her persuasive manner, he conducted her through various spacious halls, and up numerous flights of stairs, till pausing suddenly before the door of a chamber, he knocked gently. As they waited for an answer, the accents of prayer were distinctly audible. They were desired to enter; the servant threw open the door, simply announcing a lady. Alice entered, and found herself alone with Cromwell. The apartment was an anteroom attached to the spacious bed-chamber formerly belonging to the king. It was luxuriously furnished with all the appliances of ease and elegance suitable to a royal with-drawing room. Tables and chairs of rose-wood, richly inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, were arranged in order around the room; magnificent vases of porcelain decorated the mantel-piece; statues from the chisel of Michael Angelo stood in the niches; and pictures in gorgeous frames hung upon the walls. There, near a table, on which burned a single-shaded lamp, standing upright, in the attitude of prayer, from which he had just been interrupted, stood the occupant. For an instant—as she lingered near the door, and looked upon his figure, which bore so strongly the impress of power, and felt that on his word hung the fate of him for whom she had come to plead—she already feared for the success of her mission, and would fain almost have retracted her visit. But remembering the accents of prayer she had heard while waiting without, she considered that her purposed appeal was to the conscience of one whom she had just surprised, as it were, in the presence of his Maker, and took courage to advance. “May I pray thee to approach, and be seated, madam, and unfold the object of this visit,” said Cromwell, in a thick, rapid utterance, the result of his surprise, as he waved his visiter to a chair. “At that distance, and by this light, I can hardly distinguish the features of the lady who so inopportunely and unceremoniously honors me with her presence.” Immediately advancing, she threw back her hood, and offering him her hand, said, “It is Alice Heath, the daughter of your friend, General Lisle.” Cromwell’s rugged countenance expressed the utmost surprise, as he awkwardly strove to assume a courtesy foreign to his manner, and exchange his first ungracious greeting for something of a more cordial welcome. With exceeding tact, Alice hastened to relieve his embarrassment, by falling back into the chair he had offered, and at once declaring the purpose of her visit. “General Cromwell,” she began, in a voice sweetly distinct, “you stand high in the eyes of man, not only as a patriot, but a strict and conscientious servant of the Most High. As such, you have been the main instrument in procuring the doom now hanging in awful expectation over the head of him who once tenanted, in the same splendor that now surrounds yourself, the building in which I find you. Methinks his vacation of these princely premises, and your succession thereunto, renders you scarcely capable of being a disinterested advocate for his death—since, by it, you become successor to all the pomp and power formerly his. Have you asked yourself the question whether no motives of self-aggrandisement have tainted this deed of patriotism, or sullied this act of religion?” “Your language is unwarrantable and unbecoming, madam,” said Cromwell, deadly pale and trembling violently; “it is written—” “Excuse me,” said Alice, interrupting him; “you think it uncourteous and even impertinent that I should intrude upon you with a question such as I but now addressed to you. But, General Cromwell, a human life is at stake, and that the life of no ordinary being, but the descendant of a race of kings. Nay, hear me out, sir, I beg of you. Charles Stuart is about to die an awful and a violent death; your voice has condemned him—your voice can yet save him. If it be your country’s weal that you desire, that object has been already sufficiently answered by the example of his trial; or, if it is to further the cause of the Lord of Hosts that you place yourself at the head of Britain in his place, be assured that he who would assert his power by surrounding himself with a pomp like this, is no delegate of One who commissioned Moses to lead his people through the wilderness, a sharer in the common lot, and a houseless wanderer like themselves. Bethink you, therefore, what must be the doom of him at the final judgment, who—for the sake of ambition and pride—in order that he might for the brief space of his life enjoy luxury and power—under the borrowed name, too, of that God who views the act with horror and detestation—stains his hands with parricidal blood. Yes, General Cromwell, for thy own soul’s, if not for mercy’s sake, I entreat thee, in whom alone lies the power, to cause Charles Stuart’s sentence to be remitted.” As she waxed warm in her enthusiasm, Alice Heath had risen and drawn close to Cromwell, who was still standing, as on her entrance, and in her entreaty, she had even laid her hand on his arm. His tremor and pallor had increased every moment while she spoke, and though at first he would have interrupted her, he seemed very greatly at a loss, and little disposed to reply. After a few moment’s hesitation, during which Alice looked in his face with the deepest anxiety, and awaited his answer, he said, “Go to, young woman, who presumest to interfere between a judge raised up for the redemption of England, and a traitor king, whom the Lord hath permitted to be condemned to the axe. As my soul liveth, and as He liveth who will one day make me a ruler in Israel, thou hast more than the vanity of thy sex, in hoping by thy foolish speech to move me to lift up my hand against the decree of the Almighty. Truly—” “Nay, General Cromwell,” said Alice, interrupting him, as soon as she perceived he was about to enter into one of his lengthy and pointless harangues “nay, you evade the matter both with me and with the conscience whose workings I have for the last few moments beheld in the disorder of your frame. Have its pleadings—for to them I look and not to any eloquence of mine own—been of no avail? Will it please you to do aught for the king?” “Young lady,” replied Cromwell, bursting into tears, which he was occasionally wont to do, “a man like me, who is called to perform great acts in Israel, had need to be immovable to feelings of human charities. Think you not it is painful to our mortal sympathies to be called upon to execute the righteous judgments of Heaven, while we are yet in the body. And think you that when we must remove some prime tyrant that the instruments of his removal can at all times view their part in his punishment with unshaken nerves? Must they not even at times doubt the inspiration under which they have felt and acted? Must they not occasionally question the origin of that strong impulse which appears the inward answer to prayer for direction under heavenly difficulties, and in their disturbed apprehensions, confuse even the responses of truth with the strong delusions of Satan. Would that the Lord would harden my heart even as he hardened that of—” “Stop, sir,” said Alice, again interrupting him ere his softened mood should have passed away, “utter not such a sacrilegeous wish. Why are the kindly sympathies which you describe implanted in your bosom, unless it be to prevent your ambition from stifling your humanity? The rather encourage them, and save Charles Stuart. Let your mind dwell upon the many traits of nobleness in his character which might be mentioned with enthusiasm, ay, and with sorrow, too, that they should be thus sacrificed.” “The Most High, young woman, will have no fainters in spirit in his service—none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of the Amalekites. To be brief—it waxes late; to discuss this topic longer is but to distress us both. Charles Stuart must die—the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.” As he spoke, he bowed with a determined but respectful reverence, and when he lifted up his head, the expression of his features told Alice that the doom of the king was irrevocably fixed. “I see there is no hope,” said she, with a deep sigh, as Cromwell spoke these words in a tone of decision which left her no further encouragement, and with a brevity so unusual to him. Nor was his hint to close the interview lost upon her. “No hope!” she repeated, drawing back. “I leave you, then, inexorable man of iron, and may you not plead thus in vain for mercy at the bar of God.” So saying, she turned, and rejoining her husband who remained in waiting for her, they returned together to Lisle’s house. [To be continued.
THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys
THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE. [SEE ENGRAVING.] The fine picture which our artist has given us for this number of our Magazine, is a spirited representation of a scene in the lives of those men of violence and murder who, setting at defiance both human and divine laws, wrest from the unarmed or overpowered traveler, amid the mountainous districts of Europe, the means of subsistence they are too idle to obtain through honest industry. To their secret retreat the band of robbers have been traced by armed soldiers, whose approach they are anxiously watching. The wife of the robber-chief is by his side. By songs, stories, and pictures, much false sympathy has been created in the minds of the unreflecting for “bold brigands,” who are represented too often as possessed of chivalrous feelings and generous sentiments, while a charm is thrown about their wild and reckless lives which is altogether unreal. Love, too, a often brought in to give a warmer and more attractive color to the pictures thus drawn. The roving bandit is represented as loving passionately and tenderly some refined, pure-hearted, and high-souled woman, who, in turn, pours out for him her heart’s best affections. Different from all this is the hard and harsh reality of the bandit’s life. He is no man of fine feelings and generous sympathies, but a selfish and cruel-minded villain; and between him and the woman, who, as his wife, shares his life of exposure and violence, there can be no gentle passages of affection, for these are only born of love laid upon the solid foundations of virtuous respect. The real truth on this subject, Dumas has given in a Calabrian story. A body of soldiers had pursued a band of mountain robbers, in Calabria, and hemmed them in so effectually that, with all the passes guarded, escape seemed impossible. From this dilemma the chief determined to relieve his men, as they had refused to surrender, although promised pardon if they would give up their leader. The only possible way of escape was by crossing a deep chasm, so wide, that even the supple chamois could not make the fearful leap in safety. To reach this point, it was necessary to go along a narrow pass, near which sentinels had been placed. The movement was made at night. The chief of the robbers had a wife, and she had a babe at her bosom. For days they had been without food, except such roots as they dug from the ground, and the want of nourishment had dried the fountain of life in the mother’s breast, and the babe pined and fretted with hunger. As the little band moved silently along the narrow path, in which, if discovered by the soldiers, their destruction would be inevitable, the suffering babe began to cry. Instantly it was seized by the father, swung in the air, and its brains dashed out against a tree. For a moment the mother stood like a statue of horror, then gathering the mutilated remains of her murdered babe in her apron, she followed the retreating party. Safely, through the skill of the chief, the chasm was passed, and they were beyond the reach of danger. All, then, after procuring some food, lay down to sleep, except a sentinel and the mother, who dug a grave with her own hands, in which to bury her child. This sad duty performed, she returned to the spot where her husband and his companions lay in deep slumber. It was not difficult for her to persuade the tired and sleepy sentinel to let her take his place, and soon she alone remained awake. Then stealthily approaching the spot where the father of her dead babe lay, she placed the muzzle of the piece she had taken from the sentinel within a few inches of his breast, and pulled the trigger. The ball passed through his heart! Here we have something of the reality attending the life of a “bold brigand.” A lawless robber and murderer is incapable of such a sentiment as the true love of a woman. This feeling lives only in the breast of the virtuous. And whenever the poet or the novelist represents a pirate or robber as loving faithfully and tenderly some beautiful, true-hearted woman, the reader may set it all down as mere romance. Such things are contrary to the very nature of things. They never exist in real life. True love of woman is an unselfish love; but the inordinate self-love of these men leads them so utterly to disregard the rights of others, as to commit robbery and murder. How, then, are they capable of loving any thing out of themselves? It is impossible. A bitter fountain cannot send forth sweet water.
BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. II. ——— BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A. ——— Once again was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fife Called our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life: We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary night Had traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene of Palo Alto’s fight— For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side, Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide. All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the field, They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield. One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay— Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray; But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood, Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood. When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a man And a father, sent them back before the onward march began— When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train, Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain— We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath, While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death. As we marched along the prairie, creeping, cat-like, from the day, We could see the spotted jaguar, stealing from his human prey, While in flocks the huge, majestic condor with his mighty wings Flapped from his unusual feast, and swept above the plain in rings, Shrieking, as he clove the air, some desperate necromantic charm Over the pale, enchanted bodies that had lost the power of harm. Here and there, as we proceeded, lying wounded in our way We would meet some pallid victim, perishing in the face of day; He was, yesterday, a foeman—now, a helpless, suffering man, And a brother, praying sadly for some good Samaritan: So we bound his wounds and fed him—each one from his little store Taking what his pitying heart would fain have made a great deal more. Hour by hour we marched in silence, throwing out in our advance Daring souls with dauntless hearts, who laughed at lasso, ball and lance, And, as, riding like the wind, one dashed along our serried files,
Twice a thousand lips breathed welcome, twice a thousand eyes looked smiles; But at last the tidings reached us that our foes had made a stand Between us and our gallant friends, near the yellow Rio Grande. On we went with bounding hearts till the prairie lay behind. While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind; But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,[1] the bristling chapparal, With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall; And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green, Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine. The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain, With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train, And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot, Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot; But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then, Acknowledging their courtesy, we gave it back like men. But our men, though doing wonders, began to disappear, When Ridgely thundered with his guns up from the distant rear, And we heard his balls go crashing through the thick palmetto trees, And the shrieks of wounded Mexicans come ringing up the breeze; And we hurried on like maniacs, scarcely stopping to take breath, While every where around us rushed the messengers of death! By this time our brave infantry had reached the chapparal:— Here and there we heard our comrades answering one another’s call; And the sharp crack of their muskets, and the death-cries of their foes, With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose! All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonet Flashed around, as desperate men in the deadly mÊlÉe met. Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke, On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke, Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout of May, And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way: Ridgely’s voice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries— Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies, As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine, May and Inge, with all their men, for an instant filled the scene— Rushing like an autumn tempest through the chapparal, down the glen, May, half-hidden by streaming hair, with gallant Inge led on the men, Loud hurraing: but a crash! and Inge clutched wildly at his rein— And twice a score of neighing steeds swept riderless along the plain. All in vain: another instant! May was riding o’er the wall, Waving on his fiery followers through the tangled chapparal; Wheeling in a moment, backward, with the same resistless force Came the hero, like a giant, on his gaunt and sinewy horse;— As our infantry came up, battling boldly by his gun, General La Vega yielded, and the battery was won. But the brave TampicoÄns still refused to fly or yield, And maintained the unequal fight until the last one kissed the field; When their flag went down a cry of anguish rent the Mexic ranks, And our foemen broke and fled despairing toward the river’s banks. All was over: we pursued them, and the now-descending sun, Saw Resaca de la Palma’s bloody battle lost and won! Resaca de la Palma—the Swamp of Palms. Resaca has no equivalent in English. Literally speaking, it is a place on which the tide ebbs and flows. |
AN ESSAY ON AMERICAN LITERATURE AND ITS PROSPECTS. ——— BY MRS. M. A. FORD. ——— A national literature, purely our own, must rise superior to an imitation of that fostered by the institutions of the old world, and of course sustaining them. The principles of liberty and independence, which govern our country, are united in our national motto, with that which only can give them permanency, Virtue. Loose this bond of union, and the beautiful fabric of our institutions falls forever. To sustain virtue in her proud position, should then be the principal aim of republican literature. It is this alone which will preserve us from the disastrous fate of former republics, beginning, like our own, with a dawn of prosperity most auspicious, but whose fall, when at the very noon of fame and power, startled and disappointed a world. Most of the writers and philosophers of ancient times, who defended virtue, wrote, regardless of the vengeance of those corrupt and luxurious governments under which they lived. Thus was their testimony rendered more dear to succeeding generations, from the sacrifice of selfish interest with which it was given. That genius which is called into action by the desire of fame only, must be interested; that stimulated by gain alone must be mercenary. Happily there is not enough of these encouragements in our new country to induce the many to leave the walks of busy life, or the more healthful though rugged paths of labor, from motives so liable to disappointment. Few can afford to devote a life to literature, and many of our brightest gems in poetry and prose are the offspring of minds, whose influence is more powerfully felt in the great action of our nation’s progress, or the refining process of their own good example on the morals of society. Others just peep out from the veil of their cherished domestic duties, to throw a simple flower into the world’s path. If lost, or unheeded, it causes no aching of the heart. The great system of general education, now disseminating its light throughout our land, will place knowledge a welcome guest at every cottage hearth, and national intelligence will form the firm basis of our national literature. The labor of intense thought will not fall too heavily on the few. From the shade of every valley, from the height of every hill, genius will spring forth. The friction of cheerful and healthful labor, will light the spark, which virtuous emulation will fan to a flame. From the freedom and happiness enjoyed, must necessarily arise a grateful sense of these blessings, a warm expression of that sense, and an anxiety to perpetuate those blessings. With genius and education, these feelings will find a vent in the flowing numbers of song, or the more perspicuous paragraphs of prose. In both the old and new world, the present is a golden age of literature, rich in its array of brilliant talents and gifted minds. Some of these are glorious as the day-star, and like it, the harbingers of increasing light. Minds that from their own fullness impart knowledge and feelings, whose gushings are like those of the mountain stream, pure even when impetuous. Others are like the meteor, brilliant, startling; their path a track of fire, but under that bright deception, like that wandering light are only a combination of unwholesome exhalations. Under their false glare, the clouds of vice are tinged with beauty, and the guilt of crime seems but the trace of romantic catastrophe. That literature alone is valuable, which leaves an impression of increased knowledge, and improved moral sentiments, of chastened feeling and benign impulses, of virtuous resolutions and high aspirations. By these, man is prepared to fill the high station for which the Creator designed him. To partake of the joys of life without selfishness, to meet its sorrows with fortitude, to practice its virtues with firmness, to avoid its errors by resolution, and to dispense its charities with the feeling of brother toward brother. Under a free government, the arts and intrigue of the courtier would be useless and disgraceful appendages to the accomplishments that ornament life. Unsullied honor is based on truth and generous feeling, and the blessings enjoyed by freemen will teach them not to treat lightly the privileges of others. As the principles they profess are so different from those maintained by the policy of monarchical courts, the expression of them must also differ, and our country can proudly point to those, whose writings on these subjects may justly be considered standards for future efforts. Constellations are already forming in our literary skies; some stars shining out in bold relief, like those glowing in the belt of Orion, or sparkling in the eye of Aldebaren. Some stretch across the northern sky, separate and grand as those in the Ursa major, while others timidly shrink from their own simplicity and beauty, like the meek twinkling of Pleiads. But all have their peculiar influence. History, with its crowding events and exciting struggles, has already employed many gifted pens in our land. That of Bancroft, with his strong resources and vivid style; of Prescott, with his fine arrangement and freshness, combined with his clear narrative and research, and others, whose talents a limited essay is obliged to pass without remark. Ethics and philosophy have brought to their aid a strong array of brilliant minds; the peculiar lights of each have their admirers. Comparison might be considered invidious, and it is enough that their names and talents belong to their country. In various sciences, the American mind has shown itself capable of deep investigation, and our writers on these subjects, by their clear elucidations, have shed light on much that was shadowed in doubt. In medical learning many works have appeared, and some of them of high importance and value. The number must increase, for the varied climate and diseases of our country require it, and the young physician, just entering on the practice of his profession in some newly settled prairie, or border land of the northern lakes, will find an American author his best guide in the treatment of diseases that differ so much in their nature from those of Europe, as to be but lightly glanced at by the best medical writers of the old world. Works on law are also increasing; some of them emanating from those whose eloquence has “held captive their hearers.” If they cannot always impart that charm which seems the peculiar privilege of the few, their lessons must be the surest guide to the American lawyer; for, though including the best portions of the English code, there are so many peculiarities appertaining to the different States of the Union, each a sovereignty in itself, that national works must offer the clearest elucidations of all difficult cases. Descriptive and narrative literature is rich in its contributions. The graceful ease and elegant diction of Irving, his vivid imagination and touching feeling, and the charm which he throws around his subject, have gained him an enviable fame both at home and abroad. In the peculiar walks of Indian life, and the lonely daring of pioneer character, the pen of Cooper moves like a spell, and when it dips in the sea-wave—like the stroke of the oar, bright droppings glisten on its rising. We can but name a few of the many whose talents have adorned this portion of literature. The interesting delineations of Simms, whose patriotic feeling glows under a southern sky; the reminiscent charm of Kennedy; the graphic strength of Paulding; the lively portraiture of Mrs. Kirkland, and the graceful but feeling pictures of Miss Sedgwick, recur to our memory. These have all written on American subjects, and many more of equal merit might be added, if space allowed. In poetry we have the bright imagery and refreshing beauty of Bryant, whose genius, like a clear stream, reflects the heavens above, and the loveliness of nature around. Many others have the charm of originality, and a versification almost musical, but the votaries of the muse are so numerous, we must pass them without naming, yet our country may be proud of many a wild flower of poesy, the fragrance of which has been borne over the ocean, and appreciated in other lands. The sweetness and beauty of Mrs. Sigourney’s muse, the elegance and delicacy of Halleck, the tenderness and strong feeling of Dana, the light grace of Willis, and many others of equal genius and talent are crowding on our memory. But in this, as in every other branch, we must look to the future for the fulfillment of the high destiny of American literature. Perhaps nothing has contributed more to the diffusion of intellectual knowledge, than periodical literature, which includes the reviews, magazines, and daily and weekly newspapers. Not a great many years have passed since the number of these were few, and though that few were of known excellence, how sparing was the patronage bestowed on them. How were the journals of other lands looked to for that supply of intellectual beauty, which the gifted minds of our own countrymen needed but a fair encouragement to pour forth. Yet who does not now look back with pride to the pioneer path of our first periodicals, those early gatherers of essays, showing the powers of mind now more strongly developed in our country? These, in later years, have been followed by a gradual increase, and we can now proudly point to their numbers, many of them varied with the classic learning and lighter literature of contributors, whose talents would do honor to any country. Possessing great advantages from its unassuming appearance and light form, periodical literature travels through the land. Like a gentle stream it winds its way, with banks covered with flowers, and pebbled bed, too pure to sully its waters. It comes to the door of the cottager to refresh him after labor. Its murmurs are heard near the village-green, and youth hastens to its welcome bath. If it bears not on its breast the heavy freight the larger river boasts, the light skiff on its waters offers a bijouterie that is truly interesting and valuable. Gems of poetry, incidents in history, pearls from the ocean, legends of the land, light from the sciences, and aid from the arts. Some of the most beautiful effusions of American genius have graced the pages of periodical literature. Timid and retiring talent has been encouraged to take the first step in a path it is destined to illumine. How many gems from the ocean of thought have been brought to the surface, to sparkle on the view by the aid of this species of literature? What pearls from the shells which memory gathers, have thrown the faint but touching light of the past upon the present? The gifted writers whose efforts have appeared on the pages of periodical literature, are too numerous, and many of them too equal in merit, though different in style, to be particularly named. This is especially the case with female writers, from some of whose pens the finely pointed moral or touching incident of narrative comes forth with varied beauty, but almost equal claims to attention. This may be said with less force of male writers, where the scintillations of wit and graceful charm of humor in some, is in contrast with the grave discussions and intellectual strength of others, where the elegance of classic learning stands side by side with useful essays on national policy. But the bright prospect of future American literature again opens before us in all its moral grandeur. When time shall have quieted the ruder anxieties of our being, when comfortable independence shall have passed from the few to the many, and the busy exertion of life can take longer rest from its labors, when the dignity of intellect shall outweigh that of wealth, how will the treasures of mind be poured on our land! Future American literature must be very varied, from the great difference of climate and habits in our widely extended country. Stretching its immense length along the great Atlantic, the firm barrier of its waters, it almost connects the frozen pole with the burning Equator. The fervid imaginations of the sunny South will breathe their strains under the shadow of the lime-tree, and amidst the fragrance of the orange-grove, and the scenery and flowers that give emblems to their poetry, will be as strange to the dwellers on the rock-bound coast of the North-Eastern States, as the acacia of Arabia is to the Icelander, but its strange beauty will be dear to them, for it is American still. From the calm, cold North, the calculations of Philosophy and the discoveries of scientific research will continue to issue. The progress already made, forms a bright page in our history, and the last great discovery which has realized the vision of our venerated Franklin, making the lightning of heaven the agent of earth, seems like a stray beam from the science of the skies. By it, knowledge, love, feeling, travel with the unseen speed of “angel’s visits.” The name of Morse will find a high association with that of the “Sage of the Revolution.” For the light yet elegant portions of literature, our country presents a wide field. The history of Poetry in the old world, is mournfully, painfully interesting, from the blind dependence of the immortal Homer, down to the despairing end of the gifted Chatterton. From thence to the present time, how few have been successful, and of that few, how oft have their pages been marked, not, indeed, by the tear of weary anguish and hope deferred, but by a bitterness of sentiment filling the place from whence that tear was obliterated. Alas! how many strings in the harp of Genius have been broken by the force of its own disappointed feelings. Pastoral poetry may well offer its incense at the shrine of our country’s scenery and productions, and breathe its strains in harmony with the happiness of American rural life. Here there need be no servile muse to sing of fruits the parched lip never tasted, nor of groves and streams whose verdure and coolness were felt not in the close atmosphere of garret penury. But from homes rendered happy by industry and content, the poets of our land may breathe their strains. The heart will speak from its own fullness, like the ascending vapor of the cottage chimney, that tells the comfort and warmth of the hearth beneath its roof. Narrative prose and heroic verse have a deep fount from whence to draw. It is true the legendary lore of our country has not yet the hoariness of age upon it, but what should recommend it more, it has the light of truth. If we have not moss-grown towers, whose mouldy recesses tell of ambition and cruelty, we have traces on the hills, and monuments in the vales of our varied landscape, that awaken the memory of deeds whose heroism might rival the days of chivalry; of battles where the disparity of force called forth the virtuous sacrifice of another Leonidas, of acts of patriotism and self-devotion worthy that purest of Romans, Regulus. Love, during the struggle of the Revolution, was a sentiment, so guided by high impulses, as to offer to the pen of historical romance the most touching and thrilling incidents; vows rendered more sacred by the parting of the plighted, not to be renewed at the altar until the light of liberty shone on their country. The simple ribbon-knot and the glossy braid of hair, were to the patriot-lover talismans in the hour of danger; and courage to meet every trial came with the sweet thoughts of home and happiness with his American maid. Mothers, with Spartan virtue, sacrificed their maternal tenderness on the altar of liberty, and urged the steps of their sons to the combat. Aged fathers, with eager though feeble hands, fastened the sword of their early days on the youthful limbs of those sons; and when their loved forms were brought back from the field of their country’s glory, cold in death, have pillowed their white locks on the young breasts, and died under the excitement of sorrow struggling with patriotic pride and glory. Biography might appear like an overloaded vessel, her deck crowded with the bright and honored names of heroes, statesmen, patriots, scholars, and others, the famed and gifted of our land—but she gallantly bears the freight, for a greater than CÆsar is among them. Washington! how the full tide of feeling gushes at the name—a nation’s pride and glory, and the admiration of the world. Many brilliant pens have told his character and fame, and yet the theme seems new. How bright a pattern to American youth, is the docility of his childhood, and submission to parental rule, the beautiful truth of his boyhood, and pure morality of his youth. His tenderness, even in the noon of his fame, to the venerable mother, on whose breast at parting fell the strange but unchecked tears of manhood. His pure patriotism, his undaunted courage, his unchanging firmness and impartial justice, his meek devotion and faith in the God of nations, all present a beautiful example for imitation. Happy America! rearing in your own bosom the son whose talents and virtues were your protection in the hour of danger. And gloriously was he associated with the bright host of heroes and patriots, whose deathless names will live with his in the grateful memory of the country to which they gave freedom and independence. With such themes biography holds, and must continue to hold, an elevated rank in American literature; and when to these is added the bright list of those who, in later times have periled their all for their country’s glory, or whose talents and virtues have brightened her fame, the task of perpetuating their names and deeds to posterity will employ many gifted minds, and must look far into the future for its completion. The ancient history of our country lies hid in the western mounds, or amidst the buried relics of past ages. Forests, in Central America, have grown over the ruins of temples and dwellings that, awakened from their sleep of ages by a Stephens and others, will in time become the Palmyra of the Western World. In the grandeur of their mysteries conjecture seems lost, yet there would appear a connection between them and the aboriginal race of our own land, whose lingering steps are receding toward the Pacific. In this remaining posterity of a lost genealogy, all that is left to tell the tale of the race from whence they sprung, is their firm independence, undying love of country, deep sense of injury and spirit of revenge, and strong faith of happier homes beyond the grave. Is not this a theme worthy the pen of the American poet, philosopher, antiquarian, or novelist? With the many heroic virtues of Indian character, can we wonder that their principal fault should be that which filial piety made glorious in a Hannibal. In future they will be better understood, and while justice and humanity, nay, national pride, call on our government to civilize and enlighten them, the pens of their white brethren will show their true lineaments, and perhaps the hand of some American antiquary lift the veil that hides their lost ancestry. While the music of their language yet lingers in the names of our rivers, we cannot forget their claims. In a lyric of much sweetness, a gifted poetess of our country pleads that they may not be changed. How quickly their sound arrests the attention of the traveler and stranger? How softly their syllables fall from the lips of beauty. There seems a magic spell about them. May it be their protection from any change. It is but just that the streams that first knew the Indians in their pride and glory should retain the melody of their language. In many instances, the Indian character has been found capable of great refinement from education, and of the few who have been placed in our colleges, some have evinced superior talents. How pleasing is the thought that these children of the forest may hereafter contribute to the national literature of America. Will their strains be mournful, like the plaintive songs of the Israelites by the waters of the Euphrates? Perhaps not, for though many are far removed from the more eastern homes of their fathers, still it is their native land, now bounded only by the waves of the Pacific. In anticipating the future literature of our country, its glorious effects on other nations should not be forgotten. The freedom and happiness that could fan into flame all that is great in mind, and all that is beautiful in virtue, must be appreciated; and from the combined effect of her own great example, and the persuasive influence of a literature then truly American, our country will become the standard of future republics.
THE CRY OF THE FORSAKEN. ——— BY GIFTIE. ——— Sing me to sleep, dear mother, Upon thy faithful breast— Ah! many a day hath passed, mother, Since I laid me there to rest. Now I am weary, weary, And I fain would sleep once more, And dream such dreams of heaven, As I used to dream of yore. Since then I’ve known Love’s power, mother— Its heritage is tears— And I have felt, sweet mother, Its wild tumultuous fears. Now hath the idol fallen, On my soul’s ruined shrine— All other hearts deceive me, In grief I turn to thine. Lull me to rest, kind mother, And sing to me the while— These tearful eyes shall cease to weep These lips put on a smile. And tell me of that blessed land Where love is not in vain, And they who wept despairingly Shall never weep again. Lull me to rest, dear mother, Sing to me soft and low, The same sweet mournful strain, mother, You sang me long ago, I am weary and heart-broken, And I fain would be at rest, Oh take me in thine arms, mother— Let me slumber on thy breast.
A MIDNIGHT STORM IN MARCH. ——— BY CAROLINE MAY. ——— The storm beats loud against my window-pane, And though upon the pillow of my bed In pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head, I cannot sleep for the excited train Of thoughts the storm arouses in my brain. O, wretched poor, who have no home—or if A home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff, For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain, Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail, Venting your rage beneath the flag of night— A black flag, without stars—how do they quail, Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might! O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad tale Make rich hearts open with the opening light.
BUONDLEMONTE. A TALE OF ITALY. ——— BY JOSEPH A. NUNES. ———
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