TO HELEN.

“I strive to call the vision back;I strive in vain, but stillThe bosom chords so sweetly touchedIn plaintive tumult thrill.”

“I strive to call the vision back;

I strive in vain, but still

The bosom chords so sweetly touched

In plaintive tumult thrill.”

And I ask myself what is this? and my heart tells me it is love—yea! the voices of a thousand angels proclaim,It is Love!

My dream ended. With the imaginary words still ringing in my ears, I awoke. I scarcely knew whether to think myself the most happy or most miserable creature on earth. Full of conflicting emotions, I rushed out into the clear morning air. It was now early spring. The weather was cool, bracing, delightful. A delicious fragrance was wafted from the neighboring woods and fields, and I breathed freely, and felt all the vigor—the majesty of manhood. My heart was full to overflowing. I fancied the heavens, the rising sunbeams, the bustling pedestrians, all smiled upon me; and I was enchanted with the beauty of nature, the benevolence and affection of mankind. I wondered if ever such a thing as a misanthrope really existed, and my joyous heart and buoyant mind answered, no! Oh, heaven-born flame!—lit by angels, fanned into existence by the Divine hand—what art thou—

“Most sacred fyre, that burliest mightilyIn living brests, ykindled first above,Emongst th’ eternall spheres and lamping sky,And thence poured into men, which men callLove?”

“Most sacred fyre, that burliest mightily

In living brests, ykindled first above,

Emongst th’ eternall spheres and lamping sky,

And thence poured into men, which men callLove?”

In a state of the most delightful beatitude, I rambled about during the day, my countenance irradiated with smiles, my heart bursting with the kindest feelings of humanity. Unconsciously I wandered near the dwelling of her I loved. I watched with eagerness for a glimpse of the fairy form, the bright vision of my dreams. A graceful figure glided from the door. That undulating, musical walk, those fairy-like feet, those sparkling eyes, shining like diamonds beneath a sweeping veil—oh! it could be no other—it was Virginia Melville! With intense, rapturous interest, I gazed upon her till she vanished in the distant throng. Then, indeed, I felt the bitterness of my lot. Days, mayhap weeks, were to pass before I could again feast my eyes on her charms. If the interim were to be a blank in my existence, I could bear it; but I felt that it was to be a desert. And, indeed, a most sterile one it proved. When, after a lapse of months, I look back upon the time, how slowly, painfully it wore away, I cannot conceive how I endured all the misery I suffered.

Once more I found myself inherpresence. Was it a dream? Did I really behold her again? How very, very beautiful she looked! Her sparkling eyes were full of mirth and intelligence, her lips were wreathed in the most fascinating smiles; she seemed the beau-ideal of all that is graceful, elegant and spiritual, and I felt—I keenly felt—how utterly unworthy I was of one so purely angelic.

After the usual compliments of the evening, Mr. Desmond prevailed on Virginia to try her skill on the piano. With the kindest smile imaginable, she acceded to the request; and gliding gracefully into the seat, she swept her fairy fingers over notes which had never been touched by any more fair or delicate. A light, pretty air was the subject of her muse. I listened with rapture to the flowing sounds, persuaded that if I had heard more brilliant musicians perform, I had never so thoroughly enjoyed the power of music. There was a soul, combined with a precision of time and facility of execution, in Miss Melville’s playing, that thrilled upon the finest chords of my heart, like the evening zephyr on the strings of an Æolian harp.

That night I wended my way home, so completely enchanted as to act like one in a delirium. I was overwhelmed with the most delightful sensations. For hours I could not sleep, and when, at length, an ecstatic trance stole over my senses, I had dreams so heavenly, so joyous, so full of love and hope and happiness, that I fancied Paradise had no joys to equal them—no angels so bright and beautiful as Virginia. To describe my varied sensations for the next week would require volumes—volumes which, when written, would breathe nothing but passion, wild, fervent and confused.

Accompanied by my friend Desmond, I continued constantly to visit the Miss Melvilles. In the presence of Virginia I now became silent. I could not speak. My heart was too full. Words appeared weak and inexpressive; and, with my eyes forever riveted on those charms that thrilled my soul, the hours flew past—hours the most delightful that I had ever spent—hours which will ever remain a bright, sunny spot in my past career.

Nothing had yet transpired illustrative of the title I have chosen for my autobiography. All went on to my satisfaction—though I had not the slightest cause to imagine that my passion was reciprocated—and I flattered myself with the belief that for once the course of true love ran smooth. Vanity of vanities! When has the philosophy of the Bard been in error?

If the reader will be kind enough to suppose that a few months have elapsed since my introduction to the Miss Melvilles, I shall introduce him to a social group, assembled at Mrs. Melville’s residence one fine evening in the early part of summer.

First in order, both by reason of their beauty and accomplishments, were the fair members of the circle, the two Miss Melvilles, Mrs. Annah, their amiable and elegant sister, and Miss Azile, an intimate friend. As a connection existed between the latter young lady and the Miss Melvilles, which I may find it necessary to revert to on some future occasion, I shall briefly sketch her portraiture.

Miss Azile was one of those persons who, once seen, are never forgotten. Seldom did there exist a being more highly gifted in mind and person. In her form and features there was symmetry, delicacy, elegance and expression; in her mind, acuteness, power and refinement. Her eye was one through which the rays of a lofty soul brilliantly beamed; her teeth were chiselled Parian, enshrined in ruby; and her dimpled cheek and glowing complexion were bowers for grace and love. She had a mind characterized by unusual vigor. Her wit was genuine, and when she indulged in satire, all felt the keenness of a weapon which, though mercifully wielded, was, in her hands, sanguinary, irresistible.

The ungentle portion of the company comprised Mr. Martagon, Mr. Pratt, Mr. Desmond and myself. As the two former have not been mentioned before, I shall expend a few lines in their illustration.

Mr. Martagon was a gentleman who, having, during his days of juvenile indiscretion, suffered his heart to be torn and pierced by various cruel young ladies, was somewhat afflicted with thecacöethes scribendi—a disease inseparable, I believe, from blighted affection. In person he was large, rawboned—perhaps a little unwieldy; but these characteristics were made up for by a countenance unusually prepossessing. Mr. Martagon was withal a wag among the ladies, and his wit was really quite pungent and original.

Mr. Pratt was of a different cast. Being closely related to the Miss Melvilles, there was an obvious resemblance, in features and mind, between him and those young ladies. A handsome person, a countenance mild but decisive, and a highly intelligent mind, stored with much useful knowledge, formed some of those recommendations which endeared him to the one sex and caused him to be admired and esteemed by the other.

Having now, assisted by the courtesy of the reader, delineated imperfectly the chief objects of my little scene, I shall take a short respite, leaving behind me the assurance that, in my second book, much rare and amusing matter may be expected.

TO HELEN.

———

BY EDGAR A. POE.

———

Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicéan barks of yoreThat gently, o’er a perfumed sea,The weary, wayworn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs, have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece—To the grandeur that was Rome.Lo! in that shadowy window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The folded scroll within thy hand—Ah! Psyche, from the regions whichAre Holy-Land!

Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicéan barks of yoreThat gently, o’er a perfumed sea,The weary, wayworn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicéan barks of yore

That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs, have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece—To the grandeur that was Rome.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece—

To the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in that shadowy window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The folded scroll within thy hand—Ah! Psyche, from the regions whichAre Holy-Land!

Lo! in that shadowy window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,

The folded scroll within thy hand—

Ah! Psyche, from the regions which

Are Holy-Land!

NEVER BET YOUR HEAD.

A MORAL TALE.

———

BY EDGAR A. POE.

———

“Con tal que las costumbres de un autor,” says Don Tomas De Las Torres, in the Preface to his Amatory Poems, “sean puras y castas, importo muy poco que no sean igualmente severas sus obras”—meaning, in plain English, that, provided the morals of an author are pure, personally, it signifies nothing what are the morals of his books. We presume that Don Torres is now in Purgatory for so heterodox an assertion. It would be a clever thing, too, in the way of poetical justice, to keep him there until his “Amatory Poems” get out of print, or are laid definitively upon the shelf through lack of readers. Every fictionshould haveits moral; and, what is more to the purpose, our modern critics have discovered that every fictionhas. These ingenious fellows demonstrate a hidden meaning in the “Antediluvians,” a parable in “Powhatan,” new views in “Cock Robin,” and transcendentalism in “Hop O’ My Thumb.” It has been proved that no man can sit down to write without a very profound design. Thus to authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for example, need have no care of his moral. It is there—that is to say it is somewhere—and the moral and the critics can take care of themselves. When the proper time arrives, all that the gentleman intended, and all that he did not intend, will be brought to light, in the “Dial,” or the “Down-Easter,” together with all that he ought to have intended, and the rest that he clearly meant to intend:—so that it will all come very straight in the end.

There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought against me by certain ignoramuses—that I have never written a moral tale, or, in more precise words, a tale with a moral. They are not the critics predestined to bring me out, anddevelopmy morals:—that is the secret. By and bye the “North American Quarterly Humdrum” will make them ashamed of their stupidity. In the meantime, by way of staying execution, by way of mitigating the accusations against me, I offer the sad history appended—a history about whose obvious moral there can be no question whatever, since he who runs may read it in the large capitals which form the title of the tale. I should have credit for this arrangement—a far wiser one than that of La Fontaine and others, who reserve the impression to be conveyed until the last moment, and thus sneak it in at the fag end of their fables.

De mortuis nil nisi bonumis an excellent injunction—even if the dead in question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not my design, therefore, to vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dammit. He was a sad dog, it is true, and a dog’s death it was that he died; but he himself was not to blame for his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in his mother. She did her best in the way of flogging him while an infant—for duties to her well-regulated mind were always pleasures, and babies, like tough steaks, are invariably the better for beating—but, poor woman! she had the misfortune to be left-handed, and a child flogged left-handedly had better be left unflogged. The world revolves from right to left. It will not do to whip a baby from left to right. If each blow in the proper direction drives an evil propensity out, it follows that every thump in an opposite one knocks its quota of wickedness in. I was often present at Toby’s chastisements, and, even by the way in which he kicked, I could perceive he was getting worse and worse every day. At last I saw, through the tears in my eyes, that there was no hope of the villain at all, and one day when he had been cuffed until he grew so black in the face that one might have mistaken him for a little African, and no effect had been produced beyond that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I could stand it no longer, but went down upon my knees forthwith, and, uplifting my voice, made prophecy of his ruin.

The fact is that his precocity in vice was awful. At five months of age he used to get into such passions that he was unable to articulate. At six I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven he was in the constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies. At eight he peremptorily refused to put his signature to the Temperance pledge. Thus he went on increasing in iniquity, month after month, until, at the close of his first year, he not only insisted upon wearing Melnotte frocks, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and swearing, and for backing his assertions by bets.

Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I had predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion had “grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength,” so that when he came to be a man he could scarcely utter a sentence without interlarding it with a proposition to gamble. Not that he actuallylaidwagers—no. I will do my friend the justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. With him the thing was a mere formula—nothing more. His expressions on this head had no meaning attached to them whatever. They were simple, if not altogether innocent expletives—imaginative phrases wherewith to round off a sentence. When he said “I’ll bet you so and so,” nobody ever thought of taking him up; but still I could not help thinking it my duty to put him down. The habit was an immoral one, and so I told him. It was a vulgar one—this I begged him to believe. It was discountenanced by society—here I said nothing but the truth. It was forbidden by act of Congress—here I had not the slightest intention of telling a lie. I remonstrated—but to no purpose. I demonstrated—but in vain. I entreated—he smiled. I implored—he laughed. I preached—he sneered. I threatened—he swore. I kicked him, and he called for the police. I pulled his nose, and he bet me that I dared not do it again.

Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency of Dammit’s mother had entailed upon her son. He was detestably poor; and this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions about betting seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that I ever heard him make use of such figures of speech as “I’ll bet you a dollar.” It was usually “I’ll bet you what you please,” or “I’ll bet you what you dare,” or “I’ll bet you a trifle,” or else, more significantly still, “I’ll bet you my head.”

This latter form seemed to please him the best:—perhaps because it involved less risk; for Dammit had become excessively parsimonious. Had any one taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would be small too. But these are my own reflections, and I am by no means sure that I am right in attributing them to him. At all events, the phrase in question grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of a man’s betting his brains like bank-notes:—but this was a point which my friend’s perversity of disposition would not permit him to comprehend. In the end, he abandoned all other forms of wager, and gave himself up to “I’ll bet you my head,” with a pertinacity and exclusiveness of devotion that displeased not less than it surprised me. I am always displeased by circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was something inthe airwith which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance to his offensive expression—something in hismannerof enunciation—which at first interested, and afterwards made me very uneasy—something which, for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted to callqueer; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Carlisle twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyper-fizzitistical. I began not to like it at all. Mr. Dammit’s soul was in a perilous state. I resolved to bring all my eloquence into play to save it. I vowed to serve him as Saint Patrick, in the Irish chronicle, is said to have served the snakes and toads when he “awakened them to a sense of their situation.” I addressed myself to the task forthwith. Once more I betook myself to remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final attempt at expostulation.

When I had made an end of my lecture Mr. Dammit indulged himself in some very equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained silent, merely looking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his head to one side, and elevated his eyebrows to great extent. Then he spread out the palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he winked with the right eye. Then he repeated the operation with his left. Then he shut them both up very tight, as if he was trying to crack nuts between the lids. Then he opened them both so very wide that I became seriously alarmed for the consequences. Then, applying his thumb to his nose, he thought proper to make an indescribable movement with the rest of his fingers. Finally, setting his arms a-kimbo, he condescended to reply.

I can call to mind only the heads of his discourse. He would be obliged to me if I would keep my opinions within my own bosom. He wished none of my advice. He despised all my insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself. Did I mean to say anything against his character? Did I intend to insult him? Did I take him for an idiot? Did I still think him baby Dammit? Was I a fool?—or was I not? Was I mad?—or was I drunk? Was my maternal parent aware, in a word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence? He would put this latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would bind himself to abide by my reply. Once more he would demand explicitly if my mother knew that I was out. My confusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would be willing to bet his head that she did not.

Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he left my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him that he did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been aroused. For once I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I would have won his little head. My maternal parent wasverywell aware of my temporary absence from home.

Khoda shefa midêhed—Heaven gives relief—as the Musselmen say when you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty that I had been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It now seemed to me, however, that I had done all that could be required of me, in the case of this miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer with my counsel, but to leave him to his conscience and to himself. But although I forbore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give up his society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some of his less reprehensible propensities, and there were times when I found myself lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with tears in my eyes:—so profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil talk.

One fine day, having strolled out together arm in arm, our route led us in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to cross it. It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and the arch-way, having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. As we entered the passage, the contrast between the external glare, and the interior gloom, struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the unhappy Dammit, who offered to bet me his head that I was hipped. He seemed to be in an extravagantly good humor. He was excessively lively—so much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy suspicion. It is not impossible that he was affected with the transcendentals. I am not well enough versed, however, in the diagnosis of this disease to speak with decision upon the point; and unhappily there were none of my friends of “The Dial” present. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain austere species of Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend, and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would serve him but wriggling and skipping about under and over everything that came in his way, now shouting out, and now lisping out, all manner of odd little and big words, yet preserving the gravest face in the world all the time. I really could not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At length, having passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the termination of the foot-way, when our progress was impeded by a turnstile of some height. Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as is usual. But this turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it while in the air. Now this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The best pigeon-winger over all kinds of style, was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and as I knew he could not do it, I would not believe it could be done by Toby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he was a braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason to be sorry afterwards—for he straightwaybet me his headthat he could.

I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation “ahem!” I started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into a nook of the frame-work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a little lame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend than his whole appearance; for, he not only had on a full suit of black, but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned neatly down over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl’s, his hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two eyes carefully rolled up into the top of his head.

Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a circumstance, he interrupted me with a second “ahem!”

To this observation of his I was not immediately prepared to reply. The fact is, remarks of this nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known a profound Quarterly Review stumped by the word “Fudge!” I am not ashamed to say that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance.

“Dammit,” said I, “what are you about! don’t you hear?—the gentleman says ‘ahem!’ ” I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him; for, to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is puzzled, he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he is pretty sure to look like a fool.

“Dammit,” observed I—although this sounded very much like an oath, than which nothing was farther from my thoughts—“Dammit,” I suggested—“the gentleman says ‘ahem!’ ” I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity; I did not think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of our speeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our own eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb, or knocked him in the head with one of Doctor McHenry’s epics, he could hardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with those simple words—“Dammit, what are you about?—don’t you hear?—the gentleman says ‘ahem!’ ”

“You don’t say so?” gasped he at length, after turning more colors than a pirate runs up one after the other when chased by a man-of-war. “Are you quite sure that he saidthat? Well, at all events I am in for it now, and may as well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then—ahem!”

At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased—God only knows why. He left his station in the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking all the while straight up in his face with a countenance of the most unadulterated benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to imagine.

“I am quite sure you’ll win it, Dammit,” said he with the frankest of all smiles, “but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake of mere form.”

“Ahem!” replied my friend, taking off his coat with a deep sigh, tying a pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes, and bringing down the corners of his mouth—“ahem!” And “ahem,” said he again, after a pause; and devil the word more than “ahem!” did I ever know him to say after that. “Aha!” thought I, without expressing myself aloud—“This is quite a remarkable silence on the part of my friend, Toby Dammit, and is no doubt a consequence of his great verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave him my last lecture? At all events he is cured of the transcendentals.”

“Ahem!” here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts, and looking like a very old sheep in a reverie.

The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the shade of the bridge—a few paces back from the turnstile. “My good fellow,” said he, “I make it a point of conscience to allow you this much run. Wait here till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether you go over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don’t omit any flourishes of the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say ‘one, two, three, and away.’ Mind you start at the word ‘away.’ ” Here he took his position by the stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then looked down, thenlooked up, and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of his apron, then took a long look at Dammit, then put his fore-finger to the side of his nose, and finally gave the word as agreed upon—

One—two—three—and away!

Punctually, at the word “away,” my poor friend set off in a strong gallop. The style was not very high, like Mr. Pue’s—nor yet to say very low like that of Mr. Pue’s reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would clear it. And then what if he did not?—ah, that was the question—what if he did not? “What right,” said I, “had the old gentleman to make any other gentleman jump? The little old dot-and-carry-one! who ishe? If he asks me to jump, I won’t do it, that’s flat, and I don’t care whothe devil he is.” The bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all times—an echo which I never before so particularly observed as when I uttered the four last words of my remark.

But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an instant of time. In less than five seconds from his starting my poor Toby had taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor of the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he went up. I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration just over the top of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually singular thing that he did notcontinueto go over. But the whole leap was the affair of a moment, as they always say in the crack historical novels, and before I had a chance to make any profound reflections, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back on the same side of the stile from which he had started. In the same instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having caught and wrapped up in his apron something that fell heavily into it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all this I was much astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for Mr. Dammit lay particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and that he stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could not find anywhere—so I determined to take him home, and send for the homœopathics. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open an adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at once. About five feet just above the top of the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path so as to constitute a brace, there extended a flat and sharp iron bar, lying with its breadth horizontally, and forming one of a series that served to strengthen the structure throughout its extent. With the edge of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact.

He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homœopathics did not give him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked abarsinister on his family escutcheon, and for the general expenses of his funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for dog’s meat.

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.

———

BY G. A. RAYBOLD.

———

The first kiss of love, when the favor is won,Fills the heart with pure bliss, if ’tis modestly done,For ’tis like a brief glance from the sun’s clouded eyeWhich just touches the earth and flies back to the sky.Ah! the bliss of that moment; ’twill ever remain,While my heart in its depths can feel pleasure or pain;For that kiss, to my heart was like rain to the flower,Just ready to die, till refresh’d by a shower.The soft touch ofherhand, the bright glance of her eye;The whisper’d word spoken, the half suppress’d sigh,May be proofs of true love, but thekissis the token,And pledge of a faith which mayneverbe broken.How fondly does memory dwell on it yet!The scene and the hour, who can ever forget,When reclin’d on your bosom, sustained in your arms,You breathed out the heart long subdued by her charms?Herkisswas the answer; so slight yet so sweet,’Twas enough; and that moment your bliss was complete;From the lips to each heart went a holier thrill,Delighting and binding those hearts closer still.That first kiss of love, when no mortal was near,Was asignthat dispersed the last vestige of fear;She is mine, she is mine; mine now and forever;By those holiest ties that death only can sever.

The first kiss of love, when the favor is won,

Fills the heart with pure bliss, if ’tis modestly done,

For ’tis like a brief glance from the sun’s clouded eye

Which just touches the earth and flies back to the sky.

Ah! the bliss of that moment; ’twill ever remain,While my heart in its depths can feel pleasure or pain;For that kiss, to my heart was like rain to the flower,Just ready to die, till refresh’d by a shower.

Ah! the bliss of that moment; ’twill ever remain,

While my heart in its depths can feel pleasure or pain;

For that kiss, to my heart was like rain to the flower,

Just ready to die, till refresh’d by a shower.

The soft touch ofherhand, the bright glance of her eye;The whisper’d word spoken, the half suppress’d sigh,May be proofs of true love, but thekissis the token,And pledge of a faith which mayneverbe broken.

The soft touch ofherhand, the bright glance of her eye;

The whisper’d word spoken, the half suppress’d sigh,

May be proofs of true love, but thekissis the token,

And pledge of a faith which mayneverbe broken.

How fondly does memory dwell on it yet!The scene and the hour, who can ever forget,When reclin’d on your bosom, sustained in your arms,You breathed out the heart long subdued by her charms?

How fondly does memory dwell on it yet!

The scene and the hour, who can ever forget,

When reclin’d on your bosom, sustained in your arms,

You breathed out the heart long subdued by her charms?

Herkisswas the answer; so slight yet so sweet,’Twas enough; and that moment your bliss was complete;From the lips to each heart went a holier thrill,Delighting and binding those hearts closer still.

Herkisswas the answer; so slight yet so sweet,

’Twas enough; and that moment your bliss was complete;

From the lips to each heart went a holier thrill,

Delighting and binding those hearts closer still.

That first kiss of love, when no mortal was near,Was asignthat dispersed the last vestige of fear;She is mine, she is mine; mine now and forever;By those holiest ties that death only can sever.

That first kiss of love, when no mortal was near,

Was asignthat dispersed the last vestige of fear;

She is mine, she is mine; mine now and forever;

By those holiest ties that death only can sever.

LAME FOR LIFE, OR LESLIE PIERPOINT.

A TALE, IN TWO PARTS.

———

BY PROFESSOR J. H. INGRAHAM, AUTHOR OF “LAFITTE,” “KYD,” “THE QUADROONE,” ETC.

———

“Is health returnless? Never more may IThrow by the staff on which, alas! I lean?Is the woof woven of my destiny?Shall I be ne’er again what I have been?And must the bodily anguish be combinedWith the intenseness of the anxious mind?”F. W. Thomas.

“Is health returnless? Never more may I

Throw by the staff on which, alas! I lean?

Is the woof woven of my destiny?

Shall I be ne’er again what I have been?

And must the bodily anguish be combined

With the intenseness of the anxious mind?”

F. W. Thomas.

If the reader will take the trouble to look in the revised edition of the Philadelphia Directory for the year 1838, he will find recorded the name of

“Leslie Pierpoint,Gent.House No. 2-7 South Sixth St.”

At the period of which we write this was the residence of this distinguished party to our story, and still would have been but for the simple incident that has led us to write it.

It was on a cold, bleak evening, late in the autumn of that year, that Major Pierpoint (for he had once borne a commission in the National Guards—so he loved proudly to designate the militia) was seated before his cheerful grate, with the crimson curtains warmly drawn over the closed shutters. The room was partly library and partly sitting room. Rich cases filled with costly volumes adorned two of its sides, while lounges and one or two luxurious patent easy-chairs occupied the other. The floor was covered with a thick Wilton carpet that returned no sound to the foot-fall, and a hearth rug of Turkish fabric lay before the fire in the rich fleece of which the slippered feet of Mr. Leslie Pierpoint were half buried. The whole apartment wore an air of comfort and elegant ease, combined with that cheerful warmth and inviting repose which are so delightful of a wintery night. There was a large round table near the centre of the room, strewed with books, magazines, pamphlets, opened letters, &c., &c. In the midst of it stood a tall bronzed lamp that shed a soft, clear light over all. The table turned upon a pivot so that Mr. Pierpoint, without moving from the comfortable arm-chair in which he was reposing, wrapped in his brilliant Chineserobe de chambre(a present from his particular friend, Mr. Dunn), could revolve it by the slightest touch and bring within his reach any book or paper lying on the side opposite to his chair. Mr. Pierpoint was a wealthy bachelor, and, therefore, was an epicure in luxuries of this description. Bachelors, having nothing else to do but to make themselves comfortable, can carry these little personal conveniences to their perfection. Having said that Mr. Leslie Pierpoint was a bachelor, it becomes us to explain how he came to be a bachelor. He possessed a handsome person and an ample fortune—was not only well born, but a gentleman by education and cultivated tastes—and even at this period of his life, when forty-one years had passed over his head, a child might have numbered the gray hairs mingled with the fine brown locks that shaded his noble forehead. Why, then, was Leslie Pierpoint a bachelor? Let us go back twenty-years, and inquire of by-gone days.

It is the year 1808. One of the most stately mansions in Third street, then one of the most aristocratic portions of Philadelphia, is brilliantly lighted. Its gorgeous rooms are thronged by the beauty and chivalry of the city. We mingle with them also, dazzled by the flash of jewelled brows, bewildered by the beauty of the wearers, confounded by the music and moving forms, entranced, intoxicated by the whole scene of enchantment! Let us retire a little to the silence and shade of this verandah, where the moon finds its way to the marble floor through trellised vines, and where the music and the sound of dancers’ feet reach but faintly the ear. There are others here besides us who have quitted the gay scene to seek refreshment of spirits in the quiet night breeze and in the calm light of the moon. Hither approach us, leaning on each other, arm fondly linked in arm, a noble pair. How statelyhiscarriage, yet how tenderly he bends till his lips breathe upon the cheek of the fair creature he whispers to! They pause in the shadow of the thick vines! Her eyes meet his upturned and swimming with tenderness,—his arm glides around her waist—she is pressed to his manly breast, and their lips meet! It is but for an instant—a footstep is heard! and they move on again arm in arm. His lips bend over her willing ear as they slowly promenade the verandah. She suddenly starts, and with her face receding a little from his, says, in an earnest manner:

“Indeed, Leslie, you wrong me. Nothing could change my love for you!”

“But, yet, there are circumstances whichmighttranspire, and which might lead you to withdraw your affection, dear Clara.”

“No, no! nothing on earth. I feel I shall love you while I have a heart to love. Dear,dearestLeslie, how can you doubt me?”

“I do not doubt you, dear Clara,” he said laughing and lifting her hand to his lips. “God knows,” he earnestly added, “I should be miserable to doubt where all my hopes of happiness are centered.”

“Indeed, you should not—you ought not! What should I gain, Leslie, by transferring my love to another? Certainly not a nobler person, a finer face, a better fortune (if I may name this), a kindlier heart, or better temper. Believe me, dear Leslie, when I say you are the handsomest man I ever beheld, so that no higher degree of personal beauty could lead me from you!”

“You are a silly flatterer, child, and I half believe, fell in love with me because you thought me the ‘handsomest man you ever beheld!’ ”

“Now you are mocking me, Leslie. But I will confess that the first time I saw you promenading the ball rooms at the —— Assemblies with Miss P—— on your arm, I was struck with your stately and elegant walk. I had not seen your face, but followed you with my eye till you turned and, and—”

“Met your gaze full fixed upon mine! That was not the first timeyouhad attracted my attention that evening, Clara. I had observed you on my first entrance, and my heart from that instant became yours.”

Leslie Pierpoint pressed her to his heart as he spoke.

“It shall ever be yours, dearest Leslie,” was the softly whispered response of the blushing girl; “nothing would turn my love from you.”

“Thank you for the pledge, dearest—I believe you. Come let us return into the rooms—our absence will be remarked.”

After Leslie had plucked a “Forget me not” and placed it in her hair, the lovers slowly returned from the verandah.

A few weeks passed, and Leslie Pierpoint had prevailed on the blushing Clara to name the day when she would redeem her pledge given in the verandah, and become wholly and irrevocably his own. It was now at hand, and Leslie counted the hours which envious Time thrust between him and his anticipated bliss. Leslie loved the chosen bride of his bosom with the most impassioned ardor. His whole heart was involved in his affection, and he had so given himself up to his passion that any revulsion promised to make him miserable. The beautiful Clara Clayton, on her part, was deeply enamored of Leslie, but it was rather with his handsome person than with his mind; for of his fortune she thought little, being equally wealthy. She was a gay, haughty, spoiled beauty, with not half heart enough to measure Leslie’s broad love, nor half mind enough to penetrate the superior powers of his intellect. But if they married, they were both likely to be happy so long as one retained her loveliness and the bewitching smile and flashing dark eyes that had captured Leslie, and the other the elegant form, air and gait which had first inspired Clara with an interest in him.

The week preceding his wedding day Leslie was commissioned a Major of Militia, and the following day he turned out for review with the battalion to which his regiment was attached. He had purchased a high spirited horse for this occasion, and had but twice mounted him previous to his appearance on parade; and though the animal evinced an indomitable spirit, and had once proven nearly unmanageable, yet these traits were regarded by the youthful officer rather as recommendations for the military service for which he destined him than as serious objections. He was, moreover, a finished horseman and well knew he could so control the fiery animal’s impatient action as to render it subservient to a more masterly display of his own horsemanship.

On the day of parade, therefore, Leslie Pierpoint made his appearance on the field, the best mounted officer in the battalion. His steed, as he pranced along, seemed to beat the air rather than the earth, so lightly he moved over the ground, so daintily he bent his slight yielding fetlocks to his rider’s weight.

“Ah, Major, a beautiful creature you have there,” said General ——, whose aide-de-camp Leslie was that day; “you outshine us all. What an eye! Will he stand fire?”

“I have not tried him, General. But a horse of his blood has no fear in him. He can never be taken by surprise.”

“Do not trust him! See!” and the General suddenly flashed his sword before his eyes.

The animal moved not from the statue-like attitude in which Leslie had reined him up beside the General.

“Very well. He may do; but I advise you, Major Leslie, to be upon your guard during the day, I don’t much like the beast’s eye. It looks devilish.”

“I have no fears, General; let him do his worst,” answered Leslie laughing, and in a moment afterwards he galloped along the line to execute an order.

During the parade the beautiful steed behaved admirably, and elicited, by the grace and swiftness of his movements, the universal admiration of every eye. At length the firing by platoon commenced. At the first discharge, he leaped bodily into the air with his rider and lit upon the ground twenty feet distant; and Leslie’s superior horsemanship only saved him from being thrown to the earth. He now sat more firmly and watched him with hand and eye. But the successive discharges of musketry, even by companies, had no further effect upon the animal, save that there was a wider dilation of the pupil of the eye and a quick erect movement of his delicately shaped ears. This favorable change not only put Leslie off his guard but made him so self confident that he resolved to ride up to a park of artillery about to be discharged, gaily betting with General ——, as he triumphantly rode past this officer, that he would not flinch even at that.

“Nous verrons, Leslie,” said the General smiling. “Do not be too confident.”

With the reckless impetuosity of youth, and desirous of defending the character of his favorite horse from his military friend’s aspersions, Leslie spurred onward to the point. He drew up in the rear, within a few paces of the ordnance, and awaited the signal for their discharge. There were eight pieces of cannon and they were to be fired in rapid succession. At the first loud, sharp report, the animal sprung, with a mad leap, directly among the echoing artillery. Maddened by the reiterated peals, he dashed, with the most terrific bounds, across the line of fire and within a few feet of the muzzles of the pieces. At the discharge of the last piece he became so terrified that he threw himself headlong upon the earth and bit and pawed the ground with fury. Major Leslie, who had maintained his seat with perfect skill and coolness, fell beneath him and received his whole weight upon one of his legs and his left side. Instantly the animal ceased his struggles, and when those who hastened to Major Leslie’s assistance arrived on the spot, they discovered that the horse had broken a blood vessel and was fast bleeding to death. Leslie himself, though silent, was pale from suffering.

On extricating him, it was painfully apparent that his leg was not only broken but that his knee was crushed. He was immediately removed to his mother’s residence and the most distinguished surgical skill called in to his relief. But for many days he lay upon a bed of anguish during which, Clara, joyfully embracing the sweet privileges of a betrothed bride, watched over him like some angelic messenger of health and peace. At length he was able to change his recumbent posture for an easy-chair; but it was many weeks before he left it to attempt to walk about the chamber. The first time he did so it was with Dr. M—— on one side and Clara on the other. It was a painful effort, but two or three turns about the room were accomplished with less difficulty than had been apprehended. He walked very, very lame it is true, but that was to be expected.

“He will soon get to his feet again as well as ever, won’t he, Doctor?” asked Clara, partly to assure her own anxiety and partly to relieve the foreboding of poor Leslie, who, by the expression of his face, she saw, believed he should be lame for life.

Dr. M—— looked at Leslie, shook his head sadly and said,

“He will no doubt walk well enough in a few weeks, Miss Clayton. But then that won’t make much difference,” he added, smiling, “since he has no more conquests to make. If you should be lame, Major, you must regard it a fortunate thing to have secured so fair a bride while possessing all your natural attractions of person.”

“My God, Doctor! you talk as if you thought there was some possibility that I might be lame for life. Do tell me if this lameness I now have proceeds from physical weakness or from imperfection in the limb?”

“It is cruel to deceive you, my dear Major, though painful to tell the truth,” answered Dr. M——, after a pause that did honor to his heart; “your leg was broken in several places, producing an exceedingly difficult compound fracture. It is improbable though not impossible that the parts should ever perfectly re-unite. I fear, therefore, you must bring both religion and philosophy to your aid, and try to endure it cheerfully. This fair being who has so assiduously nursed by your pillow will help you to bear it.”

Leslie did not look up in the Doctor’s face while he spoke. His head had fallen upon the arm of his chair, and there, with his face buried in his hands, he lay still several minutes after he had ceased to speak. His chest heaved with suppressed emotion, some deep o’er-mastering feeling. At length he groaned heavily and looked up with a faint attempt to smile.

“This is a hard lot, Doctor, but I must attempt to bear it as well as I can. I am not unprepared for this announcement. I have apprehended it myself from the severe character of the injury I received.”

“You will not find it difficult, Major Leslie,” said the physician, with sympathy in his tone, “to endure even lameness. Your mind, by several weeks’ previous illness, is prepared to submit to still greater suffering if necessary. In illness we bear things, and take things we could not do in health. Nature prepares the body and Heaven the mind for all it meets with on earth. Even death is met quietly and calmly by the invalid exhausted by a lingering illness. The idea of lameness if presented to you in full health would have shocked you. I dare say you would have unhesitatingly said you preferred death to it.”

“I should have said so and thought so,” answered Leslie, earnestly.

“But you do not now. On the contrary, you have just expressed a cheerful submission to your fate. The same spirit will enable you to endure it with equanimity. Good morning! I will call in and see you once a day till you can ride out.”

The kind medical adviser then took his leave, and for a few moments after his departure the lovers remained silent. At length Leslie looked up to seek Clara’s face with a smile as if to tell her that he had schooled his spirit to submission, with a smile as if to assure her that so long as he was blessed with her love he cared not for any misfortune that Providence should see fit, in its infinite wisdom, to send. But Clara saw not the smile nor the beautiful submission expressed on his pale features. Her face was buried in her hands and turned away from him, while the heaving of her form and the sobs that broke from her surcharged heart told how deeply Leslie’s misfortune sunk into it. He was touched by her violent grief, and would have risen to approach her, but was unable to move.

“Clara,” he said, in a low, soothing tone. She made no reply but continued to be wholly absorbed in her affliction.

“Dearest Clara,” he again repeated still more tenderly, “come hither, and do not give way to grief in this manner. I care not for it; so, if these tears are shed for me, dry them and come sit by me. I assure you, that I would prefer lameness with your love to fulness and perfection of limb without it. Come and sit by me and let us converse calmly upon this subject. It will tranquilize both our minds and give us strength and patience to bear, as we should do, an ill seemingly so grievous. In the end it may prove a blessing.Youought not to mourn, for it will ensure to you, as my wife, all my society. I can name two or three brides,” he added, playfully, “that would thank Heaven for any accident that would break their husbands’ legs so that it would confine them at home with them. Come, Clara, cheer up!”

To this address from Leslie the lady made no reply save by increased weeping; and his mother entering the chamber at the moment, she embraced the opportunity to excuse herself and hurried from the room without taking her kerchief from her face, or even giving her lover look or reply.

“Poor Clara,” he sighed looking after her, “she feels this affliction most deeply. For myself I could endure it. Books, friends, and, above all, Clara’s dear society will make the time pass cheerfully. She will yet be resigned to it. How strong must be that love which shows itself by such profound and unextinguishable sorrow! Ah, mother! have you seen the Doctor?”

“Yes, dear Leslie,” she answered with emotion.

“And he has told you I shall be lame for life?”

“Alas, my dear child, alas! may Heaven give you strength and patience to bear this affliction!”

“It has, dear mother. I am perfectly resigned,” he answered calmly.

“God bless you—God be blessed!” and the mother wept in gratitude upon her son’s neck.

There was a few moments’ silence which the invalid at length broke.

“I could bear this affliction, dearest mother, without a murmur if I stood alone. But, dear Clara! She weeps as if her heart was breaking. I fear it will be the death of her—she feels so much for me. I wish you could convince her that I care nothing about it if she will not.”

Mrs. Pierpoint did not reply but shook her head gravely and sighed very heavily.

“What means that sigh, mother?” asked Leslie with surprise and a misgiving of he knew not what.

“Nothing, son. But I fear Clara’s tears are devoted rather to the shrine of her own vanity than shed upon the altar of her love.”

“How mean you, mother?” demanded Leslie, with heightened color.

“Clara Clayton, dear boy, loves herself more than she loves any body else. I have known Clara from a child. I should never have chosen her as your wife; but you loved her and there was no alternative but acquiescence. Though I approved not, I spoke not, knowing how vain a parent’s words are with children in affairs of the heart. Clara is proud that she has captivated the handsomest young man in the town whom all the young ladies were sighing for; but she loves you not, Leslie, as a true woman should love.”

“My dear mother, how you wrong the angelic girl! Has she not watched over my sick bed like a sister, yea, like a beloved and loving wife? Has she not sympathized in all my afflictions? Did she not just now quit the chamber overcome by the intensity of her grief? You wrong her, dear mother, indeed you wrong her!”

“I hope I do. Time will determine, my son.”

“But why this suspicion? What has Clara done?”

“Nothing. I judge from my knowledge of her character.”

“Then you do not know her, and have built your judgment upon a false foundation. Clara is every thing I wish her to be. Send for her, mother; I would see her. I will convince you that you are in error respecting her. But should you be right,Iloveherand after we are married, as I mean to be in a few weeks, we shall live very happy together, and in time I shall teach her to lovemebetter than she lovesherself.”

Mrs. Pierpoint made no answer and left the room to seek the fair subject of their conversation. In a few seconds she returned with a grave look and said that, leaving word with the footman to say to Mr. Leslie that she did not feel well, Miss Clayton had ordered the carriage and driven home.

“Poor Clara,” said Leslie with sympathy; “she is herself sick and needs quiet and repose. The painful announcement of this morning has shocked her nerves. Mother, why do you look so grave and sad—so incredulous?”

“I hope Miss Clayton had no other motive in so suddenly departing than indisposition. But, my dear Leslie, I hope she will prove herself all you hope and desire.”

“Of that I am sure, dear mother,” he answered warmly. “I only grieve that you should have conceived a prejudice against one who is so soon to become my wife and your daughter.”

“Let us speak no more upon this subject now, Leslie. You need repose.”

Mrs. Pierpoint then drew the curtains and darkened the room. The invalid threw himself back in his easy-chair and soon, yielding to the soothing influence of the soft twilight in his chamber, sunk into a refreshing sleep.

Clara Clayton sprung from the carriage as it drew up at her own door, and, without entering the parlor, hurriedly ascended to her own chamber. Closing the door, she turned the key in the lock, and then with a hand each firmly holding a string of her unloosed hair, and her mantle awry, she paced the room several minutes with a quick, nervous tread. Her brow was set and her face much flushed, and the expression it wore was grief mingled with mortified pride. Yes, Clara Clayton’s pride was humbled. She had loved Leslie Pierpoint for his personal beauty—the elegance of his figure, his high-bred air and carriage, his manly tread and distinguished appearance in the street. These first captivated her fancy, and when at length chance threw them together, his admiration of her, combined with the excellent qualities of his head and heart, inspired her with love—love such as so selfish a person was capable of feeling. She also felt flattered in the attentions of the handsomest man of the day; and it was with the triumphant reflection of how envious some score of her female rivals would feel that she surrendered her heart (as much as she had, at least,) to the blinded Leslie. So their ill-fared love went on, he loving her with the devotion of idolatry, she loving herself with no whit less self-adoration. The handsome Leslie administered to her vanity! It might all have gone on very well, however, even to matrimony, as thousands of other similar attachments have done,similarsave that the cases are more frequently reversed, and the lover is, instead, the one whose vanity is administered to by the beauty of the lady! But the untoward accident that befel Leslie removed the veil! and often has he blessed his stars for it. A broken leg is, doubtless, a much less affair than a broken manly heart!

Clara Clayton continued to pace her room in vexed and troubled thought. From what has been said above, the reader will readily divine its complexion! Suddenly she stopped and clenched her jewelled fingers together and wrung them with a look of pitiable and painful despair.

“Oh, God! lame for life! Acripple! Miserable! miserable that I am! How can I love him now? How can I marry a cripple? Walk Chesnut Street leaning on a lame husband’s arm—or, no—worse still, perhaps, he leaning on mine! Think of this morning as he walked the room! I never saw any body go lamer! It is absolutely shocking! Then how can I dance as he cannot! He will never give nor go to parties! A lame husband! The idea is absolutely horrid!”

With this praiseworthy and very sensible utterance of her peculiar feelings on the subject, Miss Clara Clayton threw her bonnet upon the bed, her shawl upon the floor and herself into a chair. For a few seconds she remained silent; at length her thoughts found their proper language.

“Yes, it must be! I will address him a note this very morning, stating plainly my reasons why I wish to withdraw from my engagement with him! He is too generous to refuse me! He will see at once how it would break a high-spirited woman full of youth and beauty to be tied down for life to a sofa and arm-chair—a mere machine to hand him his crutches and night-cap! He is too generous to wish it! I do wish he had not met with this awkward accident. I don’t think I could have found a better husband than poor Leslie! But then it is no use to dwell on this now. I cannot think of marrying him after what has happened, and he can’t expect—no one can expect it. I am decided. I will write to him frankly and request him to release me from my engagement.”

With this determination, this sweet young lady sat herself down to her escritoire to write poor Leslie’s sentence of death—death to confidence in woman! She bent her graceful head over the gilt-edged note paper, and nibbled her pen several seconds. At length she began to write:—

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