IL SERENADO DI VENICE.

“How happy could I be with either,Were t’other dear charmer away,”

“How happy could I be with either,

Were t’other dear charmer away,”

sung the “interesting stranger,” as he reflected upon his position between the rival beauties. But he managed with his usual adroitness. The gentle Grace contrived to secure an uninterrupted interview with him, and received a proffer of his heart and hand, both of which gifts she lovingly accepted, together with a delicate locket, containing some of her adorer’s raven hair, set in a circlet of aqua-marine gems—“emblems,” as he said, “of her transparent guilelessness of character.” A merry game of romps with Kate afforded him a chance of whispering a declaration in her ear also, and an elegant diamond ring, “only less brilliant than her own bright eyes”—to use his elegant phrase—was received by her as a pledge of betrothment to Mr. Charles Stuart Montague. Having arranged these little matters to his satisfaction, he departed, leaving his flute, his guitar, and his writing-case, in charge of the ladies until his return. Meanwhile the sisters—each imagining she had outwitted the other—kept their own secret, and patiently awaited the moment when the lover should return to claim his bride.

Scarcely a month had elapsed, however, when intelligence of a most startling nature was received. The certificates of deposit, which had been forwarded by the New York brokers to their agents in New Orleans, when presented to the bank for payment, were pronounced to beforgeries! An inquiry was immediately instituted respecting Mr. Charles Stuart Montague, and the result of the investigation was, that no such person was known to the cashier of the Sugarcane Bank, and that the signatures to the certificates, though admirably well executed, were onlyexcellent imitationsof the rugged characters in which Mr. Tickler usually traced his name. But the length of time which was required to ascertain that fact, had afforded the gentleman full time to complete his plans. The goods which he had purchased in Buffalo, had been sold at auction by his confederate, as soon as they reached New York. Mr. Montague arrived there in time to divide the spoils; and, instead of shipping the merchandise, they concluded to shipthemselvesfor Texas; while Mr. Windlespin and Mr. MacDonald, who had endorsed the certificates, were left to reimburse the brokers, and to pocket their own loss.

The ladies were filled with amazement and grief, and, in the first overwhelming burst of anguish, revealed to each other the alarming fact that Mr. Montague was actuallyengaged to marry both! His writing-case was opened, and found to contain some rose-tinted note paper—a stick of pink sealing-wax, and an agate seal, with the impressive motto, “toujours fidèle.” But, upon further examination, a private drawer was discovered, containing the following letters:

“Dear Jack,“Why the deuce don’t you get on faster with your Buffalo scheme? It will cost as much as it is worth if you stay much longer. I believe you like the trade of gentleman, for whenever you take it up you let every thing else hang by the eyelids till you get into some scrape which drives you ahead. What do you expect to gain by courting those two girls when you can’t marry either of them if they were as rich as Jews? For my part I don’t see the use of playing the devil when there is nothing to be gained by it. By the way, I promised to send the enclosed letter as the only means of preventing Mistress Molly from advertising you, as she does not know where you are. I hope you will be duly grateful to“Your friend,“T. M.”

“Dear Jack,

“Why the deuce don’t you get on faster with your Buffalo scheme? It will cost as much as it is worth if you stay much longer. I believe you like the trade of gentleman, for whenever you take it up you let every thing else hang by the eyelids till you get into some scrape which drives you ahead. What do you expect to gain by courting those two girls when you can’t marry either of them if they were as rich as Jews? For my part I don’t see the use of playing the devil when there is nothing to be gained by it. By the way, I promised to send the enclosed letter as the only means of preventing Mistress Molly from advertising you, as she does not know where you are. I hope you will be duly grateful to

“Your friend,

“T. M.”

The enclosure was still more curious:

“U are a big Scamp and a Blackhearted villin. If u hav no Kumpashum fur me u mite Hav sum for ure own Flesh and blude—here I am a Washin and goin out to dase work to Feed ure seven starvin childer wile u are a travellin About jist like a jintleman—u ought to Bee ashamed so u ought and if u dont cum home and luke after us I will Advertis u in all The papers. Any Boddy would no u by ure discrepshun u most insinivatin man—oh wen I think Of ure butiful Long hare and ure Hansume face I culde forgiv u every thing only cum back and i will forgiv u and i will werk fur u agin jist Like i alwase did so as to Save ure Little wite Hands so no more at present from ure“afecshunate Mary Mugson.”

“afecshunate Mary Mugson.”

About two years after the events just recorded, Miss Grace Windlespin (who had long since discovered that her aqua-marine locket, like her sister’s diamond, was as false as the lover’s heart) was led to the hymeneal altar, as the phrase is, by a very respectabletailor; while Miss Kate had tamed down her wild spirit so far as to marry a country school-master—an elderly widower, with several children. The truth was that Mr. Windlespin’s land speculations had ended in total ruin, and the ladies had no time to pick and choose among their admirers, when they daily feared the exposure of their actual circumstances. They were married with great parade, however, and immediately after the ceremony the happy couples set off on a bridal tour—the two husbands having no doubt that the father’s wedding gift would pay all such little extra expenses. Among the places of note which they visited was the famous Auburn prison. The time chosen was the hour when the inmates are usually led out to dinner, and the ladies stood quietly regarding the gangs of men, who, with folded arms and locked step, moved forward, as if with a single impulse, like some complicated machine. Suddenly Grace uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself tenderly on her husband’s bosom. One of the prisoners had dared to look at her as he passed, and, unobserved by his keeper, had even given her a knowingwink. Kate kept her own counsel about it, and did not appear to notice the insolent look of the handsome felon; but, notwithstanding his shaven head and prison garb, she, as well as Grace, had recognised the features of “the interesting stranger”—the elegant Mr. Charles Stuart Montague—alias—Jack Mugson, the swindler!

Brooklyn, L. I.

IL SERENADO DI VENICE.

Thesunlight has faded away from the sky,Bright day has departed, the night draweth nigh;Then come to the lattice, love, hither and see,Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.The moon is uprising in glorious light,Her beams on the waters are trembling and bright;Then haste to thy lattice, love, hither and see,Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.Not a cloud is above, nor a wave here below,All is quiet and still, save the river’s soft flow;Oh! come to thy lattice, love, hither and see,Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.Then, away! then, away! let us pass the calm hours,With the sweet words of love, and with Fancy’s fair flowersEre the rose-fingered morn shall appear and renewThe songs of the birds and the pearls of the dew.Valeria.

Thesunlight has faded away from the sky,Bright day has departed, the night draweth nigh;Then come to the lattice, love, hither and see,Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

Thesunlight has faded away from the sky,

Bright day has departed, the night draweth nigh;

Then come to the lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

The moon is uprising in glorious light,Her beams on the waters are trembling and bright;Then haste to thy lattice, love, hither and see,Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

The moon is uprising in glorious light,

Her beams on the waters are trembling and bright;

Then haste to thy lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

Not a cloud is above, nor a wave here below,All is quiet and still, save the river’s soft flow;Oh! come to thy lattice, love, hither and see,Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

Not a cloud is above, nor a wave here below,

All is quiet and still, save the river’s soft flow;

Oh! come to thy lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

Then, away! then, away! let us pass the calm hours,With the sweet words of love, and with Fancy’s fair flowersEre the rose-fingered morn shall appear and renewThe songs of the birds and the pearls of the dew.Valeria.

Then, away! then, away! let us pass the calm hours,

With the sweet words of love, and with Fancy’s fair flowers

Ere the rose-fingered morn shall appear and renew

The songs of the birds and the pearls of the dew.

Valeria.

SHAKSPEARE.—No. III.

———

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

———

Shakspeareshould be read at least once a year. This is to the mind what an excursion in the country is to the body—a strengthening, health-producing process. Each perusal will not be a repetition of the preceding. On the contrary, no two perusals will ever be alike. Read him asa boy, you will be dazzled and delighted: read him year by year after, and you will, with each year, behold beauties, sealed to you before, from your own comparative narrowness of mind and want of experience. Each event of your life will render you fitter to study him. Each new acquaintance you form—each history you read—each science you study—each country you travel into—each step you advance in life—each friend you lose by treachery or death, will prepare you still further. Could you go on adding to your experience much more than has ever (except in Shakspeare’s own case) been added to that of mortal man, each new progress would still enlarge your capacity for appreciating him. All men comprehend him differently. The king reads him as he would listen to the princely counsels of a royal father. The beggar may find in him something applicable to himself, and something likely to make him happier and wiser, which he himself had before never thought of—or of which he had only formed a vague idea. The statesman—the general—the prince royal—the husband—the father—the wife—the lover—the unfortunate—the happy—may all come here, and carry away, from the boundless reservoir, something apparently intended for themselves. He seems to have described or alludedto every thing. He seems to have taken in the whole range of human nature.

Poorold general Montholon, who was with Napoleon at St. Helena—one of the most faithful of the friends who have adhered to the fallen family—is the companion of the Prince Louis Napoleon, in his lateinvasionof France. Nearly all were very young men. This white-headed old soldier appeared among them strangely. Had they succeeded, it was doubtless their hope to give respectability to their cause by his presence.

The same thing is proposed in Julius Cæsar, by the conspirators, respecting Cicero.

“Cassius.But what of Cicero? shall we send him?I think he will stand very strong with us.Casca.Let us not have him out.Cinna.No, by no means.Metellus.O, let us have him; for his silver hairsWill purchase us a good opinion,And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds:It shall be said his judgment ruled our hands;Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear,But all be buried in his gravity.”

“Cassius.But what of Cicero? shall we send him?

I think he will stand very strong with us.

Casca.Let us not have him out.

Cinna.No, by no means.

Metellus.O, let us have him; for his silver hairs

Will purchase us a good opinion,

And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds:

It shall be said his judgment ruled our hands;

Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear,

But all be buried in his gravity.”

I am not going to reprint the beauties of Shakspeare. Instances like the above—a case—an event—a feature of human nature—are so common that they need not be pointed out. Thousands of years hence, as the numberless crowd of unexpected events come on, it will be found that this poet has already described them.

These thoughts occurred to me the other evening after taking up casually a volume of Macbeth—perhaps one of the most tremendous portraitures of human nature that ever came from the pen of man. The play opened by chance to the scene where the remorse-haunted queen walks in her sleep. Surely no human writer ever set down, in the same number of words, a more terrific picture. It has upon me almost the effect ascribed to Medusa’s head. It nearly turns me to stone. We know that but few of the great Greek tragedies have descended to the modern reader, but neither in them, nor in any of the ancient or modern writers, is there a scene more highly conceived, more perfectly executed, or acting with more power upon the heart and the imagination. I have not read any comments or commentators, German or English, respecting it, and therefore very probably may omit some of its peculiarities. I think itthescene of Macbeth, the climax and moral of the tragedy, and perhaps the finest and most extraordinary piece of writing in the whole of the author’s works. No where in the range of literature is there to be seen such a frightful fragment of human nature. I can never read it without feeling the blood grow cold in my veins, and receiving a most painful heart-sick impression of the evils which hang over the mortal state, when not protected by moral and religious principle; and I can perfectly understand an anecdote related of Mrs. Siddons, who, on attempting to study the part alone in her room at night, became so frightened that she called her maid as a companion. Perhaps the Shaksperian theorist, who has discovered that the purpose of our poet’s works was to make an illustration of the truth of Christianity, by putting within every man’s, every boy’s reach the whole compass of experience to be derived from a hundred eventful lives, had an eye upon this scene among others. It certainly has to me a profound metaphysical and religious meaning, and is best explained by supposing it, like Othello, a gigantic enigma, of which Christianity is the solution. To represent human nature thus, without offering any remedial or softening consideration, was not characteristic of the sweet, gentle and sunshiny imagination of the poet. His whole works, taken together, do not leave any such shadow on the imagination. He is no misanthrope—no infidel. He points with his wand to human nature as she is, unguided, unsustained, unprotected by the Supreme Power. He draws the blood-stained yet heart-crushed queen, not to appal us with a danger to which we are subject, but to point out one which we can avoid.

The scene is very short, and I will give it, that the reader may the more readily understand me.

Act V. Scene I.Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a Waiting Gentlewoman.Doct.I have two nights watch’d with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walk’d?Gent.Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.Doct.A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?Gent.That, sir, which I will not report after her.Doct.You may, to me; and ’tis most meet you should.Gent.Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.EnterLady Macbeth,with a Taper.Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.Doct.How came she by that light?Gent.Why, it stood by her; she has light by her continually; ’tis her command.Doct.You see, her eyes are open.Gent.Ay, but their sense is shut.Doct.What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.Gent.It is an accustom’d action with her, to seem thus washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.Lady.Yet here’s a spot.Doct.Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.Lady.Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One; two; why, then ’tis time to do ’t; Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afraid? what need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?—Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?Doct.Do you mark that?Lady.The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne’er be clean?—No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting.Doct.Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.Gent.She has spoke, what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known.Lady.Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!Doct.What a sight is there? The heart is sorely charg’d!Gent.I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body.Doct.Well, well, well,—Gent.Pray God, it be, sir.Doct.This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.Lady.Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out of his grave.Doct.Even so?Lady.To bed, to bed; there’s knocking at the gate.—Come, come, come, come, give me your hand; what’s done cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to bed. (Exit Lady.Doct.Will she go now to bed?Gent.Directly.

Act V. Scene I.

Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a Waiting Gentlewoman.

Doct.I have two nights watch’d with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walk’d?

Gent.Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

Doct.A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

Gent.That, sir, which I will not report after her.

Doct.You may, to me; and ’tis most meet you should.

Gent.Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.

EnterLady Macbeth,with a Taper.

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

Doct.How came she by that light?

Gent.Why, it stood by her; she has light by her continually; ’tis her command.

Doct.You see, her eyes are open.

Gent.Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doct.What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

Gent.It is an accustom’d action with her, to seem thus washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady.Yet here’s a spot.

Doct.Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady.Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One; two; why, then ’tis time to do ’t; Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afraid? what need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?—Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

Doct.Do you mark that?

Lady.The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne’er be clean?—No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting.

Doct.Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

Gent.She has spoke, what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known.

Lady.Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

Doct.What a sight is there? The heart is sorely charg’d!

Gent.I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body.

Doct.Well, well, well,—

Gent.Pray God, it be, sir.

Doct.This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.

Lady.Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out of his grave.

Doct.Even so?

Lady.To bed, to bed; there’s knocking at the gate.—Come, come, come, come, give me your hand; what’s done cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to bed. (Exit Lady.

Doct.Will she go now to bed?

Gent.Directly.

Doct.Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deedsDo breed unnatural troubles: infected mindsTo their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.More needs she the divine, than the physician.—God, God, forgive us all! Look after her;Remove from her the means of all annoyance,And still keep eyes upon her:—So, good-night:My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight:I think, but dare not speak.Gent.Good-night, good doctor. (Exeunt.

Doct.Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds

To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

More needs she the divine, than the physician.—

God, God, forgive us all! Look after her;

Remove from her the means of all annoyance,

And still keep eyes upon her:—So, good-night:

My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight:

I think, but dare not speak.

Gent.Good-night, good doctor. (Exeunt.

There is nota single wordof this scene which can be spared—not one which is not impregnated with blood and horror. You feel the very silence of the sick, midnight apartment. Ye see the pale ashy countenance of the terror-stricken gentlewoman, and sympathize with her in having her lot cast in such an abode of guilt and danger. You see that she has called up all her energy and presence of mind, as in a great crisis, to enable her to conduct herself wisely, and to escape with safety from this den of royal murderers. You can see her cautious step—as if she started even at the creaking of her own shoe—the rustling of her own robe, or the sighing of the wind around the distant turrets of the castle. You have here a most admirable character, and, except that she is but so short a time on the stage, almost as worthy the genius of Mrs. Siddons as that of Lady Macbeth herself. Were I a young actress, desirous of making my appearance before the public, I should choose to study thoroughly and represent well this character first,—a very great effect might be given to it.

The doctor is also done to the life. He is, in all respects, not only the medical man, but the medical man of coolness and experience. The few words he utters are full of curiosity, but not of the unbridled horror of his companion. He has doubtless, before, witnessed scenes enough of pain and anguish, and he is at first disposed to consider the gentlewoman as an exaggerator of the mysteries she professes to have beheld, and to treat the whole thing physically as a disease, till the truth becomes too apparent, and even his cool mind is convinced.

Lady Macbeth herself is the veryne plus ultraof the tragic. She has more terror in her step and eye, than a mere mortal ever had before. Waking remorse would not have been, by any means, so appalling. The fact of her being asleep is a great accessory. That pale face—those fixed, staring, dead eyes—the countenance emaciated by disease, and the long consuming fire of conscience—the step, solemn, slow, measured and unearthly—and the dark, dim and shifting imagery of the past, which floats to and fro through her imagination, form altogether a spectacle shocking and almost insupportable.

Let us take this extraordinary scene to pieces, and examine a little into its mechanism. One of the wonders of it is that there is no resort tostyle—no description—no bursts of eloquence—no lava-like eruption of passions. There are indeed but very few words said at all. The sick lady has, at first, no terrors for the doctor, and the gentlewoman has often beheld the same thing before. There is no stage effect—no management—no melo-dramatic cunning. The doctor even shows his coolness and incredulity, and makes a careless general remark. The transcendant genius of the poet felt, intuitively, that the situation of his characters here was so complete as to absorb the reader, and render unnecessary any but the simplest language. The whole scene is quiet, hushed and professional. Even the blank verse of the rest of the tragedy is laid aside, and the characters speak in common-place perfectly natural prose. Let us see what this almost supernatural terror consists in.

The doctor first says, we may suppose with a certain half unintentional degree of disappointment, that he has been already watching two nights to see something which the waiting-woman has reported to him respecting the queen, and yet he has seen nothing.

“I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report.”

A little impatient, a little incredulous, perhaps, he adds:

“When was it she last walked?”

This is a stroke of nature and probability at the very outset. It takes from the scene the air of a fiction. It sends the mind of the spectator back to the two past long nights, when the doctor, tolerably tired out, has been watching in vain. This is just as things happen in life. We have to watch and watch for every thing—even for the most true—before it appears. We feel also, even with the first apparently unimportant word spoken, a certain tremor at the intimation given of the domestic gloom which must reign in the royal household—an attack immediately expected from a powerful and inexorable foe—the queen sick—mysterious things, we know not what, hinted with pale face and trembling lips—and the guilty being, who had sold her eternal soul for her present position,—we see herinthat position, all the promised triumphs and pleasures neutralized by disease and remorse, and she herselfwatchedby her servants, night after night, when she little dreams herself the subject of such a combined inquisition.

The gentlewoman relates more particularly what she has seen, though with a guarded care, which not every gentlewoman in real life, under such exciting circumstances, would have the prudence to observe; but Shakspeare’s people are not only living but very sensible persons. To the question:

“When was it she last walked?”

she replies:

“Since his majesty went into the field.”

Here at once is another stroke. It tells theoccupationof the king; called to a fearful contest and absorbed in it, the deadly secret is transpiring unopposed, undreamed of by him, behind his back, in the centre of his household, and from the lips of the very being who has so often taunted his weakness, and urged him with haughty scorn onward in his guilty and blood-tracked career. So little power has man over destiny! Thus is guilt beset. These are the nameless, unimaginable dangers it runs, when, bold and self-confident, it thinks itself equal to a contest with the Deity, who, seated in the clouds, strikes it with its own arm, and baffles its plans with the toils it has woven for others.

“Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.”

There is nothing more appalling to me than a person walking in his sleep. It is such an image of death aroused from the grave—such a type of the spiritual world—such a contrast to the same being when awake, that I could never look upon my most intimate friend in such a state without a thrill of fear, as if I were gazing upon his spectre—without perfectly comprehending Hamlet’s account of his own feelings in looking upon a ghost.

——“and we fools of natureSo horribly to shake our dispositionWith thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls.”

——“and we fools of nature

So horribly to shake our disposition

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls.”

This statement of the waiting-woman, so simple, natural and true, is enough to arouse in a moment the curiosity of the most indifferent stranger, and to inspire him with an inexpressible anxiety to know what it means, and to what it will lead.

The doctor, however, is a man of the world, and is not so easily worked on. He replies with a mere generality:

“A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what at any time have you heard her say?”

Here there is a peeping out of curiosity on the part of the honest physician, who is eager to learn all that may be acquired of what has the appearance of an interesting secret. But his companion does not mean to go further than prudence and self-security require. She replies at once in a way which, while it balks curiosity, sharpens its appetite.

“That, sir, which I will not report after her.”

What would any doctor say in such a case?

“You may to me; and ’tis most meet you should.”

He is aroused. He wishes—he is determined to know this mystery, and therefore pleads the privilege and necessity, as well as the prudence of his profession. “You may tellanything tome. Of course I shall never reveal. I am the depositary of a thousand family secrets. Besides, if I am to treat the patient, Imustknow what is the matter with her.”

But the waiting-woman is not going to be driven from her determination. She has obviously receiveda deep-seated fright. Her whole self-possession is called up for her defence and guidance. She is a single woman, in a lonely castle, and in a really awful position, accidentally the holder of a secret involving the reputation, if not the life and death of those in power, and the fate perhaps of nations. Were she to hint her suspicion that her royal mistress was a murderess—that the fierce king, now desperate with the danger impending over his kingdom, had gained the throne by a foul assassination—how can she be sure that the doctor will not go to the king and betray her, to ingratiate himself into the favor of his royal master? Courts are not the places for too light confidences—particularly of such secrets. In such case the truth or falsehood of the statement would be little inquired into, and she would be probably hurled from the battlements or immured to starve in some dark dungeon. She is—you feel she is, quite in earnest, and quite right to reply:

“Neither toyounorany one; having nowitnesstoconfirm my speech.”

EPHEMERA.

———

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.

———

Wellmight weep the sentimental Persian,Looking o’er his host of armed men,When on Greece he made his wild incursion,Whence so few might e’er return again.Well might he weep o’er those countless millions,Dreaming of the future and the past,As he gazed, amid the gold pavilionsRound his throne, upon that crowd so vast.Musing, with subdued and solemn feelings,On the awful thoughts that filled his soul—One of those most terrible revealingsThat will sometimes o’er the spirit roll.Thoughts, that of that multitude before himPanting high for fame—athirst to strive—Ere old Time had sped a century o’er him,Not, perhaps, would one be left alive.That those hearts, now bounding in the gloryOf existence, would be hushed and cold;Not their very names preserved in story,Nor upon fame’s chronicle enrolled.All to earth, their proper home, departed;Light heart, strong hand, all gone to kindred clay;And, in their vacant room, a new race started,Careless of the millions past away.Well might weep he—well might we, in weeping,Make our offering at sorrow’s call—When we ponder how our days are creeping,Like the shadow on the wall.When we think how soon the sun-beam, setting,Will depart, and leave it all in shade—And our very friends will be forgettingThat the daylight o’er it ever played.Life, upon a swallow’s wing is flying,O’er the earth it sparkles and is gone;All our days are but a lengthened dying—One dark hour before the eternal dawn.Riches, glory, honor, fame, ambition—All as swiftly fly, as soon are fled;Or, if gathered, mend they our condition?What delight can these afford the dead?Chase no more the phantom of the dreaming—Weary is the hunt, the capture vain;When thy arms embrace the golden seeming,It will vanish from thy grasp again.Trouble not thy heart with anxious carings—Thou art but a shadow—so are they;Let the things of Heaven deserve thy darings,They alone will never pass away.

Wellmight weep the sentimental Persian,Looking o’er his host of armed men,When on Greece he made his wild incursion,Whence so few might e’er return again.

Wellmight weep the sentimental Persian,

Looking o’er his host of armed men,

When on Greece he made his wild incursion,

Whence so few might e’er return again.

Well might he weep o’er those countless millions,Dreaming of the future and the past,As he gazed, amid the gold pavilionsRound his throne, upon that crowd so vast.

Well might he weep o’er those countless millions,

Dreaming of the future and the past,

As he gazed, amid the gold pavilions

Round his throne, upon that crowd so vast.

Musing, with subdued and solemn feelings,On the awful thoughts that filled his soul—One of those most terrible revealingsThat will sometimes o’er the spirit roll.

Musing, with subdued and solemn feelings,

On the awful thoughts that filled his soul—

One of those most terrible revealings

That will sometimes o’er the spirit roll.

Thoughts, that of that multitude before himPanting high for fame—athirst to strive—Ere old Time had sped a century o’er him,Not, perhaps, would one be left alive.

Thoughts, that of that multitude before him

Panting high for fame—athirst to strive—

Ere old Time had sped a century o’er him,

Not, perhaps, would one be left alive.

That those hearts, now bounding in the gloryOf existence, would be hushed and cold;Not their very names preserved in story,Nor upon fame’s chronicle enrolled.

That those hearts, now bounding in the glory

Of existence, would be hushed and cold;

Not their very names preserved in story,

Nor upon fame’s chronicle enrolled.

All to earth, their proper home, departed;Light heart, strong hand, all gone to kindred clay;And, in their vacant room, a new race started,Careless of the millions past away.

All to earth, their proper home, departed;

Light heart, strong hand, all gone to kindred clay;

And, in their vacant room, a new race started,

Careless of the millions past away.

Well might weep he—well might we, in weeping,Make our offering at sorrow’s call—When we ponder how our days are creeping,Like the shadow on the wall.

Well might weep he—well might we, in weeping,

Make our offering at sorrow’s call—

When we ponder how our days are creeping,

Like the shadow on the wall.

When we think how soon the sun-beam, setting,Will depart, and leave it all in shade—And our very friends will be forgettingThat the daylight o’er it ever played.

When we think how soon the sun-beam, setting,

Will depart, and leave it all in shade—

And our very friends will be forgetting

That the daylight o’er it ever played.

Life, upon a swallow’s wing is flying,O’er the earth it sparkles and is gone;All our days are but a lengthened dying—One dark hour before the eternal dawn.

Life, upon a swallow’s wing is flying,

O’er the earth it sparkles and is gone;

All our days are but a lengthened dying—

One dark hour before the eternal dawn.

Riches, glory, honor, fame, ambition—All as swiftly fly, as soon are fled;Or, if gathered, mend they our condition?What delight can these afford the dead?

Riches, glory, honor, fame, ambition—

All as swiftly fly, as soon are fled;

Or, if gathered, mend they our condition?

What delight can these afford the dead?

Chase no more the phantom of the dreaming—Weary is the hunt, the capture vain;When thy arms embrace the golden seeming,It will vanish from thy grasp again.

Chase no more the phantom of the dreaming—

Weary is the hunt, the capture vain;

When thy arms embrace the golden seeming,

It will vanish from thy grasp again.

Trouble not thy heart with anxious carings—Thou art but a shadow—so are they;Let the things of Heaven deserve thy darings,They alone will never pass away.

Trouble not thy heart with anxious carings—

Thou art but a shadow—so are they;

Let the things of Heaven deserve thy darings,

They alone will never pass away.

WITH THEE.

———

BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.

———

Withthee, at dewy morn where e’er I wander,Are my fond thoughts—still close to thee they cling;O’er each departed hour they love to ponder,That, pass’d with thee, seem’d like the hours of spring.Yes—every vanish’d joy is like a treasureGlean’d from the mighty casket of the past,Dearer than low-breathed music’s echoed measure,When its soft spell around our souls is cast.With thee at noon, when summer winds are stealingThro’ the green leaves in harp-tones rich and sweet,On the bright sward in lowly homage kneeling,With thee my prayers—my prayers of fondness meet.What tho’ mine eye thro’ dreary distance failethIn its deep search to hail thy welcome form?What tho’ my cheek thro’ long, long watching fadeth,And my sad heart leaps not so freshly warm?Still unto thee no eyes beam brighter lustre,No vermeil cheeks thy early love’s outshine;Around no heart do richer feelings cluster,Than swell in that which is so wholly thine.Why do I mourn that mountain billows sever?Vain may they strive our spirits to divide,For am I not, mine own one, with thee ever?E’en as thou art forever at my side.

Withthee, at dewy morn where e’er I wander,

Are my fond thoughts—still close to thee they cling;

O’er each departed hour they love to ponder,

That, pass’d with thee, seem’d like the hours of spring.

Yes—every vanish’d joy is like a treasureGlean’d from the mighty casket of the past,Dearer than low-breathed music’s echoed measure,When its soft spell around our souls is cast.

Yes—every vanish’d joy is like a treasure

Glean’d from the mighty casket of the past,

Dearer than low-breathed music’s echoed measure,

When its soft spell around our souls is cast.

With thee at noon, when summer winds are stealingThro’ the green leaves in harp-tones rich and sweet,On the bright sward in lowly homage kneeling,With thee my prayers—my prayers of fondness meet.

With thee at noon, when summer winds are stealing

Thro’ the green leaves in harp-tones rich and sweet,

On the bright sward in lowly homage kneeling,

With thee my prayers—my prayers of fondness meet.

What tho’ mine eye thro’ dreary distance failethIn its deep search to hail thy welcome form?What tho’ my cheek thro’ long, long watching fadeth,And my sad heart leaps not so freshly warm?

What tho’ mine eye thro’ dreary distance faileth

In its deep search to hail thy welcome form?

What tho’ my cheek thro’ long, long watching fadeth,

And my sad heart leaps not so freshly warm?

Still unto thee no eyes beam brighter lustre,No vermeil cheeks thy early love’s outshine;Around no heart do richer feelings cluster,Than swell in that which is so wholly thine.

Still unto thee no eyes beam brighter lustre,

No vermeil cheeks thy early love’s outshine;

Around no heart do richer feelings cluster,

Than swell in that which is so wholly thine.

Why do I mourn that mountain billows sever?Vain may they strive our spirits to divide,For am I not, mine own one, with thee ever?E’en as thou art forever at my side.

Why do I mourn that mountain billows sever?

Vain may they strive our spirits to divide,

For am I not, mine own one, with thee ever?

E’en as thou art forever at my side.

WICCÓNSAT.

A LEGEND OF ST. MARY’S.

———

BY MRS. MARY M. FORD.

———

Onthe eastern bank of a small river, which enters the Potomac a few miles above its confluence with the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, are still to be seen vestiges of the earliest settlement in Maryland; once the village of Youcómaco, but quietly yielded by the natives to the white colonists, who there built a town, calling it St. Mary’s. Subsequent events led to its desertion for a more advantageous location, and the ravages of time have left little to tell of its former state. It has faded away, unnoticed and unsung, yet its name is still seen on the older maps of our country. The river, which once bore the appellation of St. George’s, is now called St. Mary’s, but whether in memory of the deserted town, or not, is uncertain.

Ruins are happily so scarce in our young and thriving republic, that the simple legend which gives a name to my story, may awaken some interest among those, to whose imaginations the solitary remains of the past seem to speak in the breathings of the winds that sweep over their ruins. The circumstances which led to its narration, by one who had heard it in the mother country, and in whose family its memory had been handed down, were as follows:—

Many years ago, as the last lingering sunbeams were fading from the sky, giving place to the mellow twilight; and a ruddy tinge was on the bosom of the waters, where the little river of St. Mary’s mingled its tributary stream with the waves of the broad Potomac; a small vessel had just anchored within the mouth of the former river, on which is established a port of entry. The craft seemed awaiting the boarding officer, who, at a point further up the river, was just entering his boat. He appeared very young, and, from the open gaiety of his fine countenance, seemed to enjoy corresponding lightness of heart. He raised a small telescope to his eye, and exclaimed to the two colored men who were loosening the boat—

“It must be a Yankee schooner; be quick Basil! Luke!”

“Aye, aye, Massa Frank,” replied Luke, “all ready—that’s an eastern craft, sure.”

The light barge was soon on the waves, and the youth took the helm, while the strong arm of his companions were engaged with the oars.

The visitors approached the vessel’s side almost unperceived; and when the young officer ascended to its deck, he found the captain anxiously absorbed in examining an old map, which was spread out before him. The expression of his weather-beaten face, as he raised it to return the salutation of his visitor, showed evident signs of being puzzled.

“Where are you from?” inquired the landsman.

“From Plymouth.”

“What cargo?”

“Why, a good many notions, of which you will know presently.”

“And whither bound?”

“Why that’s what I’m looking for on this old map, for I see nothing like it on shore; aye, here it is, St. Mary’s, the town of St. Mary’s, sir.”[2]

“There is no such town in the state, sir,” replied the youth, “this river and the county bear that name; there is some mistake.”

“Massa captain clear out for de county,” said Basil, grinning.

“De boss lose his reckoning dis time,” rejoined Luke.

“Be more respectful, and return to the boat,” said the young officer, checking their glee; then turning to the captain, he continued, “This map is an old one; there was formerly a town named St. Mary on this river—it was the first settlement in the state, and built in the time of the Calverts, but it has passed away and been forgotten for a century.”

The disappointed face of the mariner was not the only one agitated by the news. The sailors belonging to the vessel had joined the group, and their rough appearance was strongly contrasted with the tall and elegant figure of a passenger, who had been drawn by the conversation from the cabin, and now stood leaning against the companion way.

The young Marylander, who had not before perceived the stranger, thought, as he returned his salutation, that he had seldom looked on a countenance so interesting. It was youthful, but there was a shade of melancholy on the fine features, which, however, served only to confine, not hide the flashes of an enthusiastic spirit, which glanced from his full dark eye.

“We are out of soundings, Mr. Egerton,” said the captain, “I might as well have cleared out for a port in the moon.”

“The fault was mine, sir,” replied the person called Egerton, “and I regret having thus led you astray;” then, turning to the young American, he continued, “The disappointment is also great to me, sir, for the haven we sought was the home of my forefathers. I am a stranger in this country, having lately arrived from England. On landing at Plymouth I found this schooner loading for a southern port—and, wishing to visit Maryland immediately, I induced this worthy but too obliging man to bring the cargo hither. The silence of history has left the annals of Maryland so much in the shadow, that a foreigner feels doubtful whether a literal construction should be put on the desertion of a town, particularly when your port of entry also bears the name of St. Mary’s.”

“Well,” interrupted the captain, smiling, “don’t feel uneasy about me, for the cargo is of that accommodating nature which will suit another town as well.”

The customary business was soon despatched, and the officer was leaving the vessel, but his eye lingered on the interesting stranger. There was something in his appearance that won his heart, and, after a moment’s hesitation he thus spoke.

“This seems to have been your place of destination, Mr. Egerton. Will you excuse the blunt freedom of an American, if I ask you to accompany me to the shore? My uncle’s dwelling is in sight. I act as his deputy in official business, but with much more pleasure I use another privilege, and tender you the hospitalities of his roof. Although the town, the principal object of your visit, is no more, yet if you can content yourself a few days with us, you can explore the ruins. Oakford is the name of my uncle. I bear the same, with the simple addition of Frank.”

The stranger caught his offered hand.

“I feel grateful for your kindness,—the ruins! did you say? It would indeed be a gratification to view them—I will, with pleasure, avail myself of your polite invitation; the ruins! are they extensive?”

“Oh, no,” replied young Oakford, smiling, “there are but few relics left by time and weather—some remains of walls and foundations—but the most interesting are the ruins of an ancient church—among whose dilapidated pews a respectable audience of weeds have accumulated.”

“Weeds, growing in the holy temple of my fathers! what a sublime yet sad subject for reflection! I must see them!”

The young American again smiled at his companion’s enthusiasm; and, as the shadows of evening were fast closing around them, he hurried his new friend in his preparations to leave the vessel. The good-natured captain declined an invitation to accompany them, as he had made arrangements to continue his voyage farther—and, cordially shaking the hand of his departing passenger, refused to receive any extra compensation for the trouble occasioned. The rough, but kind-hearted sailors also refused, but the generous feelings of the young man were not to be checked thus, and he forced into their unwilling hands the expression of his thanks, as he took a kind leave of them.

Darkness had veiled the landscape when the boat reached the shore, and the warm-hearted Marylander, drawing the arm of the young stranger within his, hurried him up the long avenue leading to the mansion, assuring him that his uncle would be as much gratified as himself by this acquisition to their society. “So, feel perfectly at ease, for we southerners use very little ceremony.”

The event proved it so, for Col. Oakford, a fine looking man, just past the meridian of life, received him with that easy politeness and frank cordiality of manner which relieved him from all embarrassment. He soon discovered that his guest possessed high literary attainments—and, enjoying those advantages himself, the conversation became interesting, and they parted at the hour of rest, mutually pleased with each other.

The next morning arose in clouds and rain. “Noruinsto-day,” said the young Briton, as they met in the breakfast room. But, although the weather prevented any outward excursion, a well filled library offered a pleasing substitute.

Young hearts soon assimilate, and friendships in early life are quickly formed—hence, when the sun at last broke through the clouds, on the evening of the third day, the two youths felt on terms of intimacy and attachment. On the fourth morning, the lively Frank aroused his friend before sunrise, to view, what he imagined must be to him, a novel and imposing sight. They descended to the open piazza, and young Egerton looked around in vain to discover the woods, the hill, the river; all was enveloped in a thick fog, and had the appearance of a surrounding lake. At this moment the sun rose, and the vapor broke on the bosom of the stream.

“See,” said Frank, “the river is throwing off his night robes—observe how gracefully he rolls and folds them.”

Huge white sheets of vapor were indeed majestically receding down the current; others floated like snow wreaths on the hills of the opposite shore—the green sides of which, were at intervals visible through the breaking mist, and seemed struggling beneath its might. In gradual succession the forests and dwellings of men appeared, and in a few minutes this atmospheric envelope was lost in the increasing warmth of the sun’s beams.

“How singular and beautiful,” said the stranger. “Is it often thus?”

“Very frequently; at some seasons each morning renews the scene; but you are not very robust, and must be content to view it seldom, for this recreation is far from healthy. The poets of your native isle may sing of ‘walks at early dawn, through dewy meads,’ but such strolls would make a short life here.”

On entering the parlor they met the Colonel.

“What think you of the night bath which these lowlands take?” said he, smiling.

“That the morning effect is beautiful,” replied Egerton, “but the whole must be injurious to health.”

“You are right, it is ever so to strangers, but we, who are sons of the mist, fear no harm from our native atmosphere. Yet do not think this characteristic of our general climate. On the contrary, the northern states, with their rock-bound sea coasts, have a clear bracing atmosphere; the middle states, also, with their varied surface of mountain and valley, and most parts of the southern, are equally healthy. Our own upper counties, and the neighboring inlands, or forest places, as we term them, are not sickly. It is only where the land is low, and as bountifully supplied with bays, inlets and streams as here, that this effect takes place; but see, ‘aunt Nora’ waits with the breakfast.”

The aged colored housekeeper, called by this familiar appellation, had been the faithful nurse of the Colonel’s infancy, and, in return, was treated by him with great kindness. She was busied at a little table, in a corner of the room, from which she despatched, by the younger hands of her grandson, Luke, to a larger table in the centre of the apartment, the fine coffee, and more solid comforts of a Maryland breakfast, of which the young friends hastily partook, and then made arrangements for their visit to theruins.

The boat was soon in readiness, and they set out, accompanied by Basil and Luke. As the light bark glided along the shore, Frank pointed out several places endeared by the recollections of his childhood. Through an opening in the trees peeped the unobtrusive walls dedicated to country learning, with its play ground, so often the scene of his boyish gambols, and its clear spring under the shade of a sycamore near the river, where a solitary cow was now stooping to drink.

“See, Frank,” cried his friend, “she is profaning your Helicon fount!”

“Nay, let her drink, Egerton,” he replied, “for, as she is not likely to draw more romantic inspiration thanIdid from its waters, the spring will lose none of its power from her draught.”

“But you have gained what is worth more, sentiments pure and disinterested, with a mind happy and free. ’Tis true, you seldom make reminiscences—but, if you were like me, an orphan, and a native of a clime where, at every step, you meet some relic of the past, you would feel differently. Your country has but a short path to retrace, and is too young to boast of olden days.”

“And yet,” replied Frank, archly smiling, “there were times to which we might refer, as equal to any that shed glory on ancient chivalry.”

“Granted, and the treasure they left you may well render you careless of other relics.”

“Many thanks for your liberality, my dear friend,” said Frank, “and now for theruins.” As he spoke, the direction of the boat was changed, and they swiftly crossed the river. Egerton sprang first on land, and was soon deeply engaged in examination, but found Frank’s words too true. Time and weather had indeed been ruthless ravagers; besides, it appeared that many materials had been removed, perhaps to repair the cottages of the neighboring poor. But some remains of what seemed to have been the walls of a large store house, part of an embankment where once had stood a fort, pits filled with rubbish, which had been cellars, and crumbled walls, with here and there a fallen chimney, gave melancholy testimony to the change. Nor had the church met a better fate. The broken in roof still clung to the shattered wall on one side only, and hung like a dark banner, half suspended over the desolation below; the decayed floor had descended into the mournful cemetery beneath, leaving some of the baseless seats clinging to the side wall. Weeds, too, were there, whose flowers seemed to bloom in mockery. In the sad home of the buried dead all was confusion, broken tombs, and heaps of rubbish. The young Briton sat down on a fragment of the ruined wall, and Frank shared in the melancholy of his friend, as they viewed the desolate scene. Egerton at length broke silence. “You have, no doubt, wondered at the deep interest I feel with regard to these ruins. Many circumstances have led to it, particularly a little tale related to me by a maiden aunt, to which I listened with great delight in childhood; and when, in after years, I was deprived of my beloved parents, I would sometimes beguile my sorrows by a recurrence to its sad remembrance. Thus it became more interesting to me, and I soon felt a desire to visit the location of scenes so connected with my family, and with the fate of an Indian chief of the Youcómaco tribe, called Wiccónsat, the principal subject of the legend. If it will give you any pleasure, I will relate it while we rest on these sad ruins.”

“Really, my dear friend,” replied Frank, “I feel almost as sentimental as yourself.”

“Then I will take advantage of your serious mood and commence my simple tale.”

“Among the early settlers at St. Mary’s, were the parents of Rosalie Egerton. She was an only daughter and beautiful. An accomplished mother had taught her many things of which few other females of the colony could boast. She accompanied her harp with the songs of distant lands, and with her needle embroidered scenes from the old world. Yet she loved to wander amidst the wild grandeur of her native forests, accompanied only by her little brother, for the neighboring Indians were harmless and friendly.

“Wiccónsat was the son of an aged chief of the Youcómacoes. He was tall and elegantly formed, and straight as an arrow from his quiver. Mild and contemplative, he became a favorite among the settlers, from whom he learned not only to read and write, but many of their useful arts. But he had listened to the breathings of Rosalie’s harp, as he lingered near her dwelling, and had gazed after her fair form, as she wandered in the forest, until the Indian’s life had lost all charms for him. The smile of happy youth had fled, and when he sought his father’s wigwam, his eye was sad and restless. The old chief saw with sorrow the change.

“ ‘A spell hath come o’er thee, Wiccónsat,’ he kindly said; ‘my son is no longer the same. When in childhood I first saw thy little hands bend the bow, I fondly thought thou would’st rival the hunting fame of thy father, and, when age had weakened my strength, should danger threaten our tribe, thou would’st head the chiefs in combat. The locks of Orrouiska are now gray, and his hand feeble. The supplies of his wigwam are scanty, for his son lingers among the better habitations of strangers. But I know thy secret. Thy hopeless love is placed on the fairest of the white fawns, one as far above thy reach as was the rainbow of yesterday. For though the son of a once powerful chief, the poorest of the pale faces would reject thy alliance. Then arouse thee, Wiccónsat, and despise their pride. The Great Spirit made us all equal, and the brightest of our Indian maidens would be proud of thy love. If thou dost prefer the plough of the white man to the bow of the hunter, ’tis well, but turn the furrow in thy own fields.’

“The youth answered not, but with a deep sigh, taking his quiver full of arrows, went out to the chase. He wandered on through the forest, forgetful of his first intention, until he found himself near the river’s bank, and by the dwelling of Rosalie, and soon beheld the maiden, with her little brother, in a small boat, which they had contrived to move out a few yards into the deep water. As she arose to reach some blossoms from the overhanging trees, her balance was lost, and she fell into the stream. In a moment the young Indian had plunged in to her relief, and bore her in safety to the bank. The cries of her brother had alarmed the family, who hurried to the river, and Wiccónsat, yielding his lovely burthen to her parents’ arms, hastened to escape from their grateful acknowledgments, to enjoy in solitude the delightful feelings that crowded his heart. It seemed a new era in his existence, and fairy dreams floated in his imagination. With buoyant and unwearied footsteps he pursued the chase, and returned to his father’s cabin loaded with the choicest game, the reward of his toil.

“ ‘Come, dear Oskwena,’ said he to his young sister, who ran to welcome him, ‘prepare a feast for our father, while I dress these skins, to make a softer couch for his aged limbs.’

“ ‘Gladly, brother,’ she replied, ‘but hast thou brought me any beads or ornaments from the colony?’

“ ‘No, thou art too good and comely to need these trifles. Thy lover will prize thee more without them.’

“ ‘Thou art mistaken, brother, for Potawissa loves to see my dark hair braided with beads, and their bright strings encircling my neck. Thy talk will do for the white fawns, with their cheeks like the wild rose and foreheads like the mountain snow; but the darker hue of Indian maids wants other ornaments.’

“ ‘Thou hast well described the white fawns, sister,’ answered the young chief, ‘and shalt indeed have a gay necklace; but thou hast never heard the song of her who is brightest among them. Why the blest sounds on the air, which are said to call our fathers to the spirit-land on high, are not sweeter.’

“ ‘Hush, hush,’ cried Oskwena, ‘how canst thou talk thus? I would not hear her strain, for it hath sadly altered thee.’

“The bright visions of Wiccónsat were soon dispelled, for, with the next vessel from England, arrived a young relative of Rosalie’s family, who brought news of their having succeeded to an estate in their native country, to take possession of which they now made preparations to leave America. The charms of the maiden made an immediate impression on the heart of the young and accomplished Briton. His amiable qualities soon won her love, and, with the approval of her parents, it was arranged that their marriage should take place on their arrival in England.

“The sad intelligence soon reached Wiccónsat, to whom the grateful family had shown many marks of attachment, little suspecting the sorrows they were preparing for the youthful chief. They knew not the secret homage of his heart, for its trembling hopes had never been breathed to the beautiful object of his love. In the innocence of grateful friendship, she presented him with an embroidered belt worked by her own hands, and assured him that she would never forget her generous preserver.—But when the day of their departure had arrived, and sorrowful friends crowded the vessel’s deck to take their last farewell, Wiccónsat was not there. Rosalie and her parents shed tears of regret, as the sails were spreading to waft them from their happy American home, and as their eyes sought its peaceful roof, they discovered near it, on a point of the river’s shore, the solitary figure of the young chief. It was at this spot he had rescued the maiden from a watery grave. She eagerly waved her white handkerchief in token of farewell, and the next moment saw the belt she had given him, floating on the air in a returning adieu. In a few minutes the vessel parted from the shore.

“Many years after this, an interesting youth, accompanied by his tutor, arrived at St. Mary’s, from England. I know not in what state they found the town, but the youth’s first inquiries were for an Indian chief, called Wiccónsat, who had in early years saved the life of his mother. He was shown a lonely wigwam, on a point near the river. James Egerton, for it was my great grandfather, took an early opportunity of visiting it, but first inquired into the present character of its inmate. ‘He is mild and peaceful,’ said his informant, ‘and is sometimes called the Indian Hermit, for he seldom appears abroad except when hunting or fishing. He has lived thus for many years, is always melancholy, and dislikes the visits of the curious: ’Tis thought some misfortune in his youth has led him to prefer solitude.’—Thus informed, the young James proceeded to the river’s side. From description, he knew where had stood the home of his mother’s children, but sighed to perceive it in ruins, and leaning on a fragment of the broken wall, plucked a leaf from the vine that still clung to it, then, with lingering footsteps, sought the point. Seated on a rustic bench at the door of the cabin was a figure which he knew must be the chief, for he raised his tall, majestic form, and advanced to meet him, but paused suddenly, and gazed earnestly and inquiringly on his face.

“The youth felt abashed, but with some effort addressed him: ‘Excuse this intrusion, good chief; I am the son of her, whose life you once saved.’

“The recluse caught his offered hand.

“ ‘And art thou indeed her child? oh! yes, that eye, that smile had awoke my memory before you spoke. Welcome art thou to the desolate Wiccónsat.’ After some conversation, the youth drew from his bosom two small books, richly bound, and presented them as tokens of remembrance from his mother. The chief pressed them to his lips. ‘These will beguile many lonely hours, but, oh! hadst thou but brought me one lock of her hair. It was the colour of thine,’ he added, as he passed his hand over the rich brown curls of the son of Rosalie. ‘Alas! good chief,’ he replied, ‘sorrow, rather than time, has robbed those locks of their beauty. Death has bereaved my beloved mother of her parents and of several children. I alone survive.’ ‘And can sorrow reach one so good? Then why should I repine?—From this point, dear boy, I saw thy mother and her parents depart, and here I raised my lonely habitation. For years, I indulged the vain hope of their return, and whenever I saw a large vessel enter the river, I silently mingled with the crowd on the shore. But wearied hope has long since fled, memory alone remains.’

“ ‘And yet you may again behold my parents, for it is their intention to visit Maryland in a short time.’ Surprise and joy beamed in the countenance of the Indian, and from that hour he continued cheerful, but his greatest present enjoyment arose from the frequent visits of his young friend, to whom he daily became more attached. ’Tis true, the tutor of James disapproved of his spending so much time with one whom he considered an untutored savage, but the warm-hearted boy knew his Indian favorite to be possessed of pure and lofty principles, with noble and generous feelings.

“Wiccónsat now mingled once more with the white inhabitants, and pointed out to the inquiring youth whatever was interesting. The remains of the Indian village were still visible, and the few chiefs that visited the town still fondly called it Youcómico. But their tribe had removed to a greater distance, and there was now little communication between them and the colonists.

“Several months elapsed and the time drew near when the young Briton expected once more to embrace his parents. They had informed him, by letter, of their intention to embark on board the Huntress, which would sail in two weeks, and nearly a month had passed since the reception of this letter. It was probable then, that they were near the American coast.”

Here the narrator paused.

“Why do you not proceed?” asked Frank.

“Because I think it will be better to finish the story as we return. It grows late, and I wish to gather some little remembrance.”

From various parts of the ruins he now selected something to carry with him, and was loading Basil and Luke with similar trophies, who appeared to place little value on them, as they dropped some at every step. At length they returned to the boat, in which they deposited the cumbrous relics, and left the shore. But a new object excited the curiosity of Egerton, and, with a look of entreaty, he turned to his friend.

“You have been very patient and kind, dear Frank, and now we are in the boat, let us go a little further up the river! That point above must be the spot on which stood the wigwam of Wiccónsat.”

“You will find it a difficult matter to prove that,” returned Frank, “however, we will go.”

“It’s a good place for fishing,” said Basil, “and we have a line.”

The first object that struck their view on landing at the point, was a collection of half decayed boards.

“See here! conviction strong!” cried the delighted Egerton.

“Nonsense,” said Frank, “they are the remains of some old fishing hut or flat boat. Indian wigwams are not made of boards.”

“How incredulous you are,” returned his friend. “Surely the melancholy chief had been long enough among white men to adopt their materials.”

“Very well, shall we load the boat with them as relics?”

“You are jesting; but I should really like to rebuild it, if we had time. Where are Basil and Luke?”

“More profitably employed—fishing; but we will return in a day or two, and try whether a wigwam can be made of it.” The young Briton had seated himself on one of the boards, and seemed lost in contemplation, while Frank quietly withdrew to see the luck of the fishers—who, in the meantime, had not forgotten the two youths, but, in their simple phrase, were discussing the point at issue:

“Why, Old Nora could tell him plenty about the Ingens,” said Basil, “for her grandmother told her, and she saw a power of ’em in her time—but he only seems to care about one—and I can’t say I ever heard Nora go over such a strange name as that.”

“They were smart, them chiefs, in their time,” observed Luke, “for they say our folks learned to make the canoes from ’em, and I’d put ’em against any boat that swims.”

“But they won’t hold much of a crew, Luke, let alone passengers, and as there’s four of us, and a heavy load of Massa Egerton’s nelics, as he calls them; besides, it’s lucky we’ve got something bigger to float home in.”

Their angling had not been very successful in the short time they had engaged in it, and at Frank’s request, the boat was again put in readiness for their departure.

Once more on the water, Frank reminded his friend of the promised conclusion of his story.

“I thought you had forgotten it,” replied Egerton, smiling, “but I will with pleasure gratify you. I believe we left my ancestor expecting the early arrival of his parents at St. Mary’s, and I will now proceed to give you the other portion of the legend.

“One evening, after his usual visit to the wigwam, James was slowly returning to his lodgings. Lost in thought, he did not at first perceive that heavy clouds were gathering in the sky, but the sudden darkness made him quicken his pace.

“ ‘You are late this evening, Master James,’ said his tutor, as he met him at the door, ‘you waste a great deal of time with that wild Indian, and I am glad your parents are coming to take charge of you.’ ‘I am glad too,’ thought his pupil, but he did not say so, and soon after retired to rest.

“The sleep of innocent youth is ever sound, and a severe storm which arose had been raging some time before it broke his deep slumber.

“He started from his pillow, and his first thoughts were fears for his parents’ safety. The wind roared fearfully, and the rain beat in torrents against his chamber window. He looked out on the thick darkness that obscured every object, and his heart sunk within him at the dreary view. Overcome with the distress of his feelings, he leaned against the casement, and gave vent to the friendly tears that often relieve the sadness of boyhood. Suddenly a faint and distant flash of light broke through the gloom. It was gone, but a sound followed which, even amid the howling of the storm, could not be mistaken. It struck on the ear of the weeping boy, with startling certainty.

“ ‘It is, oh! yes, it is a signal gun of distress, oh! my mother! my father!’ and sinking on his knees, he breathed an agonized prayer for their safety, then starting to his feet, he hastily threw on his clothes, and hurried down stairs without knowing his object. The house stood near the river, and on opening the door he saw some person moving along the bank. He approached; it was the chief. ‘Is it you, Wiccónsat? oh! what a night!’ The Indian pressed his hand in gloomy silence, and stood in a listening attitude, with his face turned towards that part of the horizon from whence the flash had appeared. Another gleamed across the dismal night, and the sullen peal that followed, fell, like the bolt of death, on their hearts.

“ ‘It is a call for aid,’ exclaimed the chief, ‘and perhaps thy mother’s life is in danger.’ ‘And my father’s too,’ added the shuddering boy. ‘Alas! Wiccónsat, what can we do?’ ‘I follow that light,’ he answered, as the flash of another minute gun shone.

“ ‘Oh! take me then with you, good chief, leave me not here in suspense!’

“ ‘Alas! my boy, this stormy night ill suits thy tender frame. Wait thou till morning breaks, then thou canst follow with some of the townsmen. The light seems near the mouth of the Potomac.’

“ ‘Who speaks below,’ said the tutor’s voice from the window; ‘surely, Master James, you are not out on such a night?’ ‘Indeed I am,’ replied the youth, ‘there is a vessel in distress, it may be the Huntress, in which my parents are expected; surely I cannot sleep now.’

“ ‘Well, well, if that’s the case, it’s bad enough, but I think it’s not probable; however, I’ll be down directly.’ By this time several of the neighbours had joined them, and they determined to proceed in the supposed direction of the vessel. By the first dawn of light they found themselves on the shore of the Potomac river, near its entrance into the Chesapeake Bay. The rain had ceased, and daylight, as it broke from the clouded east, shewed to their anxious gaze, a dismasted vessel, which appeared in a wrecked and sinking state. Two boats, crowded with the crew and passengers, were seen contending with the raging waves, endeavouring to reach the land. Some water casks which had been washed on shore, were eagerly examined by the distressed James, to discover the name of the vessel. It met his eye, and with a cry of terror he threw himself into the arms of the Indian.

“ ‘It is the Huntress! oh! Wiccónsat! my parents will be lost!’

“ ‘Hast thou no confidence in the Great Being thy mother worships?’ he softly said, as he pressed him to his breast, but his eye was fairly fixed on one of the boats, in which he thought he could distinguish the garments of a female. The foaming waters seemed to threaten instant destruction to the frail barques, as they tost from wave to wave, sometimes half hid in the surf that broke over them. At this moment a mingled cry reached the shore, and but one boat was seen, the other was ’whelmed beneath the waters. Wiccónsat broke from the clinging arms of the youth, and plunged into the waves. For some time he was lost to their view, but his strong and sinewy arms forced a passage to the scene of distress, and in a short time he was seen returning, supporting, with one arm, the form of a female. The young James, who had been forcibly withheld from following, now rushed to meet him, and Rosalie (for it was she) opened her eyes to be clasped to the bosom of her son. She lived, she breathed, and the first word that trembled on her lips was the name of her husband. Scarcely had she spoken, ere the generous chief had again thrown himself into the waves. But his strength was exhausted by previous exertion, and when, with difficulty, he had nearly reached the overturned boat to which the husband of Rosalie, with others, now clung, a floating piece of the ship’s mast struck him on the temple. In the mean time, the other boat had safely landed its crew, and was despatched to the aid of the sufferers, who were all, with the exception of two, saved.

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