SONNETS.

“Rosalie had been conveyed to the nearest house, and restoratives were applied, which soon brought her to a state of recollection. She recognized with joy, the form of her husband, as he knelt by the side of her couch, and pressed, with a mother’s fondness, the hand of her affectionate son. But her eyes wandered around the room as if in search of another object. ‘It was a dream then,’ she murmured, ‘it was not his, but thy dear arm that drew thy mother from the waves.’

“ ‘Alas! no, it was he, the generous and the good,’ replied her son.

“ ‘Wiccónsat! brave chief! but why those looks of anguish; is this, my son, a time for sorrow, when Heaven has been so kind? And my preserver, where lingers he?’

“ ‘Where his bright virtues will be best rewarded,’ replied her husband, solemnly.

“ ‘What mean you? Surely he is safe.’

“ ‘He perished in an attempt to save my life.’ She heard no more, for she had fainted in the arms of her son, and it was long ere she revived, to mingle with theirs her tears of unavailing regret.

“In the afternoon the body of the generous Indian was washed on shore. With every mark of respect it was conveyed to the town, and preparations made for its interment on the following day at the point, in a spot once pointed out, by the chief, to young Egerton. The grief of this affectionate boy burst without restraint, as he leaned over the body of his departed friend, and his tears flowed afresh, when he was shown a folded paper, which had been found in his bosom. It was wet through, and contained the faded belt, the treasured gift of Rosalie.

“Intelligence of the sad event was conveyed to the sister of the chief, and the next day, accompanied by her husband and sons, and several warriors of the Youcómaco tribe, Oskwena arrived, just as the funeral procession was moving to the grave. Time had altered this once beautiful daughter of the forest; there was a mildness in her look of grief, as she left the canoe, and led by her two sons, approached the open grave, where, seating herself by its side, she silently awaited the mournful train that bore her brother to his last home. She uttered a faint cry as her eye rested on the coffin, and her whole frame shook with agitation, when it was lowered from her sight.

“The chiefs arranged themselves in gloomy silence around the grave of him, who, in early youth, had been the boast of their tribe, and heard, rather than listened, to the funeral service. It was scarcely ended, when the hitherto restrained grief of Oskwena burst forth. She tore from her dishevelled locks the rude ornaments of her tribe, scattering them on the ground, but a necklace of beads she retained in her hand, and wept bitterly as she looked on it.

“ ‘It was thy gift, Wiccónsat,’ said the mourner, ‘thy face glowed with youth and hope on the happy day thou gavest it. Our aged father blessed his children, for he had not then passed to the spirit-land above. The beads are bright yet, but thou art faded and gone. I can gaze on them no more, they shall be hid with thee,’ and she dropped them into the grave. The spectators looked on her with pity and disturbed her not, as in a low voice she chaunted a wild funeral melody. When she ceased, several young maidens of St. Mary’s, arrayed in white, approached, and scattered flowers around the grave. The oldest son of Oskwena stood, with his father, among the chiefs. To him the beauty of the white maidens was new, for he had never before been allowed to visit the town.

“ ‘Who are they?’ he asked, eagerly leaning forward, but then the stern Potawissa drew him back, as he replied in a low voice, ‘It matters not, it is enough that they cannot be aught to thee. Look not on their fatal beauty, but let that lonely grave warn thee of danger. It was hopeless love for a pale face like theirs, that induced thy mother’s brother to forsake the tribe that idolized him; to lead a life of solitude, and at last to perish for her sake. And now he sleeps not with the bones of his fathers, and the talk of the white man is heard by his grave, instead of the bold death song of our chiefs. Nay, thou art gazing still; turn from them boy,’ and suddenly drawing him round, he held him firmly until the fair group had retired. A faint shriek from Oskwena drew his attention. He saw the attendants were filling up the grave, and hastened to remove her sinking form. In a few minutes the crowd had dispersed, the chiefs again entered their boats, and young Egerton, with his father, alone remained on the silent shore.

“The family remained but a short time in Maryland, for the health of Rosalie had sustained a shock from which it never recovered. She faded before the agonized view of her husband and son, and died shortly after their return to England. As one of their descendants, I have long wished to visit the scene of their sorrows, and in doing so, I have formed a friendship which, believe me, dear Frank, will always be cherished in my heart. The kind hospitality of your good uncle made me forget I was a stranger, and though we must part in a few days, time or distance will never erase the remembrance of my American friends.”

[2]A fact.

[2]

A fact.

SONNETS.

———

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

———

GERTRUDE.There is a sweet expression in thy face,My gentle one! leading the thoughts awayFrom earthliness, and this vile orb of clay,—Bidding my spirit in its yearnings traceSomething immortal in the beauties there!I do not worship loveliness—but lookOn woman’s face, as on a speaking book,Where God hath stamped his image clear and fair!And thine is one so radiant of him,So calm and pure, one cannot fail to seeSuch purity of soul portrayed in thee,That other faces by thy side grow dim,And, bowing down unto thy brighter worth,I deem thee one too fair and chaste for earth!

GERTRUDE.

There is a sweet expression in thy face,My gentle one! leading the thoughts awayFrom earthliness, and this vile orb of clay,—Bidding my spirit in its yearnings traceSomething immortal in the beauties there!I do not worship loveliness—but lookOn woman’s face, as on a speaking book,Where God hath stamped his image clear and fair!And thine is one so radiant of him,So calm and pure, one cannot fail to seeSuch purity of soul portrayed in thee,That other faces by thy side grow dim,And, bowing down unto thy brighter worth,I deem thee one too fair and chaste for earth!

There is a sweet expression in thy face,

My gentle one! leading the thoughts away

From earthliness, and this vile orb of clay,—

Bidding my spirit in its yearnings trace

Something immortal in the beauties there!

I do not worship loveliness—but look

On woman’s face, as on a speaking book,

Where God hath stamped his image clear and fair!

And thine is one so radiant of him,

So calm and pure, one cannot fail to see

Such purity of soul portrayed in thee,

That other faces by thy side grow dim,

And, bowing down unto thy brighter worth,

I deem thee one too fair and chaste for earth!

IANTHE.High thoughts are chiseled on that lofty brow!Proud consciousness of virtue in thy smile!Thy cheeks, the blush of, speaks thee free from guile;Thine eyes have in their spiritual flow,A dignity and grandeur, and a glowWhich lift the gazer’s spirit up on high,As soars the eagle to the sun-lit sky!Thou art a thing to worship! and I throwMy soaring spirit conquered at thy feet,—But not to beauty, tho’ ’tis unsurpassed,But to the wealth of intellect ’tis cast;Deeming the earth beneath the proudest seat,Where I would sit, and on perfection gaze,Sunning my soul beneath thine eyes’ soft rays!

IANTHE.

High thoughts are chiseled on that lofty brow!Proud consciousness of virtue in thy smile!Thy cheeks, the blush of, speaks thee free from guile;Thine eyes have in their spiritual flow,A dignity and grandeur, and a glowWhich lift the gazer’s spirit up on high,As soars the eagle to the sun-lit sky!Thou art a thing to worship! and I throwMy soaring spirit conquered at thy feet,—But not to beauty, tho’ ’tis unsurpassed,But to the wealth of intellect ’tis cast;Deeming the earth beneath the proudest seat,Where I would sit, and on perfection gaze,Sunning my soul beneath thine eyes’ soft rays!

High thoughts are chiseled on that lofty brow!

Proud consciousness of virtue in thy smile!

Thy cheeks, the blush of, speaks thee free from guile;

Thine eyes have in their spiritual flow,

A dignity and grandeur, and a glow

Which lift the gazer’s spirit up on high,

As soars the eagle to the sun-lit sky!

Thou art a thing to worship! and I throw

My soaring spirit conquered at thy feet,—

But not to beauty, tho’ ’tis unsurpassed,

But to the wealth of intellect ’tis cast;

Deeming the earth beneath the proudest seat,

Where I would sit, and on perfection gaze,

Sunning my soul beneath thine eyes’ soft rays!

THE MOONLIGHT FLITTING;

OR, THE MISTAKE.

———

BY ELIZA VAN HORN ELLIS.

———

Themoon shone serenely clear over hill and dale, her silver rays playing on the dull gray earth with sportive fancy, while not a zephyr seemed upon the wing, and all nature slumbered in the stillness of a warm summer evening, when, from one of the neat white cottages of the village of ——, issued two figures, completely enveloped in cloaks, notwithstanding the thermometer stood at nearly ninety. Not a word was spoken, but with stealthy steps they chased their shadows along the silent streets for a good half mile; although twice or thrice one of the figures paused and heaved convulsively, whether from lack of breath or agitation seemed doubtful. At length they stopped before a cottage, whose proximity to the church bespoke theparsonage; a light twinkled through the casement; the muffled fugitives rapt gently at the door; it was opened, and they entered.

The old moss-grown church clock had just proclaimed, in solemn tones, the hour of nine, on the next morning, when two ladies, whose looks bespoke them far upon the road oftime—clad in black silk bonnets and mitts—came slowly down the streets, shaded by the spreading elms. These good gossips appeared deeply engaged in conversation, looking so intently into each other’s face, that sundry fowls, young pigs, and small dogs miraculously escaped a sudden and violent death.

“Can you believe it yet, Mrs. Potts?” cried the lesser of the two ladies; “such a reflection upon our quiet village—good gracious and powers! preserve us from such assurance.” Thus saying, she rolled up the balls of her eyes, and clasped her hands together with pious fervor.

“Not only that, my dear Miss Clapper, but such an example to the daughters of the place!” and Mrs. Potts sighed, as she thought of her six damsels, who still remained in single blessedness, notwithstanding the many little innocent manœuvres to which mammas will sometimes have recourse.

“Yes, indeed, it behoves you, Mrs. Potts, to keep a sharp look-out. Will you visit her—the good-for-naught?”

“W-e-ll, what do you think about it? Ifwecut her all the village will. What say you?”

“To be sure, to be sure, that’s true; her place in society depends uponus, my dear. She gives such pleasant parties, such excellent soft waffles, and then one meets sometimes such agreeable people from the city there, which gives the girls a chance, you know, (winking knowingly,) that it would be a pity to throw her off.”

“I agree with you, my dear Miss Clapper—and—after all, she’s honestly married, although she stole away, like a thief in the night.”

“Suppose we just stop and ask Katy a few questions. May be they wish to keep it a secret. Here we are by the house—shall we stop?”

“I have no objections, my dear; but you’ll get nothing out of that piece of sour-crout.”

“I’ll pump her; leave me alone forthat.”

Accordingly the two loving, neighborly gossips rapt at the door of the white cottage from whence had stolen forth the fugitives the night previous.

The loud knock announced the aristocracy of the village; the door opened, and the sharp bluish features of Katy filled up the aperture. Her smallgravyeyes blinked for a moment when she beheld the visitors; the next Katy stood the personification of gravity.

“Well, Katy,” cried Miss Clapper, in her most dulcet tones, “howdoyou do this fine morn? all well, I hope,” making an effort to open wider the door.

“Why, yes, Miss; a very fine morning, and we are all well, thanks be to goodness,” answered Katy, holding the door still closer, and protruding her nose still farther, so that the sudden slam of the door would have deprived that venerable spinster of that most conspicuous of all features, ared nose. “Sorry I can’t ask you both in—but nobody’s home.”

“Ah! so, then, it’s true, what we heard this morning,” said Mrs. Potts.

“Can’t say, indeed, Marm, as I don’t know what you might have heard.”

“Oh! only that your mistress ran off last night and was married, and went away this morning in the village hack,” almost screamed Miss Clapper.

“And so my mistressismarried, and I know some that would like to be in her shoes, if they could but get the chance.”

“Well, well, Katy, no offence is meant,” cried Mrs. Potts; “when will the bride be home?”

“She bade me tell you, Marm, and Miss Clapper, (and she wants you to tell the village) that on Thursday evening the doors will be thrown open and the candles lighted, and you will seeherandplentyof wedding cake and good wine.” Thus saying, she gently closed the door.

“So! it’s no secret after all,” cried Mrs. Potts; “Katy made no bones at confession.”

“No! the old she devil! how I hate that creature—she alwaysMiss-esone so—never calls me any thing butMiss!—Miss!—She shan’t read it on my tomb-stone, if I can help it,” mutteredMissClapper.

Faithfully did these village circulars perform their agreeable task. Before the sun sank to rest, every individual, from the lady of the member of the legislature to the shoe-black in the inn, had heard the news, and had formed dreams of the coming event. The bride and bride-cake—beaux and belles, had been reviewed in the mind’s eye o’er and o’er again.

——

When a young man, Mr. Hopkins arrived upon the spot where now stands the village of ——, with his bundle upon his stick, his sole fortune. He became what may be termed a squatter. It was then a dreary waste of girdled trees, and patches covered with black stumps. But his untiring perseverance and systematic industry were rewarded in time by beholding, from his cottage door, the fields of waving corn and the golden wheat, where once lurked the savage and prowled the ravenous beast.

In course of time, the place became settled; the present village sprang into existence; Mr. Hopkins “grew with its growth, and strengthened with its strength;” in short, Mr. Hopkins became a rich man, and consequently a man of consequence.

Mrs. Hopkins (poor good soul) died ere she could enjoy the wealth that her patient labors had assisted her husband in accumulating. She left one daughter, christened Dinah, and two sons. Upon the death of the “old man,” the sons moved to a strange land, (that is, about a hundred miles from their native vale.) Miss Dinah, or rather Diana, as she chose to be called, after the immortal Die Vernon, remained upon the “old place,” to uphold, as she properly said, the dignity of the Hopkinses.

Thus years wore away. Miss Die became the tyrant of fashion in her own village. She read Shakspeare, doated on Byron, and was subdued by Sir Walter Scott’s works. She languished and quoted poetry for nearly forty years. In youth, she scorned the rustic beaux that kneeled at her shrine; and, as years sped onward, none “bowed nor told their tale of love,” until, at length, Miss Die began seriously to think of a visit to her brothers, when the kindfatesbrought Mr. Micalf to the village, and there left him to the mercy of Cupid.

Themajor(as he was familiarly called) was rather short of stature, with an alderman’s corpulency,—famous for his good-nature, intolerable indolence, and devotion to whiskey-punch and the noxious weed. Being asthmatic, he seldom had recourse to any exertion—a long walk would cause him to puff and blow at least for a minute, ere he could catch breath to utter a word. Still Mr. Micalf found breath enough to become a successful wooer—and Miss Die persuaded her swain to elope with her by moonlight, as she could never survive the stare of the plebeians by the light of “gaudy day.”

It ever remained a doubt in the village, what was the exact age of the major. Many were of an opinion that sixty winters had frosted his brow. Others again asserted that he did not number, by a score, as many years as his bride. These latter, however, were the ladies.

Thursday arrived—and, after a weary watching from many a beaming eye, the sun at length disappeared behind the distant mountains, and twilight gently threw over the glowing sky its mantle of sombre gray. Lights flitted to and fro through the houses; an unusual bustle hummed through the quiet streets; the horses, disturbed after a day of labor, to be brought forth and harnessed to whatever vehicle their masters could boast of possessing, hung down their weary heads, with slow and measured steps patiently submitting to the yoke of bondage.

The sudden glare of lights, that streamed through the casements of the white cottage over the gravel walks, announced that preparations had ceased, and that visitors were momentarily expected.

There was the bride, her tall gaunt figure arrayed in white, flitting from room to room, not knowing where to station herself to make the best impression, and inwardly chafing at the perfume of tobacco that met her olfactory nerves, and the loss of her reticule, wherein were the keys of sundry closets and so forth, when the door opened and Mr., Mrs., and the four Misses Potts, with Miss Clapper, beheld the bride upon knees and hands, looking under an immense old-fashioned settee for her lost treasure.

Mrs. Micalf looked up, sprang to her feet, uttered a faint scream, and for a moment hid her face—then yielded her cheek to the salutations of the six ladies, and with much coyness permitted Mr. Potts to touch the tip of her ear.

“Well, I declare, I think you served us a pretty trick, Mrs. Micalf—a lady of your years to make a moonlight flitting—oh, fie!” cried Miss Clapper, in a querulous voice.

“Oh, spare me, dear friends; I feel the full force of the imprudence of the step. But be this my excuse, ‘I’ve scanned the actions of his daily life,’ and flatter myself I have secured happiness.”

“And Mr. Micalf to steal away so—he who hates walking so. Why, I thought it would almost have killed him to walk so far.”

“You are right, old lady,” cried the groom, who had entered unperceived, and slapping Miss Clapper upon the shoulder; “I can’t believe it yet; I haven’t drawn a long breath since—wheugh!—But Die would not be married any other way, though I told her we were making a couple of old fools of ourselves—wheugh—u—u—Never mind, Die, don’t be cast down at being called old—we all know you were young once! ha, ha! wheugh—u! Come, Potts, let’s go and drink good luck to midnight walks.”

“Mr. Micalf is so boisterous when he is in good spirits, and he does so love to plague me!” cried the bride, the quivering of her nostrils and upper lip expressing the workings of the inward passions.

Knock succeeded knock, and the influx of visitors, with the oft-repeated “wish you joy, wish you joy,” soon restored harmony to the spirits of the bride, who was in extacies at the crowd that had gathered around her. She quoted poetry, right and left; forgot, for the moment, that tobacco and punch existed; and some assert that even the major was forgotten! That was but scandal, however. Nevertheless, the major enjoyed seven pipes and five tumblers of punch, without once hearing the sound of Die’s voice; a luxury which, in the warmth of his feelings he solemnly whispered to Potts, had not been permitted him since his moonlight trip.

The hours sped onward—the merry laugh that rang so loud and clear from the midst of a group of young folks who were playing “hunt the slipper,” “my lady’s toilette,” &c. caused the heads of the matrons to turn from each other in high displeasure at the interruption of some tale of scandal!

The happiest moments, still the fleetest!—the hour arrived—the guests departed, and the mistress of thefairyscene began to wonder what had become of her lord. Looking through the empty rooms, peering in every corner by the aid of a feeble night-lamp, and almost suffocated with the vapor of candle-snuff, she was startled by the sonorous notes from her husband’s nasal organ. “I do believe the ass has gone to bed,” she mentally ejaculated. Rushing into her room, she beheld the head of the major, with his blue and white night-cap snugly resting upon her fine linendaypillow-cases. Jerking the pillows from under the offending head, she screamed:

“Major! why, Micalf, you are sleeping upon my beautiful cases with real thread-lace borders!”

“Bless me, what is the matter? Is the house on fire? O Lord, I smell smoke—fire!—fire!”

“Do be quiet now, and don’t make a fool of yourself; it’s only the pillow I wanted.”

“Oh, Die! is that you? You have frightened the very life out of me. Give me something to put under my head; my neck is almost broke.”

“There, my dear, is the night pillow. Now, never presume to go to bed again, until the cover is turned down and the day cases removed, and—bless me, how you have tossed the bed! Why, major, major, are you asleep already?”

“What is it, for heaven’s sake? Am I never to know what rest is again?”

“But, my dear—major, I say, shall I tuck you up snugly?”

“No! the devil! I don’t want to be reminded of my coffin every night by being tucked up,” and away went the clothes from the foot and side. “Oh, how I wish——” groaned the major, as Mrs. Micalf again patiently smoothed them down. The wish died upon his tongue, but it was embodied in his dreams:—Once more he was the quiet possessor of the snug little room, and no less snug little bed, at the “Full Moon,” the atmosphere dense with tobacco-smoke and the vapor of whiskey-punch regaling his nose—when the shrill, sharp voice of his help-meet, at dawn of day, dispelled the illusion, and, with the sun, he arose with the comfortable thought that he was not the only being that had sold peace and happiness forgold. And, ere the honey-moon had expired, Mr. and Mrs. Micalf began to perceive that they had made a great mistake in their moonlight flitting.

I NEVER HAVE BEEN FALSE TO THEE.

A NEW SONG.

———

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

———

I neverhave been false to thee!The heart I gave thee still is thine;Though thou hast been untrue to me,And I no more may call thee mine!I’ve loved, as woman ever loves,With constant soul in good or ill:—Thou’st proved, as man too often proves,A rover—but I love thee still!Yet think not that my spirit stoopsTo bind thee captive in my train!—Love’s not a flower, at sunset droops,But smiles when comes her god again!Thy words, which fall unheeded now,Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!Love’s golden chain and burning vowAre broken—but I love thee still!Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,When love dispelled the clouds of care,And time went by with birds and flowers,While song and incense filled the air!—The past is mine—the present thine—Should thoughts of me thy future fill,Think what a destiny is mine,To lose—but love thee, false one, still!

I neverhave been false to thee!

The heart I gave thee still is thine;

Though thou hast been untrue to me,

And I no more may call thee mine!

I’ve loved, as woman ever loves,

With constant soul in good or ill:—

Thou’st proved, as man too often proves,

A rover—but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoopsTo bind thee captive in my train!—Love’s not a flower, at sunset droops,But smiles when comes her god again!Thy words, which fall unheeded now,Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!Love’s golden chain and burning vowAre broken—but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoops

To bind thee captive in my train!—

Love’s not a flower, at sunset droops,

But smiles when comes her god again!

Thy words, which fall unheeded now,

Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!

Love’s golden chain and burning vow

Are broken—but I love thee still!

Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,When love dispelled the clouds of care,And time went by with birds and flowers,While song and incense filled the air!—The past is mine—the present thine—Should thoughts of me thy future fill,Think what a destiny is mine,To lose—but love thee, false one, still!

Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,

When love dispelled the clouds of care,

And time went by with birds and flowers,

While song and incense filled the air!—

The past is mine—the present thine—

Should thoughts of me thy future fill,

Think what a destiny is mine,

To lose—but love thee, false one, still!

A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY.

Signature of Edgar A. Poe

Under this head, some years ago, there appeared, in the Southern Literary Messenger, an article which attracted very general attention, not less from the nature of its subject than from the peculiar manner in which it was handled. The editor introduces his readers to a certain Mr. Joseph Miller, who, it is hinted, is not merely a descendant of the illustrious Joe, of Jest-Book notoriety, but that identical individual in proper person. Upon this point, however, an air of uncertainty is thrown by means of an equivoque, maintained throughout the paper, in respect to Mr. Miller’s middle name. This equivoque is put into the mouth of Mr. M. himself. He gives his name, in the first instance, as Joseph A. Miller; but, in the course of conversation, shifts it to Joseph B., then to Joseph C., and so on through the whole alphabet, until he concludes by desiring a copy of the Magazine to be sent to his address as Joseph Z. Miller, Esquire.

The object of his visit to the editor is to place in his hands the autographs of certain distinguished Americanliterati. To these persons he had written rigmarole letters on various topics, and in all cases had been successful in eliciting a reply. The replies only (which it is scarcely necessary to say are all fictitious) are given in the Magazine, with a genuine autograph fac-simile appended, and are either burlesques of the supposed writer’s usual style, or rendered otherwise absurd by reference to the nonsensical questions imagined to have been propounded by Mr. Miller. The autographs thus given are twenty-six in all—corresponding to the twenty-six variations in the initial letter of the hoaxer’s middle name.

With the public this article took amazingly well, and many of our principal papers were at the expense of re-printing it with the wood-cut autographs. Even those whose names had been introduced, and whose style had been burlesqued, took the joke, generally speaking, in good part. Some of them were at a loss what to make of the matter. Dr. W. E. Channing, of Boston, was at some trouble, it is said, in calling to mind whether he had or had not actually written to some Mr. Joseph Miller the letter attributed to him in the article. This letter was nothing more than what follows:—

Boston, ——.Dear Sir,No such person as Philip Philpot has ever been in my employ as a coachman, or otherwise. The name is an odd one, and not likely to be forgotten. The man must have reference to some other Doctor Channing. It would be as well to question him closely.Respectfully yours,W. E. CHANNING.ToJoseph X. Miller, Esq.

Boston, ——.

Dear Sir,

No such person as Philip Philpot has ever been in my employ as a coachman, or otherwise. The name is an odd one, and not likely to be forgotten. The man must have reference to some other Doctor Channing. It would be as well to question him closely.

Respectfully yours,

W. E. CHANNING.

ToJoseph X. Miller, Esq.

The precise and brief sententiousness of the divine is here, it will be seen, very truly adopted, or “hit off.”

In one instance only was thejeu-d’esprittaken in serious dudgeon. Colonel Stone and the Messenger had not been upon the best of terms. Some one of the Colonel’s little brochures had been severely treated by that journal, which declared that the work would have been far more properly published among the quack advertisements in a spare corner of the Commercial. The colonel had retaliated by wholesale vituperation of the Messenger. This being the state of affairs, it was not to be wondered at that the following epistle was not quietly received on the part of him to whom it was attributed:—

New York, ——.Dear Sir,I am exceedingly and excessively sorry that it is out of my power to comply with your rational and reasonable request. The subject you mention is one with which I am utterly unacquainted. Moreover it is one about which I know very little.Respectfully,W. L. STONE.Joseph V. Miller, Esq.

New York, ——.

Dear Sir,

I am exceedingly and excessively sorry that it is out of my power to comply with your rational and reasonable request. The subject you mention is one with which I am utterly unacquainted. Moreover it is one about which I know very little.

Respectfully,

W. L. STONE.

Joseph V. Miller, Esq.

These tautologies and anti-climaces were too much for the colonel, and we are ashamed to say that he committed himself by publishing in the Commercial an indignant denial of ever having indited such an epistle.

The principal feature of this autograph article, although perhaps the least interesting, was that of the editorial comment upon the supposed MSS., regarding them as indicative of character. In these comments the design was never more than semi-serious. At times, too, the writer was evidently led into error or injustice through the desire of being pungent—not unfrequently sacrificing truth for the sake of abon-mot. In this manner qualities were often attributed to individuals, which were not so much indicated by their hand-writing, as suggested by the spleen of the commentator. But that a strong analogydoesgenerally and naturally exist between every man’s chirography and character, will be denied by none but the unreflecting. It is not our purpose, however, to enter into thephilosophyof this subject, either in this portion of the present paper, or in the abstract. What we may have to say will be introduced elsewhere, and in connection with particular MSS. The practical application of the theory will thus go hand in hand with the theory itself.

Our design is three-fold:—In the first place, seriously to illustrate our position that the mental features are indicated (with certain exceptions) by the hand-writing; secondly, to indulge in a little literary gossip; and, thirdly, to furnish our readers with a more accurate and at the same time a more general collection of the autographs of ourliteratithan is to be found elsewhere. Of the first portion of this design we have already spoken. The second speaks for itself. Of the third it is only necessary to say that we are confident of its interest for all lovers of literature. Next to the person of a distinguished man-of-letters, we desire to see his portrait—next to his portrait, his autograph. In the latter, especially, there is something which seems to bring him before us in his true idiosyncrasy—in his character ofscribe. The feeling which prompts to the collection of autographs is a natural and rational one. But complete, or even extensive collections, are beyond the reach of those who themselves do not dabble in the waters of literature. The writer of this article has had opportunities, in this way, enjoyed by few. The MSS. now lying before him are a motley mass indeed. Here are letters, or other compositions, from every individual in America who has the slightest pretension to literary celebrity. From these we propose to select the most eminent names—as to giveallwould be a work of supererogation. Unquestionably, among those whose claims we are forced to postpone, are several whose highmeritmight justly demand a different treatment; but the rule applicable in a case like this seems to be that of celebrity, rather than that of true worth. It will be understood that, in the necessity of selection which circumstances impose upon us, we confine ourselvesto the most noted among the living literati of the country. The article above alluded to, embraced, as we have already stated, only twenty-six names, and was not occupiedexclusivelyeither with living persons, or, properly speaking, with literary ones. In fact the whole paper seemed to acknowledge no law beyond that of whim. Our present essay will be found to includeone hundred autographs. We have thought it unnecessary to preserve any particular order in their arrangement.

Signature of Chas (Charles) Anthon

ProfessorCharles Anthon, of Columbia College, New York, is well known as the most erudite of our classical scholars; and, although still a young man, there are few, if any, even in Europe, who surpass him in his peculiar path of knowledge. In England his supremacy has been tacitly acknowledged by the immediate re-publication of his editions of Cæsar, Sallust, and Cicero, with other works, and their adoption as text-books at Oxford and Cambridge. His amplification of Lemprière did him high honor, but, of late, has been entirely superseded by a Classical Dictionary of his own—a work most remarkable for the extent and comprehensiveness of its details, as well as for its historical, chronological, mythological, and philologicalaccuracy. It has at once completely overshadowed every thing of its kind. It follows, as a matter of course, that Mr. Anthon has many little enemies, among the inditers of merely big books. He has not been unassailed, yet has assuredly remained uninjured in the estimation of all those whose opinion he would be likely to value. We do not mean to say that he is altogether without faults, but a certain antique Johnsonism of style is perhaps one of his worst. He was mainly instrumental (with Professor Henry and Dr. Hawks) in setting on foot the New York Review, a journal of which he is the most efficient literary support, and whose most erudite papers have always been furnished by his pen.

The chirography of Professor Anthon is the most regularly beautiful of any in our collection. We see the most scrupulous precision, finish, and neatness about every portion of it—in the formation of individual letters, as well as in thetout-ensemble. The perfect symmetry of the MS. gives it, to a casual glance, the appearance of Italic print. The lines are quite straight, and at exactly equal distances, yet are written without black rules, or other artificial aid. There is not the slightest superfluity, in the way of flourish or otherwise, with the exception of the twirl in the C of the signature. Yet the whole is rather neat and graceful than forcible. Of four letters now lying before us, one is written on pink, one on a faint blue, one on green, and one on yellow paper—all of the finest quality. The seal is of green wax, with an impression of the head of Cæsar.

It is in the chirography of such men as Professor Anthon that we look with certainty for indication of character. The life of a scholar is mostly undisturbed by those adventitious events which distort the natural disposition of the man of the world, preventing his real nature from manifesting itself in his MS. The lawyer, who, pressed for time, is often forced to embody a world of heterogeneous memoranda, on scraps of paper, with the stumps of all varieties of pen, will soon find the fair characters of his boyhood degenerate into hieroglyphics which would puzzle Doctor Wallis or Champollion; and from chirography so disturbed it is nearly impossible to decide any thing. In a similar manner, men who pass through many striking vicissitudes of life, acquire in each change of circumstance a temporary inflection of the hand-writing; the whole resulting, after many years, in an unformed or variable MS., scarcely to be recognised by themselves from one day to the other. In the case of literary men generally, we may expect some decisive token of the mental influence upon the MS., and in the instance of the classical devotee we may look withespecialcertainty for such token. We see, accordingly, in Professor Anthon’s autography, each and all of the known idiosyncrasies of his taste and intellect. We recognise at once the scrupulous precision and finish of his scholarship and of his style—the love of elegance which prompts him to surround himself, in his private study, with gems of sculptural art, and beautifully bound volumes, all arranged with elaborate attention to form, and in the very pedantry of neatness. We perceive, too, the disdain of superfluous embellishment which distinguishes his compilations, and which gives to their exterior appearance so marked an air of Quakerism. We must not forget to observe that the “want of force” is a want as perceptible in the whole character of the man, as in that of the MS.

Signature of Washington Irving

The MS. of Mr.Irvinghas little about it indicative of his genius. Certainly, no one could suspect from it any nicefinishin the writer’s compositions; nor is this nice finish to be found. The letters now before us vary remarkably in appearance; and those of late date are not nearly so well written as the more antique. Mr. Irving has travelled much, has seen many vicissitudes, and has been so thoroughly satiated with fame as to grow slovenly in the performance of his literary tasks. This slovenliness has affected his hand-writing. But even from his earlier MSS. there is little to be gleaned, except the ideas of simplicity and precision. It must be admitted, however, that this fact, in itself, is characteristic of the literary manner, which, however excellent, has no prominent or very remarkable features.

Signature of Park Benjamin

For the last six or seven years, few men have occupied a more desirable position among us than Mr.Benjamin. As the editor of the American Monthly Magazine, of the New Yorker, and more lately of the Signal, and New World, he has exerted an influence scarcely second to that of any editor in the country. This influence Mr. B. owes to no single cause, but to his combined ability, activity, causticity, fearlessness, and independence. We use the latter term, however, with some mental reservation. The editor of the World is independent so far as the word implies unshaken resolution to follow the bent of one’s own will, let the consequences be what they may. He is no respecter of persons, and his vituperation as often assails the powerful as the powerless—indeed the latter fall rarely under his censure. But we cannot call his independence, at all times, that of principle. We can never be sure that he will defend a cause merely because it is the cause of truth—or even because he regards it as such. He is too frequently biassed by personal feelings—feelings now of friendship, and again of vindictiveness. He is a warm friend, and a bitter, but not implacable enemy. His judgment in literary matters should not be questioned, but there is some difficulty in getting at his real opinion. As a prose writer, his style is lucid, terse, and pungent. He is often witty, often cuttingly sarcastic, but seldom humorous. He frequently injures the force of his fiercest attacks by an indulgence in merely vituperative epithets. As a poet, he is entitled to far higher consideration than that in which he is ordinarily held. He is skilful and passionate, as well as imaginative. His sonnets have not been surpassed. In short, it is as a poet that his better genius is evinced—it is in poetry that his noble spirit breaks forth, showing what the man is, and what, but for unhappy circumstances, he would invariably appear.

Mr. Benjamin’s MS. is not very dissimilar to Mr. Irving’s, and, like his, it has no doubt been greatly modified by the excitements of life, and by the necessity of writing much and hastily; so that we can predicate but little respecting it. It speaks of his exquisite sensibility and passion. These betray themselves in the nervous variation of the MS. as the subject is diversified. When the theme is an ordinary one, the writing is legible and has force; but when it verges upon any thing which may be supposed to excite, we see the characters falter as they proceed. In the MSS. of some of his best poems this peculiarity is very remarkable. The signature conveys the idea of hisusualchirography.

Signature of John P. Kennedy

Mr.Kennedyis well known as the author of “Swallow Barn,” “Horse-Shoe Robinson,” and “Rob of the Bowl,” three works whose features are strongly and decidedly marked. These features are boldness and force of thought, (disdaining ordinary embellishment, and depending for its effect upon masses rather than upon details) with a predominantsense of the picturesquepervading and giving color to the whole. His “Swallow Barn,” in especial (and it is by the first effort of an author that we form the truest idea of his mental bias), is but a rich succession of picturesque still-life pieces. Mr. Kennedy is well to do in the world, and has always taken the world easily. We may therefore expect to find in his chirography, if ever in any, a full indication of the chief feature of his literary style—especially as this chief feature is so remarkably prominent. A glance at his signature will convince any one that the indication is to be found. A painter called upon to designate the main peculiarity of this MS. would speak at once of thepicturesque. This character is given it by the absence of hair-strokes, and by the abrupt termination of every letter without tapering; also in great measure by varying the size and slope of the letters. Great uniformity is preserved in the whole air of the MS., with great variety in the constituent parts. Every character has the clearness, boldness and precision of a wood-cut. The long letters do not rise or fall in an undue degree above the others. Upon the whole, this is a hand which pleases us much, although itsbizarrerieis rather too piquant for the general taste. Should its writer devote himself more exclusively to light letters, we predict his future eminence. The paper on which our epistles are written is very fine, clear, andwhite, with gilt edges. The seal is neat, and just sufficient wax has been used for the impression. All this betokens a love of the elegant without effeminacy.

Signature of G: Mellen

The hand-writing ofGrenville Mellenis somewhat peculiar, and partakes largely of the character of his signature as seen above. The whole is highly indicative of the poet’s flighty, hyper-fanciful character, with his unsettled and often erroneous ideas of the beautiful. His straining after effect is well paralleled in the formation of the preposterous G in the signature, with the two dots by its side. Mr. Mellen has genius unquestionably, but there is something in his temperament which obscures it.[3]

Back to Index Next