VENICE.

‘The Governor of Louisiana offers five hundred dollars reward to any person or persons, who will intimate any knowledge of the residence of one Bradley Spencer, or satisfactorily prove that the said Bradley is living. He having left New Orleans about three years since, in company with a party of gamblers, and not having since been heard of, it is feared by his friends that he has fallen a victim to the machinations of the said men, as through a confession lately made by one of the party, who was stabbed in an affray, Spencer will be restored his property, of which he was most nefariously deprived. Should this meet his eye, he is earnestly requested to return and take possession of the same.’ ”

As Emily read this paragraph in a clear, distinct voice, Mr. Archer fastened his eye on the young man who sat at his table. No power on earth could have controlled Bradley’s emotions, and after the reader paused, Mr. Archer arose, and taking his hand, said,

“Be candid, Henry; whatever faults you have been guilty of, these last three years have expiated——”

“You know not the half of my rash acts,” passionately interrupted the young man; “you would both loathe and spurn me, were I to tell all; but Iwillperform one just act. Miss Archer,” taking the miniature from his bosom, “here is the deity that has preserved me from sin, and before you stands the—robber!”

Both Mr. Archer and Emily were mute with surprise and amazement at this confession; but when they eagerly questioned him, and learned what he had to offer in extenuation, it is needless to say he was freely forgiven.

It is sufficient to add that Bradley recovered the major portion of his property, and as he gazes upon the generous and forgiving girl, who is now his bride, he invokes blessings on the being who, by the interposition of a Divine Providence, was the means of preserving him from the “gambler’s fate.”

VENICE.

“Oh! thou, that once was wedded to the sea—Queen of the Adriatic—where are thy glories now?”

“Oh! thou, that once was wedded to the sea—

Queen of the Adriatic—where are thy glories now?”

OhDeath! thy palaces are here,Thy footsteps echo round,And chills the heart with nameless fearAt that unearthly sound—And Venice, at thy outer gate,Sits widowed, bowed and desolate,A queen, yet all discrowned,With ashes heaped upon her head—A mother wailing for her dead!It was not thus in ages pastOh! mistress of the sea,When to the wind thy banner castWould rally forth the free—It was not thus when ev’ry shoreFrom farthest Ind to Scylla boreIts richest gifts for thee—Nor thus when at Lepanti fellThe fiery hordes of Ishmaël.Thou saw’st proconsuls on the Rhone,The Gaul beyond the Rhine,The Cæsar on his eastern throne,The English Alfred’s line—Thou saw’st the first and last crusadeAnd Florence in her shackles laid,And Rome all drunk with wine,And haughty Stamboul’s overthrowBefore the blind old Dandolo.Thou wast when Moslems ravaged Spain,Thou saw’st Grenada fall,—Thou wast when France received the Dane,When murder reigned in Gaul,—Thou wast before the Turk was known,When Huns were on the Roman throne,And England yet in thrall,—And still, as nations rose and died,Thy Titan front the world defied!But now thou art all desolate,The very mock of fame,With nothing save thy fallen state,Thy ruins, and—a name.And silent are thy songs of mirth,Thy form is prostrate on the earth,Thy brow is white with shame—Oh God! a harlot in her woe!Did ever grandeur fall so low?And waving from thy palace wallsThe long grass rankly grows—Lamenting, through its dull canals,The sluggish water flows—And ’neath the Lion of St. Mark—That scourge of vanished empires—hark!The tramp of Austrian foes.How long, Oh! Venice, o’er thy graveShall jeer the coward and the slave?I stand beside the Lion’s mouthAnd gaze across the sea,The breeze is wafting from the southNo argosies to thee!Thy hundred seers, thy fearfulTEN.Are not, and shall not be againWhile God is for the free!Yet they a deathless name shall find,A scorn, a hissing to mankind!Go! let her moulder where she fell—We only weep the brave—Her destiny befits her well,A traitor, then a slave,—Betraying all, herself betrayed,And smote by parricidal blade,She sank into her grave—Shall nations shed a tear for herWhose life was Freedom’s sepulchre?ß.

OhDeath! thy palaces are here,

Thy footsteps echo round,

And chills the heart with nameless fear

At that unearthly sound—

And Venice, at thy outer gate,

Sits widowed, bowed and desolate,

A queen, yet all discrowned,

With ashes heaped upon her head—

A mother wailing for her dead!

It was not thus in ages pastOh! mistress of the sea,When to the wind thy banner castWould rally forth the free—It was not thus when ev’ry shoreFrom farthest Ind to Scylla boreIts richest gifts for thee—Nor thus when at Lepanti fellThe fiery hordes of Ishmaël.

It was not thus in ages past

Oh! mistress of the sea,

When to the wind thy banner cast

Would rally forth the free—

It was not thus when ev’ry shore

From farthest Ind to Scylla bore

Its richest gifts for thee—

Nor thus when at Lepanti fell

The fiery hordes of Ishmaël.

Thou saw’st proconsuls on the Rhone,The Gaul beyond the Rhine,The Cæsar on his eastern throne,The English Alfred’s line—Thou saw’st the first and last crusadeAnd Florence in her shackles laid,And Rome all drunk with wine,And haughty Stamboul’s overthrowBefore the blind old Dandolo.

Thou saw’st proconsuls on the Rhone,

The Gaul beyond the Rhine,

The Cæsar on his eastern throne,

The English Alfred’s line—

Thou saw’st the first and last crusade

And Florence in her shackles laid,

And Rome all drunk with wine,

And haughty Stamboul’s overthrow

Before the blind old Dandolo.

Thou wast when Moslems ravaged Spain,Thou saw’st Grenada fall,—Thou wast when France received the Dane,When murder reigned in Gaul,—Thou wast before the Turk was known,When Huns were on the Roman throne,And England yet in thrall,—And still, as nations rose and died,Thy Titan front the world defied!

Thou wast when Moslems ravaged Spain,

Thou saw’st Grenada fall,—

Thou wast when France received the Dane,

When murder reigned in Gaul,—

Thou wast before the Turk was known,

When Huns were on the Roman throne,

And England yet in thrall,—

And still, as nations rose and died,

Thy Titan front the world defied!

But now thou art all desolate,The very mock of fame,With nothing save thy fallen state,Thy ruins, and—a name.And silent are thy songs of mirth,Thy form is prostrate on the earth,Thy brow is white with shame—Oh God! a harlot in her woe!Did ever grandeur fall so low?

But now thou art all desolate,

The very mock of fame,

With nothing save thy fallen state,

Thy ruins, and—a name.

And silent are thy songs of mirth,

Thy form is prostrate on the earth,

Thy brow is white with shame—

Oh God! a harlot in her woe!

Did ever grandeur fall so low?

And waving from thy palace wallsThe long grass rankly grows—Lamenting, through its dull canals,The sluggish water flows—And ’neath the Lion of St. Mark—That scourge of vanished empires—hark!The tramp of Austrian foes.How long, Oh! Venice, o’er thy graveShall jeer the coward and the slave?

And waving from thy palace walls

The long grass rankly grows—

Lamenting, through its dull canals,

The sluggish water flows—

And ’neath the Lion of St. Mark—

That scourge of vanished empires—hark!

The tramp of Austrian foes.

How long, Oh! Venice, o’er thy grave

Shall jeer the coward and the slave?

I stand beside the Lion’s mouthAnd gaze across the sea,The breeze is wafting from the southNo argosies to thee!Thy hundred seers, thy fearfulTEN.Are not, and shall not be againWhile God is for the free!Yet they a deathless name shall find,A scorn, a hissing to mankind!

I stand beside the Lion’s mouth

And gaze across the sea,

The breeze is wafting from the south

No argosies to thee!

Thy hundred seers, thy fearfulTEN.

Are not, and shall not be again

While God is for the free!

Yet they a deathless name shall find,

A scorn, a hissing to mankind!

Go! let her moulder where she fell—We only weep the brave—Her destiny befits her well,A traitor, then a slave,—Betraying all, herself betrayed,And smote by parricidal blade,She sank into her grave—Shall nations shed a tear for herWhose life was Freedom’s sepulchre?

Go! let her moulder where she fell—

We only weep the brave—

Her destiny befits her well,

A traitor, then a slave,—

Betraying all, herself betrayed,

And smote by parricidal blade,

She sank into her grave—

Shall nations shed a tear for her

Whose life was Freedom’s sepulchre?

ß.

THE MARRIAGE OF ACHILLES.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.

———

Itwas a day of Truce in the fair Troad!—the festival of the great Doric and Ionian God, sacred to either nation—it was a day of general peace, of general rejoicing! The ninth year of the war was far advanced toward its termination. Hector, the mighty prop of Troy, had fallen; yet did the Grecian host still occupy their guarded camp by the dark waters of the Hellespont; nor had the indomitable valor of the Goddess-born prevailed to level with the dust the towers of Troy divine. For fresh allies had buckled on their armor for the defence of Priam—Memnon, son of the morning, like his great rival half immortal, with his dark Coptic hosts, had rushed from the far banks of the giant Nile—ill-fated prince and hero!—rushed, but to swell the triumphs of the invincible Thessalian, to water with his life-blood the flowery pastures of the land he vainly hoped to save. Penthesilea, virgin queen of the man-defying virgins—fairest of earth’s fair daughters—had left her boundless plains beside the cold Thermodon—had called her quivered heroines from warring with the mountain pard, and chasing the huge urus of the plain, to launch the unerring shaft and ply the two-edged axe against the sevenfold shield of Salamis, against the Pelian spear. Alas! not her did her unrivalled horsemanship, in which she set her trust—in which she might have coped successfully with the world-famed Bellerophontes—not her did her skill with the feathered reed avail, against the speed of him who left the winds behind in his career, whose might was more than human. She too lay prone before him—the dazzling charms of her voluptuous bosom revealed to the broad sunshine, as he tore off the jewelled cincture—tore off the scaly breastplate—the hyacinthine tresses, soiled in the gory dust—tresses wherewith she might have veiled her form even to the ankles, so copious was their flow! Oh she was beautiful in death—and avenged by her beauty!—For the fierce conqueror wept and bore her to his own pavilion, and hung enamored for long days over those fatal charms; and pressed the cold form to his fiery heart, and kissed with fervid lips the cold and senseless eyelids, the mouth that answered not to his unnatural rapture. The fate of Troy, as on the bravest of her sons, had fallen on the best of her allies—the fiat of the destinies had long ago gone forth—the fiat which the dwellers of Olympus, the revellers on Nectar and Ambrosia,—which Jove himself, although he were reluctant, must obey! The ancestral curse was on the walls of Ilium, and all who should defend them. They fell there one by one, valiant, sometimes victorious—Sarpedon, Cyenus fell—Memnon, Penthesilea! Yet falling they deferred the ruin which they might not avert—so Troy still stood, although her mightiest were down—and when the brazen cymbals of Cybele summoned her sons to battle, they still rushed forth in throngs, determined to the last and unsubdued; and with Deiphobus to lead—worthy successor of their mightier hero—they battled it still bravely on the plain, between the city and the sea.

But now it was all harmony and peace!—the spears were pitched into the yellow sand beside the Grecian galleys, or hung, each on its owner’s wall, within the gates of Ilium. The plain, the whole fair plain, was crowded now—more densely crowded than it had ever showed, when in the deadliest fight the kindred nations mingled—for now not warriors only, but the whole population of the camp, the country and the town, traversed its grassy surface in gay and gorgeous companies. Gray headed men were there, counsellors and contemporaries of old Priam, eager to look upon the field whereon such exploits had been done—matrons come out to weep above the green graves of their sons and spouses, graves which till then they ne’er had visited, nor decked with votive garlands, nor watered with a tear—maidens in all the frolic mirth of their blythe careless youth, panting to gather flowrets from the green banks of Simois and Xanthus, Phrygian streams, to chase the gaudy butterfly, to listen to the carol of the bird—to drink in with enchanted ears the sylvan harmonies from which they had so long been shut within the crowded walls of the beleaguered city.

It was a wondrous spectacle—Yea! beautiful exceedingly! Men in those days were indeed images of the immortal—women, types of ideal loveliness!—many a form was there of youthful warriors, such as were models unto him who wrought from the inanimate rock of Paros, that breathing, deathless god, the slayer of the Python—many a girlish shape such as we worship in the poet’s dream, Psyche, or Hebe, or Europa—many a full blown figure, ripe in the perfect luxury of womanhood, such as enchants the eyes, intoxicates the hearts, enthrals the souls, of all who look upon the Medicean Venus. Then the rich oriental garbs—the half transparent robes of gauze-like Byssus, revealingallthe symmetry, andhalfthe delicate hues, of the rich charms they seemed to veil—the jewelled zones and mitres, the golden network, scarce restraining the downward sweep of the redundant ringlets!—the priests in stoles of purest snow, sandalled and crowned with gold!—the sacrificers in their garbs succinct—the spotless, flower-crowned victims!—the music—and the odors!—and the song! The wild exulting bursts of the mad Bacchic Dithyramb!—the statelier and more solemn chant, warbled by hundred tongues of boys and stainless virgins, in honor of the Pure, Immaculate God—the silver-bowed—the light-producer—the golden-haired, and yellow-sworded—the healer—the averter—the avenger!—son of Latona and of Jove—Delian and Thymbrœan King!—the blast of the shrill trumpets, blent with the deep, deep roll of the Corybantian drum, loud as the deafening roar of subterranean thunder, and the sharp clashing of the Cretan cymbal, and the shrill rattle of the systrum! the chariots and the coursers of the god!—chariots of polished brass, reflecting every beam of the broad Asiatic sun till they seemed cars of living flame—coursers of symmetry unmatched, snow-white, with full spirit-flashing eyes, and nostrils wide distended, trampling the flowery sod as if they were proud of their golden trappings, and conscious of the God their owner!

Far in a haunted grove, beneath the towering heights of Ida, where never yet, during the whole nine years of deadly strife, had the red hand of war intruded—far in a haunted grove, whither no beam of the broad day-god pierces even from his meridian height—so densely is it set with the eternal verdure of the laurel, high over-canopied by green immortal palm—so closely do the amorous vines embrace both palm and laurel weaving a vault of solid everlasting greenery—where the perpetual chant of the nightingale is mingled only with the faint sigh of the breeze that plays forever among the emerald alleys, and the sweet tinkling voice of the Thymbrœan rill, cold from its icy cradle on the cloud-curtained hill of Jove—unvisited by feet of profane visitor, stands the secluded shrine of the Pure God—a circular vault of whitest Parian marble, reared on twelve Doric shafts, their pedestals and bases of bright virgin gold. Beneath the centre of the dome is placed a circular altar of the same chaste materials, wrought with the most superb reliefs, descriptive of the birth, the exploits, and the histories of the great Deity—and in a niche immediately behind it—the Deity himself—the naked limbs—all grace and youthful beauty—the swell of the elastic muscles, the life-like, almost breathing protrusion of the expanded chest—the swan-like curvature of the proud neck, the scornful curl of the almost girlish lips, the wide indignant nostril, the corded veins of the broad forehead from which the clustered locks stream back, waved as it were by some spiritual breath prophetic, the lightning glance of the triumphant eye shot from beneath the brows half bended in a frown, proclaimed the Python killer—the Boy-god now in the flush of his first triumph!— The fierceness kindled by the perilous strife was not yet faded from the eye—yet he smiles, scornfully smiles, at the very ease with which he has prevailed over his dragon foe!

A dim religious twilight reigned through that solemn shrine; it would have been a solemn darkness, but for the pencils of soft emerald-colored light, which streamed down here and there full of bright wandering motes, among the tangled foliage—and for the pale transparent glow soaring up from the marble altar, whereon fed by the richest spices and the most generous wine, the sacred flame played to and fro, lambent and imitative of the lights that stud the empyrean.

Splendid, however, as was the picture offered by the interior of the shrine, decked with all those appliances that operate most strongly on the mind, or at least on the imaginative portion of the mind of man—pervading all the senses with a calm, sweet, luxurious languor—filling the soul with strange voluptuous fantasies—half poetry, half superstition; yet infinitely were all the splendors, all the elegance of the spot surpassed by the transcendant majesty of those who stood around the altar.

On the right hand and left, next to the statue of Apollo, ministered the chief pontiffs of that solemn and mysterious deed; they were both old, even beyond the usual old age of mortals, yet perfectly erect and stately in their forms—their long locks were indeed of perfect silvery whiteness, their wide expanded foreheads wrinkled with many a line and furrow, their lips pale as ashes, their whole complexion bloodless!—yet did their eyes beam out from the deep cavernous recesses of their sockets with a wild and spirited brilliance that savored not a little of the unearthly light of inspiration; and their whole air and bearing went far to denote that their long years had nought diminished the pervading powers of the soul, though they had wasted not a little the mere mortal clay; but rather had given freer scope to the far-darting mind, in limiting the operations of the coarser matter.

Their robes were white immaculate linen, and they wore chaplets of the green bay tree on their heads, and carried sceptres in their hands of gold, enwreathed with sprays of laurels, and bound with woollen fillets. All motionless they stood, and silent; stirring not hand, nor foot, nor even so much as winking an eyelid, save when they poured the fat spiced wine from golden pateræ upon the altar, to feed the sacred flame. Behind them were assembled the ministers, the choristers, and sacrifices of the temple, waking at times wild harmonies from many a golden lyre, many a silver flute; while, to fill up the pauses between the bursts of instrumental music, soft symphonies arose from virgin lips invisible, singing, “all glory to unshorn Apollo, and her, the sister of his soul, the unstained goddess of the groves—queen of the silver bow!”

A little way advanced by the right hand of the altar, bowed down by many years and many sorrows, yet still serene, and dignified, and king-like—for he was yet a king!—aye, and in after days, when his Troy sunk in ashes never to rise again, a king he died, right kingly—leaning on his ivory staff stood the great offspring of Laomedon—good, hapless Priam. His limbs, which had been framed in the gigantic mould of the old heroic ages, still larger than the degenerate thews of his descendants, were all relaxed and nerveless; and the great veins and sinews, which stood out upon his shrivelled hands like a network of cordage, betokened the vast strength which once must have dwelt in that large frame, so sinewless and feeble now—so impotent and helpless. His golden crown was on his lofty brow, serene and venerable in its polished baldness—a flowing mantle of rich regal purple, lined with white lambskins, flowed down from his shoulders and swept the marble pavement with its rich broidered edge and bullion fringes—a tunic of white linen, gathered about his waist by a broad belt of golden arabesques, sandals of purple leather clasped and embossed with gold, completed his attire—while, ministers of regal state, the god-like heralds stood behind him, Jalthybius, and Eurybates the sage—messengers of high kings, interpreters of gods, clad in their mystic garments, and bearing high, advanced their sacred rods, the emblems of their office—close around these were gathered the councillors and sages of the city, Antenor, and Ucalegon, and wise Anchises—reverend and grave seniors, who, having long laid by the falchion, now governed by their proved experience the realm which they had formerly protected by their enthusiastic valor—near these a dozen slaves—slaves of the royal palace, waited with offerings for the altar; two snow-white lambs, two vases of rich wine, and frankincense, and myrrh, aloes and cassia—garments of needle-work, and garlands of rich flowers, and crowns and sceptres of wrought gold.

Upon the other hand, facing her aged father, was one whom but to look upon, would have excited the coldest, dullest heart to passionate, enamored phrenzy—the young, the beautiful Polyxena, the destined bride of the goddess-born—the bravest of the brave, the noblest of the noble, victor of victors, unsurpassed of men, magnificent Achilles. He had beheld her first, before her gallant brother fell, by his hand, beside the Scæan gates, while with her aged mother, and mad Cassandra and her train, she was engaged in mystic rites upon the plain—beheld and loved upon the instant! A few days had elapsed—days of fierce strife between his patriotism and his passion—and then he had demanded of his good, gallant enemy, pledge of conciliation and of peace, the hand of his sweet sister. Oh! demand frantically rejected; oh! pledge of peace madly refused, and fatally! For fate it was, the damning fate of Troy, that steeled the heart of Hector!

Achilles had all-honorably proposed peace; Hector demanded treason—treason to Greece and the confederates, as the sole price of young Polyxena! The reply of the indignant Greek was renewed war—and Hector fell, and Troy quailed to its base and tottered! Then Memnon buckled on his armor for Troy, and he too fell! Penthesilea, and she likewise!—and now, all her chief captains down, all her allies retired, Troy was again in her extremity, and again—peaceable and courteous as he was fierce and valiant in the field—Achilles offered terms, peace for Polyxena. And now his terms were heard;—for they were old heads now to whom he made his proffers—heard and accepted. And here, in the Thymbrœan shrine, they met to plight their faith upon the treaties—to solemnize the marriage of Achilles.

She was indeed most exquisite in her young loveliness; words cannot tell her loveliness. Scarce sixteen years of age, yet a mature and perfect woman; mature in the voluptuous development of her unrivalled person; mature in the development of her luxurious oriental nature. Tall, slender, and erect as the graceful palm of her native plains, her figure was yet admirably moulded; her ample sloping shoulders; her full glowing bust, tapering downward to a waist scarcely a span in circuit, and thence the sweeping swell of her full lower limbs down to the sylph-like ankle and small, delicate foot, that peered out from beneath the golden fringes of her nuptial robe, constituted, in fact, the very perfection of ideal female symmetry. Her snow-white, swan-like neck languidly drooping with a graceful curve, like a white lily’s stalk when the sweet chalice is surcharged with summer dew, concealed, but could not hide the beauty of her head and features; the clean and classic outlines of the smooth brow, from which the auburn hair, parted in two broad, massive braids, waved off behind the small white ears, and there was clustered in a full bunch of ringlets, was relieved by the well marked arches of her dark eye-brows—the eyes themselves could not be seen, for modestly were they cast down upon the pavement; though now and then a stolen glance toward her lover would flash out from beneath the long, long jetty lashes, like the gleam of a war-sword leaping from its scabbard, or the lightning from the gloom of the thunder cloud. Her cheeks were pale as the snow on Ida—save when a rich carnation flush, emblem of overmastering passion, would suffuse brow, and cheeks, and neck, and bosom—aye, and the moulded curves of those smooth ivory shoulders, with a transparent transitory glow as rich, and, oh! as evanescent as the bright hues of sunset touching the top of some heaven-kissing hill! A wreath of orange flowers, blended with myrtle—sacred plant of Venus,—even then the bridal wreath—encompassed the fair temples, and shone out resplendently from the dark tresses of the auburn hair. The nuptial veil—a tissue as it were, of woven air, gemmed with bright golden stars—fell off in graceful waves, and floated down her back till it spread out in a long train upon the marble floor; her robe of the like gauzy tissue, fastened on either shoulder by a large stud of brilliants, covered, but veiled not the beauties of her voluptuous bosom; below her bust, plaited in massy folds, it was confined by the virgin zone, and thence flowed down five several tunics, each shorter than that next below it, each fringed with golden tassels, and looped with golden cords, down to her golden sandals. Behind her stood Cassandra, clad in one plain, close-fitting stole of linen, with her dark locks dishevelled, streaming in strange disorder about her rich, majestic person; a laurel wreath set carefully upon her head, and a large branch of the same tree in her right hand. Her full dark eye, that gleamed so often with the intolerable lustre of prophetic phrenzy, was now suffused with moisture, languid, abstracted, and even sad; but no such wo-begone expression sat on the brows or on the laughing lips of the attendant maidens, who clustered, a bright bevy of girlish forms and lovely nymph-like faces behind the beauteous bride.

Just before the altar, facing the image of the god, scarce less sublimely beautiful than that unrivalled marble, alone, and unadorned, and unattended, behold the glorious bridegroom! Language may not describe the splendor, the almost intolerable glory of his soul-fraught, enthusiastic eye—the ardor of the warrior; the inspiration of the host, theœstrumof the prophet when he is fullest of his god, were all combined in that spirit-flashing feature. You saw that eye, and you saw all—the chiselled outlines of the nose, the generous expansive nostril, the proud voluptuous lip, were all unseen, all lost, all swallowed up in the pervading glory of that immortal eye. His form was such asmusthave been the form of him who could outstrip the speed of the most fiery coursers; bounding along all armed, in his full panoply of gold, beside the four horse chariot; although the mettled chargers strained every nerve to conquer—although Eumelus drove them. His garb was simple even to plainness; a short and narrow tunic of bright crimson cloth, leaving his mighty limbs exposed in their own glorious beauty, was belted round his waist by a small cord of gold—his head was covered only by its long silky tresses; sandals of gold were on his feet; he wore no weapons, but a long oaken sceptre studded with knobs of gold, supported his right hand.

Such was the glorious group which tenanted the shrine of the Thymbrœan god on that auspicious day—such was the ceremonial of Achilles’ marriage! Yet was it passing strange that not one of the Grecian chiefs stood by the bravest of their nation, his comrade and his friend on that sublime occasion; it was yet stranger that not one of all her noble brethren, not one of Priam’s fifty sons stood by their lovely sister. Yet such had been the will of Priam; and with the noble confidence—the proud contempt, which were a portion of his nature—confidence in his own dauntless and unrivalled valor, contempt of any mortal peril, Achilles had acceded to the terms.

And now the rites were finished—the sacrifice complete—the bridal chorus chanted! The pontiffs slew two lambs; one for the royal prince—one for the princely bridegroom—and filled two cups of wine, and they, the sire and son, touched the dead lambs and raised the wine-cups, and grasped each other’s hand in amity, and swore eternal peace, eternal amity, and love! They stretched their right hands to the god, tasted the wine, and poured the red libations over the holy altar—praying aloud—solemn and awful prayer—“that thushisblood should flow upon the earth—hisown life-blood, his wife’s, his child’s, and that of all his race—who should the first transgress that solemn vow and treaty.”

They swore, and it was ended! The hero turned to clasp his blooming bride—— Whence—what—was that keen twang—keen, shrill, and piercing, which broke the hush of feeling, that followed on that awful oath sworn between noble foes, now foes no longer? Why does Achilles start with a convulsive shudder! He reels, he staggers, he falls head-long—and see the arrow—fell and accursed deed—buried up to the very feather in the right heel of the prostrate hero! There was a moment’s pause—onemoment’s!—and then, with the bow in his left hand, and the broad falchion gleaming in his right, forth from among the priests—forth from the inmost shrine—forth leaped the traitor Paris! Deiphobus, the warrior—Helenus, the priest, followed!—all armed from head to foot, all with their weapons bare and ready! There was one frantic cry—the shriek of the heart-broken bride—and then no other sound except the clash of the weapons, driven sheer through the body of the hero, against the desecrated pavement.

“Thus Hector is avenged—thus is Troy freed”—shouted the slaughterers of the mighty Greek; but if the shade of Hector was so appeased by a base vengeance, yet so was Troy not freed! For not long afterward, the flames rolled over it, that even its ruins perished, its site was lost forever!—and if Polyxena was then snatched from her spouse, yet, when in after days her living form was immolated on his tomb—their manes were united, never to part again, in the Elysian fields—the Islands of the Blessed.

LINES.

When all a woman’s eye is fire,And ev’ry look the passions move,The voice as sweet as Nature’s lyre—What can a poor man do but love?When all his light is inoneeye,And all his heaven withinonebreast—Oh! blame him not, if he doth sighFor light like this to make him blest!Then blame him not—oh! blame him not,For madness only is his crime,—Oh! never will you be forgot,While all your image is on time.A heart like thine—an eye so bright,Will ever all the passions move—When gazing on those eyes of light,What can a poor man do but love?J. T.

When all a woman’s eye is fire,

And ev’ry look the passions move,

The voice as sweet as Nature’s lyre—

What can a poor man do but love?

When all his light is inoneeye,

And all his heaven withinonebreast—

Oh! blame him not, if he doth sigh

For light like this to make him blest!

Then blame him not—oh! blame him not,For madness only is his crime,—Oh! never will you be forgot,While all your image is on time.A heart like thine—an eye so bright,Will ever all the passions move—When gazing on those eyes of light,What can a poor man do but love?

Then blame him not—oh! blame him not,

For madness only is his crime,—

Oh! never will you be forgot,

While all your image is on time.

A heart like thine—an eye so bright,

Will ever all the passions move—

When gazing on those eyes of light,

What can a poor man do but love?

J. T.

A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY.

Signature of Edgar A. Poe

[In this, our second “Chapter on Autography,” we conclude the article and the year together. When we say that so complete a collection has never been published before, we assert only that which is obvious; and we are pleased to see that our exertions upon this head have been well received. As we claim only the sorry merit of the compiler, we shall be permitted to say that no Magazine paper has ever excited greater interest than the one now concluded. To all readers it has seemed to be welcome—but especially so to those who themselves dabble in the waters of Helicon:—to those and their innumerable friends. The diligence required in getting together these autographs has been a matter of no little moment, and the expense of the whole undertaking will be at once comprehended; but we intend the article merely as an earnest of what we shall do next year. Our aim shall be to furnish our friends with variety, originality, andpiquancy, without any regard to labor or to cost.]

Signature of F W Thomas

F. W.Thomas, who began his literary career, at the early age of seventeen, by a poetical lampoon upon certain Baltimore fops, has since more particularly distinguished himself as a novelist. His “Clinton Bradshawe” is perhaps better known than any of his later fictions. It is remarkable for a frank, unscrupulous portraiture of men and things, in high life and low, and by unusual discrimination and observation in respect to character. Since its publication he has produced “East and West” and “Howard Pinckney,” neither of which seem to have been so popular as his first essay; although both have merit.

“East and West,” published in 1836, was an attempt to portray the every-day events occurring to a fallen family emigrating from the East to the West. In it, as in “Clinton Bradshawe,” most of the characters are drawn from life. “Howard Pinckney” was published in 1840.

Mr. Thomas was, at one period, the editor of the Cincinnati “Commercial Advertiser.” He is also well known as a public lecturer on a variety of topics. His conversational powers are very great. As a poet, he has also distinguished himself. His “Emigrant” will be read with pleasure by every person of taste.

His MS. is more like that of Mr. Benjamin than that of any other literary person of our acquaintance. It has even more than the occasional nervousness of Mr. B.’s, and, as in the case of the editor of the “New World,” indicates the passionate sensibility of the man.

Signature of T. G. Spear

Thomas G. Spearis the author of various poetical pieces which have appeared from time to time in our Magazines and other periodicals. His productions have been much admired, and are distinguished for pathos, and grace. His MS. is well shown in the signature. It is tooclerkyfor our taste.

Signature of R Morris

Mr.Morrisranks, we believe, as the first of our Philadelphia poets, since the death of Willis Gaylord Clark. His compositions, like those of his late lamented friend, are characterised by sweetness rather than strength of versification, and by tenderness and delicacy rather than by vigor or originality of thought. A late notice of him in the “Boston Notion,” from the pen of Rufus W. Griswold, did his high qualities no more than justice. As a prose writer, he is chiefly known by his editorial contributions to the Philadelphia “Inquirer,” and by occasional essays for the Magazines.

His chirography is usually very illegible, although at times sufficiently distinct. It has no marked characteristics, and like that of almost every editor in the country, has been so modified by the circumstances of his position, as to afford no certain indication of the mental features.

Signature of E. Holden

Ezra Holdenhas written much, not only for his paper, “The Saturday Courier,” but for our periodicals generally, and stands high in the public estimation, as a sound thinker, and still more particularly as a fearless expresser of his thoughts.

His MS. (which we are constrained to say is a shockingly bad one, and whose general features may be seen in his signature,) indicates the frank and naïve manner of his literary style—a style which not unfrequently flies off into whimsicalities.

Signature of Benjn Matthias

Mr.Matthiasis principally known by his editorial conduct of the “Saturday Chronicle” of Philadelphia, to which he has furnished much entertaining and instructive matter. His MS. would be generally termed a fine one, but it affords little indication of mental character.

Signature of Geo R Graham

Mr.Grahamis known to the literary world as the editor and proprietor of “Graham’s Magazine,” the most popular periodical in America, and also of the “Saturday Evening Post,” of Philadelphia. For both of these journals he has written much and well.

His MS. generally, is very bad, or at least very illegible. At times it is sufficiently distinct, and has force and picturesqueness, speaking plainly of theenergywhich particularly distinguishes him as a man. The signature above is more scratchy than usual.

Signature of W. L Stone

ColonelStone, the editor of the New York “Commercial Advertiser,” is remarkable for the great difference which exists between the apparent public opinion respecting his abilities, and the real estimation in which he is privately held. Through his paper, and a bustling activity always prone to thrust itself forward, he has attained an unusual degree of influence in New York, and, not only this, but what appears to be a reputation for talent. But this talent we do not remember ever to have heard assigned him by any honest man’s private opinion. We place him among ourliterati, because he has published certain books. Perhaps the best of these are his “Life of Brandt,” and “Life and Times of Red Jacket.” Of the rest, his story called “Ups and Downs,” his defence of Animal Magnetism, and his pamphlets concerning Maria Monk, are scarcely the most absurd. His MS. is heavy and sprawling, resembling his mental character in a species of utter unmeaningness, which lies, like the nightmare, upon his autograph.

Signature of Jared Sparks

The labors of Mr.Sparks, Professor of History at Harvard, are well known and justly appreciated. His MS. has an unusually odd appearance. The characters are large, round, black, irregular, and perpendicular—the signature, as above, being an excellent specimen of his chirography in general. In all his letters now before us, the lines are as close together as possible, giving the idea of irretrievable confusion; still none of them are illegible upon close inspection. We can form no guess in regard to any mental peculiarities from Mr. Sparks’ MS., which has been no doubt modified by the hurrying and intricate nature of his researches. We might imagine such epistles as these to have been written in extreme haste by a man exceedingly busy among great piles of books and papers, huddled up around him like the chaotic tomes of Magliabechi. The paper used in all our epistles is uncommonly fine.

Signature of H. S. Legare

The name ofH. S. Legareis written without an accent on the finale, yet is pronounced, as if this letter were accented,—Legray. He contributed many articles of high merit to the “Southern Review,” and has a wide reputation for scholarship and talent. His MS. resembles that of Mr. Palfrey, of the North American Review, and their mental features appear to us nearly identical. What we have said in regard to the chirography of Mr. Palfrey will apply with equal force to that of the present Secretary.

Signature of R W Griswold

Mr.Griswoldhas written much, but chiefly in the editorial way, whether for the papers, or in books. He is a gentleman of fine taste and sound judgment. His knowledge of American literature, in all its details, is not exceeded by that of any man among us. He is not only a polished prose writer, but a poet of no ordinary power; although, as yet, he has not put himself much in the way of the public admiration.

His MS. is by no means a good one. It appears unformed, and vacillates in a singular manner; so that nothing can be predicated from it, except a certain unsteadiness of purpose.

Signature of George Lunt

Mr.George Lunt, of Newburyport, Massachusetts, is known as a poet of much vigor of style and massiveness of thought. He delights in the grand, rather than in the beautiful, and is not unfrequently turgid, but never feeble. The traits here described, impress themselves with remarkable distinctness upon his chirography, of which the signature gives a perfect idea.

Signature of Jos R Chandler

Mr.Chandler’sreputation as the editor of one of the best daily papers in the country, and as one of our finestbelles lettresscholars, is deservedly high. He is well known through his numerous addresses, essays, miscellaneous sketches, and prose tales. Some of these latter evince imaginative powers of a superior order.

His MS. is not fairly shown in his signature, the latter being much more open and bold than his general chirography. His hand-writing must be included in the editorial category—it seems to have been ruined by habitual hurry.

Signature of Fitzgerald Tasistro

CountL. Fitzgerald Tasistrohas distinguished himself by many contributions to the periodical literature of the day, and by his editorial conduct of the “Expositor,”—a critical journal of high merit in many respects, although somewhat given to verbiage.

His MS. is remarkable for a scratchy diminutiveness, and is by no means legible. We are not sufficiently cognizant of his literary character, to draw any parallel between it and his chirography. His signature is certainly a most remarkable one.

Signature of H. T. Tuckerman

H. T. Tuckermanhas written one or two books consisting of “Sketches of Travel.” His “Isabel” is, perhaps, better known than any of his productions, but was never a popular work. He is acorrectwriter so far as mere English is concerned, but an insufferably tedious and dull one. He has contributed much of late days to the “Southern Literary Messenger,” with which journal, perhaps, the legibility of his MS. has been an important, if not the principal recommendation. His chirography is neat and distinct, and has some grace, but no force—evincing, in a remarkable degree, the idiosyncrasies of the writer.

Signature of Danl Bryan

Mr.Bryanhas written some very excellent poetry, and is appreciated by all admirers of “the good old Goldsmith school.” He is, at present, postmaster at Alexandria, and has held the office for many years, with all the good fortune of a Vicar of Bray.

His MS. is a free, sloping, and regular one, with more boldness than force, and not ungraceful. He is fond ofunderscoringhis sentences; a habit exactly parallel with the argumentative nature of some of his best poems.

Signature of L A Godey

Mr.Godeyis only known to the literary world as editor and publisher of “The Lady’s Book;” but his celebrity in this regard entitles him to a place in this collection. His MS. is remarkably distinct and graceful; the signature affording an excellent idea of it. The man who invariably writes so well as Mr. G. invariably does, gives evidence of a fine taste, combined with an indefatigability which will ensure his permanent success in the world’s affairs. No man has warmer friends or fewer enemies.

Signature of John S Du Solle

Mr.Du Solleis well known, through his connection with the “Spirit of the Times.” His prose is forcible, and often excellent in other respects. As a poet, he is entitled to higher consideration. Some of his Pindaric pieces are unusually good, and it maybe doubted if we have a betterversifierin America.

Accustomed to the daily toil of an editor, he has contracted a habit of writing hurriedly, and his MS. varies with the occasion. It is impossible to deduce any inferences from it, as regards the mental character. The signature shows rather how he can write, than how he does.

Signature of J S French

Mr.Frenchis the author of a “Life of David Crockett”, and also of a novel called “Elkswatawa”, a denunciatory review of which in the “Southern Messenger,” some years ago, deterred him from further literary attempts. Should he write again, he will probably distinguish himself, for he is unquestionably a man of talent. We need no better evidence of this than his MS., which speaks of force, boldness, and originality. The flourish, however, betrays a certainfloridityof taste.

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