NIGHT.

Margaret’s Well.Stranger,who drinketh here,Pray for the soul of Margaret.

Margaret’s Well.

Stranger,

who drinketh here,

Pray for the soul of Margaret.

NIGHT.

———

BY ALICE GREY.

———

Night on the mountain—the beautiful night!The bright stars are beaming with silvery light;And the pale crescent moon, sailing calmly on high,Looks down on the earth from her home in the sky;Oh the sunniest day has no lovelier sight,Than the tranquil repose of the beautiful night.Night in the valley—the tall forest treesIn whispers reply to the voice of the breeze;The streamlet glides softly amidst its green bowers;The air is perfumed by the night-blooming flowers;And the song of the bulbul, the fire-fly’s light,Proclaim through the valley, night, beautiful night.For soon—far too soon—comes the loud busy day;Slowly and sadly the stars fade away,As if even they, in their glory, could grieveA world of such exquisite beauty to leave;But with eve they’ll return, and their pure holy lightLong, long shall illumine the beautiful night.

Night on the mountain—the beautiful night!

The bright stars are beaming with silvery light;

And the pale crescent moon, sailing calmly on high,

Looks down on the earth from her home in the sky;

Oh the sunniest day has no lovelier sight,

Than the tranquil repose of the beautiful night.

Night in the valley—the tall forest treesIn whispers reply to the voice of the breeze;The streamlet glides softly amidst its green bowers;The air is perfumed by the night-blooming flowers;And the song of the bulbul, the fire-fly’s light,Proclaim through the valley, night, beautiful night.

Night in the valley—the tall forest trees

In whispers reply to the voice of the breeze;

The streamlet glides softly amidst its green bowers;

The air is perfumed by the night-blooming flowers;

And the song of the bulbul, the fire-fly’s light,

Proclaim through the valley, night, beautiful night.

For soon—far too soon—comes the loud busy day;Slowly and sadly the stars fade away,As if even they, in their glory, could grieveA world of such exquisite beauty to leave;But with eve they’ll return, and their pure holy lightLong, long shall illumine the beautiful night.

For soon—far too soon—comes the loud busy day;

Slowly and sadly the stars fade away,

As if even they, in their glory, could grieve

A world of such exquisite beauty to leave;

But with eve they’ll return, and their pure holy light

Long, long shall illumine the beautiful night.

SETTLEMENT OF THE GENESEE.

———

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

———

Let Ruin lift his arm, and crush in dustThe glittering piles and palaces of kings,And, changing crown and sceptre into rust,Doom them to sleep among forgotten things!⁠—Let Time o’ershadow with his dusky wings,Warriors who guilty eminence have gained,And drank renown at red, polluted springs⁠—Sacked peaceful towns—the holy shrine profanedAnd to their chariot-wheels the groaning captive chained!But the self-exiled Britons, who behindLeft Transatlantic luxuries, and gaveTheir parting salutations to the wind,And, scorning the vile languor of the slave,Rocked with the little May Flower on the wave,To immortality have prouder claim:Let the bright Muse of History engraveTheir names in fadeless characters of flame,And give their wondrous tale an everlasting fame!No empty vision of unbounded power⁠—No dream of wild romance—no thirst for gold,Lured them from merry England’s hall and bower⁠—Her Sabbath chime of bells, her hamlet old;At home religious bigotry controlledThe struggling wing of thought; a gloomy cloud,Charged with despotic wrath, above them rolled;And haunts they sought where man might walk unbowed,And sacred Truth might raise her warning voice aloud.No waving flag, gay plume or gleaming casqueProclaimed them masters of war’s bloody trade;Less daring spirits from the mighty taskIn terror would have shrunken: tender maid,And daughter gently reared, for God to aidTheir feeble natures, breathed the words of prayer,And in Heaven’s panoply their soul’s arrayed⁠—Speeding the good work on, though frail and fair,When sterner manhood felt the faintness of despair.Old Sparta in exulting tones may boast,Of ancient matrons who could deck the bierOf sire and husband, slain where host met host,And, in the flush of pride, forget the tear:Our pilgrim mothers, too, could conquer fear,And stifle sorrow; but their hearts enshrinedThe soft affections: Who loves not to hearTheir praises sung?—their constancy of mind,Amid thy daughters’ Greece, we strive in vain to find!White lay the snow flakes on the lonely shore,And Winter flung his banner on the blast⁠—Behind swept angry waters, and beforeSpread waving woods, dark, limitless and vast,When a new continent received at lastOur houseless sires. The red man, gaunt and grim,On the strange scene his falcon vision cast;And nameless terror shook his tawny limbWhile, drowning ocean’s roar, went up their triumph-hymn;And when the bold survivors of the bandReached the decaying autumn-time of life,And locks were white, and palsied was the hand,Barbaric swarms, with axe and deadly knife,And painted, plumed, and quivered for the strife,Rushed from their trackless lairs to burn—despoil⁠—Butcher the cradled babe, the pleading wife;Then swept the nodding harvest from the soil,And scattered on the wind the fruits of patient toil.When the green, shrouding moss of time o’ercreptMounds in the vale and on the mountain-side,Where the stern founders of our empire slept,Improvement, moving with gigantic stride,Still hurried onward:—patient Labor pliedThe ringing axe; and from his old domainFled drowsy Solitude; while far and wideThe scene grew bright with fields of golden grain,And orchards robed in bloom on hill and sunny plain.The wand of Enterprise to queenly statesGave wondrous being; rivaling the spellThat reared round Thebes a wall of many gatesWhen proud Amphion[A]swept his chorded shell,The tuneful gift of Hermes: pastoral bell,With tinkling murmurs, woke savannahs green,And roused wild echoes in the woody dell,Where late the cougar, of terrific mien,Devoured the fawn, or rocked upon his perch unseen.With his penates, to the distant shoresOf our broad western streams, Adventure hied,And pierced the soil for rich metallic ores,Or, with a keen, prophetic vision, spiedAn unborn mart upon the river-side;While Traffic trimmed her bark to brave the gale,And meet the terrors of a chartless tide⁠—In nameless havens furled her tattered sail,Or toward Pacific seas, pursued the red man’s trail.The buskined lords of bow and leathern quiverWere thy admiring sponsors long ago,And named thee “Genesee,” my native river,(1)For pleasant are thy waters in their flow!Though on thy sides no bowers of orange grow,The free and happy in thy valley throng,O’er which the airs of health delight to blow⁠—No richer, brighter charms than thine belongTo streams immortal made by proud Homeric song.Although thy tide that winds through pastures now,By fleecy flock and lowing kine is drank,A river of the wilderness wert thou,When mixed in deadly combat on thy bankThe yelling Savage and impetuous Frank:[B]Thy wave lifts up no murmuring voice to tellWhere the red, bubbling stream of carnage sank,When rattling gun, loud groan and fiendish yellThy hollow murmur drowned, and gasping valor fell:And Nature, in the moss of time attired,On her green throne of forest sat, when cameThe host of Sullivan, with vengeance fired,To rouse upon thy shore the beast of game,And wrap the lodges of fierce tribes in flame,Fresh from unhappy Wyoming, and redWith scalps of hoary age and childless dame:Gone from thy borders are the oaks that spreadTheir yellow, autumn palls above the martial dead.Eastward the soldiers of that campaign boreGlad tidings of unpruned but pleasant lands,Washed by thy surges, like those spies of yoreWho brought ripe grapes from Eschol to the bandsBy Moses led across the desert sands.Regardless of the sons of Anak, soonBold men, of dauntless hearts and iron hands,Left home, while life was in its active noon,To hear the forest wind thy flood’s deep voice attune.They fled not, like scourged vassals in the night,From dungeon, rack and chain, with footstep fleet:The halls of their nativity were bright,And fraught with recollections, fond and sweet,Of childish hours; and hearts that loved them beatBeneath their pleasant roofs: forsaking all⁠—They roused the wood-wolf from his dim retreat,And boldly reared the gloomy cabin wallOf rude, misshapen logs, amid the forest tall.They little thought, while roving near the siteOf thy proud city,[C]deafened by the soundOf waters tumbling from a fearful height,And darkened by the wilderness around,That soon its hollow roaring would be drowned,By the deep murmur of the mighty crowd,Amid thick domes, with tower and turret crowned;The din of whirling cars, and clatter loudOf mills by human art with iron lungs endowed:Nor did they dream that, in communion grand,Broad Erie’s wave, and Hudson’s mighty tide,Within a channel shaped by mortal hand,Ere half a century elapsed, would glide:That soon fair Buffalo, in queenly pride,Would spring the Carthage of our inland seas,And wave her sceptre o’er the waters wide⁠—To shipping change the patriarchal trees,And launch a thousand barks to battle with the breeze.The foreign tourist gazing on thy vale,By rural seat and stately mansion graced,Stands mute with wonder when he hears the taleOf thy redemption from the sylvan waste:That only fifty years their rounds have tracedSince Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm(2)forsookThe peopled haunts of Genius, Art and Taste,While doubting friends with apprehension shook,And love upon his form fixed sad, regretful look.On the broad green acclivities that roundThe lovely lake of Canandaigua rise,The groves in deep, majestic grandeur frowned,Hiding their gloomy secrets from the skies,And scarred and worn by storms of centuries,When painted hordes, with streaming locks of jet,Terrific garb, and wildly glancing eyes,Him and his daring band in treaty metThough late with Christian gore the tomahawk was wet.A magic mirror girt by emerald,In shade embowered, the diamond waters lay;While the proud eagle, king-like, fierce and bald,Throned on the blasted hemlock, eyed his prey:Sweet wild-flowers, guarded from the blaze of day,Delicious odor on the soft air flung;And birds of varied note and plumage gayOn shrubs and vines, with ripening berries hung,Folded their glittering wings, and amorously sung.The water-rat and darting otter swamAmid the reedy flags that fringed the shore;And the brown beaver to his rounded dam,With patient toil, the tooth-hewn sappling bore:The lonely heron, surfeited with gore.Smoothed on the pebbly beech his plumage dank:Earth, sky and wave an air of wildness wore,And nimbly down the green and sloping bankCame stag and timid hind, on silver hoof and drank.The pen of voiceful narrative may wellThat solemn congress in the forest callA thrilling and romantic spectacle:The trunks of oaken monarchs, huge and tall,Were the rough columns of their council hall;Thick boughs were interwoven overhead,And winds made music with their leafy pall:Below a tangled sea of brushwood spread,Through which, to far-off wild, the beaten war-path led.Few were the whites in number, and aboutThe council-fire were gathered dusky throngs,From whose dark bosoms time had not washed outThe bitter memory of recent wrongs.Some longed to wake their ancient battle-songs,And on the reeking spoils of conflict gaze⁠—Bind the pale captive to the stake with thongs,And hellish yells of exultation raise,While shriveled up his form, and blackened in the blaze.The compact for a cession of their landWas nearly ended, when a far-famed chiefRose with the lofty bearing of command,Though lip and brow denoted inward grief:Nought broke the silence save the rustling leaf,And the low murmur of the lulling wave;He drew his blanket round him, and a brief,But proud description of his fathers gave,Then spoke of perished tribes, and glory in the grave.“And who be ye?” he said, in scornful tones,And glance of kindling hate—“Who offer goldFor hunting-grounds made holy by the bonesOf our great seers and sagamores of old?Men who would leave our hearths and altars cold⁠—Unstring the bow, and break the hunting-spear⁠—Our pleasant huts with sheeted flame infold,Then drive our starving, wailing race in fearBeyond the western hills, like broken herds of deer.“Wake, On-gue-hon-we![D]Strike the pointed-post,And gather quickly for the conflict dire;You Long-knives are forerunners of a host,Thick as the sparks when prairies are on fire;Let childhood grasp the weapon of his sire⁠—Arm, arm for deadly struggle, one and allWhile wives and babes to secret haunts retire:The ghosts of buried fathers on ye callTo guard their ancient tombs from sacrilege or fall!”Dark forms rose up, and brows began to lower,While many a savage eye destruction glared;But one came forth in that portentous hour,Ere shaft was aimed, or dagger fully bared,And hushed the storm. Old Houneyawus daredHis voice upraise; and by his friendly aidThe knife was sheathed—the pioneer was spared;Above that humane warrior of the shadeLet marble tell the tale in lines that cannot fade.All hail our early settlers! though with stormTheir sky of being was obscured and black,And Peril, in his most appalling form,Opposed their rugged march, and warned them back:They faltered not, or fainted in the trackThat led to empire; but with patience boreCold, parching thirst, and fever’s dread attack;While ancient Twilight, to return no more,From far Otsego fled to Erie’s rock-bound shore.They toiled, though Hunger with his wasted mien,Stalked through their infant settlements, and nightLured from the gloomy cavern, gaunt and lean,Droves of disturbing wolves, that hated light,Some wan and trembling mourner to affrightWith their dismaying howls, around the placeWhere coldly still, and newly hid from sight,Earth folded loved ones in her damp embrace,Without recording tomb their forest mounds to grace.From clearing rude, and dismal swamp undrained,Fumes of decaying vegetation rose;While the fell genius of distemper reigned,And filled the newly-opening realm with woes;Brave manhood smiting—though his lusty blowsTall ranks of warrior oaks in dust had bowed,And robbing widowed beauty of her rose,Or weaving, while the voice of wail was loud,Round childhood, early lost, the drapery of the shroud.Born in the lap of plenty and of wealth,Mindless, too oft, are children of the sireWho purchased at the fearful price of health,And even life, their heritage. The lyreShould call forth music from its proudest wireIn praise of men who brave, to bless their kind,Tempest, the sword, foul pestilence and fire;Their names in grateful hearts should be enshrined,When crumbled are their bones—their ashes on the wind:And those who left the venerated breast,And soil of proud New England, to reclaimOur smiling El Dorado of the WestFrom centuries of gloom, and haunts of gameChange to Arcadian lovelines, and tameThe virgin rudeness of the shaded mould,Should not be unremembered:—on the sameEternal page where Fame, in lines of gold,Hathpilgrim virtuetraced, their names should be enrolled.

Let Ruin lift his arm, and crush in dust

The glittering piles and palaces of kings,

And, changing crown and sceptre into rust,

Doom them to sleep among forgotten things!⁠—

Let Time o’ershadow with his dusky wings,

Warriors who guilty eminence have gained,

And drank renown at red, polluted springs⁠—

Sacked peaceful towns—the holy shrine profaned

And to their chariot-wheels the groaning captive chained!

But the self-exiled Britons, who behindLeft Transatlantic luxuries, and gaveTheir parting salutations to the wind,And, scorning the vile languor of the slave,Rocked with the little May Flower on the wave,To immortality have prouder claim:Let the bright Muse of History engraveTheir names in fadeless characters of flame,And give their wondrous tale an everlasting fame!

But the self-exiled Britons, who behind

Left Transatlantic luxuries, and gave

Their parting salutations to the wind,

And, scorning the vile languor of the slave,

Rocked with the little May Flower on the wave,

To immortality have prouder claim:

Let the bright Muse of History engrave

Their names in fadeless characters of flame,

And give their wondrous tale an everlasting fame!

No empty vision of unbounded power⁠—No dream of wild romance—no thirst for gold,Lured them from merry England’s hall and bower⁠—Her Sabbath chime of bells, her hamlet old;At home religious bigotry controlledThe struggling wing of thought; a gloomy cloud,Charged with despotic wrath, above them rolled;And haunts they sought where man might walk unbowed,And sacred Truth might raise her warning voice aloud.

No empty vision of unbounded power⁠—

No dream of wild romance—no thirst for gold,

Lured them from merry England’s hall and bower⁠—

Her Sabbath chime of bells, her hamlet old;

At home religious bigotry controlled

The struggling wing of thought; a gloomy cloud,

Charged with despotic wrath, above them rolled;

And haunts they sought where man might walk unbowed,

And sacred Truth might raise her warning voice aloud.

No waving flag, gay plume or gleaming casqueProclaimed them masters of war’s bloody trade;Less daring spirits from the mighty taskIn terror would have shrunken: tender maid,And daughter gently reared, for God to aidTheir feeble natures, breathed the words of prayer,And in Heaven’s panoply their soul’s arrayed⁠—Speeding the good work on, though frail and fair,When sterner manhood felt the faintness of despair.

No waving flag, gay plume or gleaming casque

Proclaimed them masters of war’s bloody trade;

Less daring spirits from the mighty task

In terror would have shrunken: tender maid,

And daughter gently reared, for God to aid

Their feeble natures, breathed the words of prayer,

And in Heaven’s panoply their soul’s arrayed⁠—

Speeding the good work on, though frail and fair,

When sterner manhood felt the faintness of despair.

Old Sparta in exulting tones may boast,Of ancient matrons who could deck the bierOf sire and husband, slain where host met host,And, in the flush of pride, forget the tear:Our pilgrim mothers, too, could conquer fear,And stifle sorrow; but their hearts enshrinedThe soft affections: Who loves not to hearTheir praises sung?—their constancy of mind,Amid thy daughters’ Greece, we strive in vain to find!

Old Sparta in exulting tones may boast,

Of ancient matrons who could deck the bier

Of sire and husband, slain where host met host,

And, in the flush of pride, forget the tear:

Our pilgrim mothers, too, could conquer fear,

And stifle sorrow; but their hearts enshrined

The soft affections: Who loves not to hear

Their praises sung?—their constancy of mind,

Amid thy daughters’ Greece, we strive in vain to find!

White lay the snow flakes on the lonely shore,And Winter flung his banner on the blast⁠—Behind swept angry waters, and beforeSpread waving woods, dark, limitless and vast,When a new continent received at lastOur houseless sires. The red man, gaunt and grim,On the strange scene his falcon vision cast;And nameless terror shook his tawny limbWhile, drowning ocean’s roar, went up their triumph-hymn;

White lay the snow flakes on the lonely shore,

And Winter flung his banner on the blast⁠—

Behind swept angry waters, and before

Spread waving woods, dark, limitless and vast,

When a new continent received at last

Our houseless sires. The red man, gaunt and grim,

On the strange scene his falcon vision cast;

And nameless terror shook his tawny limb

While, drowning ocean’s roar, went up their triumph-hymn;

And when the bold survivors of the bandReached the decaying autumn-time of life,And locks were white, and palsied was the hand,Barbaric swarms, with axe and deadly knife,And painted, plumed, and quivered for the strife,Rushed from their trackless lairs to burn—despoil⁠—Butcher the cradled babe, the pleading wife;Then swept the nodding harvest from the soil,And scattered on the wind the fruits of patient toil.

And when the bold survivors of the band

Reached the decaying autumn-time of life,

And locks were white, and palsied was the hand,

Barbaric swarms, with axe and deadly knife,

And painted, plumed, and quivered for the strife,

Rushed from their trackless lairs to burn—despoil⁠—

Butcher the cradled babe, the pleading wife;

Then swept the nodding harvest from the soil,

And scattered on the wind the fruits of patient toil.

When the green, shrouding moss of time o’ercreptMounds in the vale and on the mountain-side,Where the stern founders of our empire slept,Improvement, moving with gigantic stride,Still hurried onward:—patient Labor pliedThe ringing axe; and from his old domainFled drowsy Solitude; while far and wideThe scene grew bright with fields of golden grain,And orchards robed in bloom on hill and sunny plain.

When the green, shrouding moss of time o’ercrept

Mounds in the vale and on the mountain-side,

Where the stern founders of our empire slept,

Improvement, moving with gigantic stride,

Still hurried onward:—patient Labor plied

The ringing axe; and from his old domain

Fled drowsy Solitude; while far and wide

The scene grew bright with fields of golden grain,

And orchards robed in bloom on hill and sunny plain.

The wand of Enterprise to queenly statesGave wondrous being; rivaling the spellThat reared round Thebes a wall of many gatesWhen proud Amphion[A]swept his chorded shell,The tuneful gift of Hermes: pastoral bell,With tinkling murmurs, woke savannahs green,And roused wild echoes in the woody dell,Where late the cougar, of terrific mien,Devoured the fawn, or rocked upon his perch unseen.

The wand of Enterprise to queenly states

Gave wondrous being; rivaling the spell

That reared round Thebes a wall of many gates

When proud Amphion[A]swept his chorded shell,

The tuneful gift of Hermes: pastoral bell,

With tinkling murmurs, woke savannahs green,

And roused wild echoes in the woody dell,

Where late the cougar, of terrific mien,

Devoured the fawn, or rocked upon his perch unseen.

With his penates, to the distant shoresOf our broad western streams, Adventure hied,And pierced the soil for rich metallic ores,Or, with a keen, prophetic vision, spiedAn unborn mart upon the river-side;While Traffic trimmed her bark to brave the gale,And meet the terrors of a chartless tide⁠—In nameless havens furled her tattered sail,Or toward Pacific seas, pursued the red man’s trail.

With his penates, to the distant shores

Of our broad western streams, Adventure hied,

And pierced the soil for rich metallic ores,

Or, with a keen, prophetic vision, spied

An unborn mart upon the river-side;

While Traffic trimmed her bark to brave the gale,

And meet the terrors of a chartless tide⁠—

In nameless havens furled her tattered sail,

Or toward Pacific seas, pursued the red man’s trail.

The buskined lords of bow and leathern quiverWere thy admiring sponsors long ago,And named thee “Genesee,” my native river,(1)For pleasant are thy waters in their flow!Though on thy sides no bowers of orange grow,The free and happy in thy valley throng,O’er which the airs of health delight to blow⁠—No richer, brighter charms than thine belongTo streams immortal made by proud Homeric song.

The buskined lords of bow and leathern quiver

Were thy admiring sponsors long ago,

And named thee “Genesee,” my native river,(1)

For pleasant are thy waters in their flow!

Though on thy sides no bowers of orange grow,

The free and happy in thy valley throng,

O’er which the airs of health delight to blow⁠—

No richer, brighter charms than thine belong

To streams immortal made by proud Homeric song.

Although thy tide that winds through pastures now,By fleecy flock and lowing kine is drank,A river of the wilderness wert thou,When mixed in deadly combat on thy bankThe yelling Savage and impetuous Frank:[B]Thy wave lifts up no murmuring voice to tellWhere the red, bubbling stream of carnage sank,When rattling gun, loud groan and fiendish yellThy hollow murmur drowned, and gasping valor fell:

Although thy tide that winds through pastures now,

By fleecy flock and lowing kine is drank,

A river of the wilderness wert thou,

When mixed in deadly combat on thy bank

The yelling Savage and impetuous Frank:[B]

Thy wave lifts up no murmuring voice to tell

Where the red, bubbling stream of carnage sank,

When rattling gun, loud groan and fiendish yell

Thy hollow murmur drowned, and gasping valor fell:

And Nature, in the moss of time attired,On her green throne of forest sat, when cameThe host of Sullivan, with vengeance fired,To rouse upon thy shore the beast of game,And wrap the lodges of fierce tribes in flame,Fresh from unhappy Wyoming, and redWith scalps of hoary age and childless dame:Gone from thy borders are the oaks that spreadTheir yellow, autumn palls above the martial dead.

And Nature, in the moss of time attired,

On her green throne of forest sat, when came

The host of Sullivan, with vengeance fired,

To rouse upon thy shore the beast of game,

And wrap the lodges of fierce tribes in flame,

Fresh from unhappy Wyoming, and red

With scalps of hoary age and childless dame:

Gone from thy borders are the oaks that spread

Their yellow, autumn palls above the martial dead.

Eastward the soldiers of that campaign boreGlad tidings of unpruned but pleasant lands,Washed by thy surges, like those spies of yoreWho brought ripe grapes from Eschol to the bandsBy Moses led across the desert sands.Regardless of the sons of Anak, soonBold men, of dauntless hearts and iron hands,Left home, while life was in its active noon,To hear the forest wind thy flood’s deep voice attune.

Eastward the soldiers of that campaign bore

Glad tidings of unpruned but pleasant lands,

Washed by thy surges, like those spies of yore

Who brought ripe grapes from Eschol to the bands

By Moses led across the desert sands.

Regardless of the sons of Anak, soon

Bold men, of dauntless hearts and iron hands,

Left home, while life was in its active noon,

To hear the forest wind thy flood’s deep voice attune.

They fled not, like scourged vassals in the night,From dungeon, rack and chain, with footstep fleet:The halls of their nativity were bright,And fraught with recollections, fond and sweet,Of childish hours; and hearts that loved them beatBeneath their pleasant roofs: forsaking all⁠—They roused the wood-wolf from his dim retreat,And boldly reared the gloomy cabin wallOf rude, misshapen logs, amid the forest tall.

They fled not, like scourged vassals in the night,

From dungeon, rack and chain, with footstep fleet:

The halls of their nativity were bright,

And fraught with recollections, fond and sweet,

Of childish hours; and hearts that loved them beat

Beneath their pleasant roofs: forsaking all⁠—

They roused the wood-wolf from his dim retreat,

And boldly reared the gloomy cabin wall

Of rude, misshapen logs, amid the forest tall.

They little thought, while roving near the siteOf thy proud city,[C]deafened by the soundOf waters tumbling from a fearful height,And darkened by the wilderness around,That soon its hollow roaring would be drowned,By the deep murmur of the mighty crowd,Amid thick domes, with tower and turret crowned;The din of whirling cars, and clatter loudOf mills by human art with iron lungs endowed:

They little thought, while roving near the site

Of thy proud city,[C]deafened by the sound

Of waters tumbling from a fearful height,

And darkened by the wilderness around,

That soon its hollow roaring would be drowned,

By the deep murmur of the mighty crowd,

Amid thick domes, with tower and turret crowned;

The din of whirling cars, and clatter loud

Of mills by human art with iron lungs endowed:

Nor did they dream that, in communion grand,Broad Erie’s wave, and Hudson’s mighty tide,Within a channel shaped by mortal hand,Ere half a century elapsed, would glide:That soon fair Buffalo, in queenly pride,Would spring the Carthage of our inland seas,And wave her sceptre o’er the waters wide⁠—To shipping change the patriarchal trees,And launch a thousand barks to battle with the breeze.

Nor did they dream that, in communion grand,

Broad Erie’s wave, and Hudson’s mighty tide,

Within a channel shaped by mortal hand,

Ere half a century elapsed, would glide:

That soon fair Buffalo, in queenly pride,

Would spring the Carthage of our inland seas,

And wave her sceptre o’er the waters wide⁠—

To shipping change the patriarchal trees,

And launch a thousand barks to battle with the breeze.

The foreign tourist gazing on thy vale,By rural seat and stately mansion graced,Stands mute with wonder when he hears the taleOf thy redemption from the sylvan waste:That only fifty years their rounds have tracedSince Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm(2)forsookThe peopled haunts of Genius, Art and Taste,While doubting friends with apprehension shook,And love upon his form fixed sad, regretful look.

The foreign tourist gazing on thy vale,

By rural seat and stately mansion graced,

Stands mute with wonder when he hears the tale

Of thy redemption from the sylvan waste:

That only fifty years their rounds have traced

Since Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm(2)forsook

The peopled haunts of Genius, Art and Taste,

While doubting friends with apprehension shook,

And love upon his form fixed sad, regretful look.

On the broad green acclivities that roundThe lovely lake of Canandaigua rise,The groves in deep, majestic grandeur frowned,Hiding their gloomy secrets from the skies,And scarred and worn by storms of centuries,When painted hordes, with streaming locks of jet,Terrific garb, and wildly glancing eyes,Him and his daring band in treaty metThough late with Christian gore the tomahawk was wet.

On the broad green acclivities that round

The lovely lake of Canandaigua rise,

The groves in deep, majestic grandeur frowned,

Hiding their gloomy secrets from the skies,

And scarred and worn by storms of centuries,

When painted hordes, with streaming locks of jet,

Terrific garb, and wildly glancing eyes,

Him and his daring band in treaty met

Though late with Christian gore the tomahawk was wet.

A magic mirror girt by emerald,In shade embowered, the diamond waters lay;While the proud eagle, king-like, fierce and bald,Throned on the blasted hemlock, eyed his prey:Sweet wild-flowers, guarded from the blaze of day,Delicious odor on the soft air flung;And birds of varied note and plumage gayOn shrubs and vines, with ripening berries hung,Folded their glittering wings, and amorously sung.

A magic mirror girt by emerald,

In shade embowered, the diamond waters lay;

While the proud eagle, king-like, fierce and bald,

Throned on the blasted hemlock, eyed his prey:

Sweet wild-flowers, guarded from the blaze of day,

Delicious odor on the soft air flung;

And birds of varied note and plumage gay

On shrubs and vines, with ripening berries hung,

Folded their glittering wings, and amorously sung.

The water-rat and darting otter swamAmid the reedy flags that fringed the shore;And the brown beaver to his rounded dam,With patient toil, the tooth-hewn sappling bore:The lonely heron, surfeited with gore.Smoothed on the pebbly beech his plumage dank:Earth, sky and wave an air of wildness wore,And nimbly down the green and sloping bankCame stag and timid hind, on silver hoof and drank.

The water-rat and darting otter swam

Amid the reedy flags that fringed the shore;

And the brown beaver to his rounded dam,

With patient toil, the tooth-hewn sappling bore:

The lonely heron, surfeited with gore.

Smoothed on the pebbly beech his plumage dank:

Earth, sky and wave an air of wildness wore,

And nimbly down the green and sloping bank

Came stag and timid hind, on silver hoof and drank.

The pen of voiceful narrative may wellThat solemn congress in the forest callA thrilling and romantic spectacle:The trunks of oaken monarchs, huge and tall,Were the rough columns of their council hall;Thick boughs were interwoven overhead,And winds made music with their leafy pall:Below a tangled sea of brushwood spread,Through which, to far-off wild, the beaten war-path led.

The pen of voiceful narrative may well

That solemn congress in the forest call

A thrilling and romantic spectacle:

The trunks of oaken monarchs, huge and tall,

Were the rough columns of their council hall;

Thick boughs were interwoven overhead,

And winds made music with their leafy pall:

Below a tangled sea of brushwood spread,

Through which, to far-off wild, the beaten war-path led.

Few were the whites in number, and aboutThe council-fire were gathered dusky throngs,From whose dark bosoms time had not washed outThe bitter memory of recent wrongs.Some longed to wake their ancient battle-songs,And on the reeking spoils of conflict gaze⁠—Bind the pale captive to the stake with thongs,And hellish yells of exultation raise,While shriveled up his form, and blackened in the blaze.

Few were the whites in number, and about

The council-fire were gathered dusky throngs,

From whose dark bosoms time had not washed out

The bitter memory of recent wrongs.

Some longed to wake their ancient battle-songs,

And on the reeking spoils of conflict gaze⁠—

Bind the pale captive to the stake with thongs,

And hellish yells of exultation raise,

While shriveled up his form, and blackened in the blaze.

The compact for a cession of their landWas nearly ended, when a far-famed chiefRose with the lofty bearing of command,Though lip and brow denoted inward grief:Nought broke the silence save the rustling leaf,And the low murmur of the lulling wave;He drew his blanket round him, and a brief,But proud description of his fathers gave,Then spoke of perished tribes, and glory in the grave.

The compact for a cession of their land

Was nearly ended, when a far-famed chief

Rose with the lofty bearing of command,

Though lip and brow denoted inward grief:

Nought broke the silence save the rustling leaf,

And the low murmur of the lulling wave;

He drew his blanket round him, and a brief,

But proud description of his fathers gave,

Then spoke of perished tribes, and glory in the grave.

“And who be ye?” he said, in scornful tones,And glance of kindling hate—“Who offer goldFor hunting-grounds made holy by the bonesOf our great seers and sagamores of old?Men who would leave our hearths and altars cold⁠—Unstring the bow, and break the hunting-spear⁠—Our pleasant huts with sheeted flame infold,Then drive our starving, wailing race in fearBeyond the western hills, like broken herds of deer.

“And who be ye?” he said, in scornful tones,

And glance of kindling hate—“Who offer gold

For hunting-grounds made holy by the bones

Of our great seers and sagamores of old?

Men who would leave our hearths and altars cold⁠—

Unstring the bow, and break the hunting-spear⁠—

Our pleasant huts with sheeted flame infold,

Then drive our starving, wailing race in fear

Beyond the western hills, like broken herds of deer.

“Wake, On-gue-hon-we![D]Strike the pointed-post,And gather quickly for the conflict dire;You Long-knives are forerunners of a host,Thick as the sparks when prairies are on fire;Let childhood grasp the weapon of his sire⁠—Arm, arm for deadly struggle, one and allWhile wives and babes to secret haunts retire:The ghosts of buried fathers on ye callTo guard their ancient tombs from sacrilege or fall!”

“Wake, On-gue-hon-we![D]Strike the pointed-post,

And gather quickly for the conflict dire;

You Long-knives are forerunners of a host,

Thick as the sparks when prairies are on fire;

Let childhood grasp the weapon of his sire⁠—

Arm, arm for deadly struggle, one and all

While wives and babes to secret haunts retire:

The ghosts of buried fathers on ye call

To guard their ancient tombs from sacrilege or fall!”

Dark forms rose up, and brows began to lower,While many a savage eye destruction glared;But one came forth in that portentous hour,Ere shaft was aimed, or dagger fully bared,And hushed the storm. Old Houneyawus daredHis voice upraise; and by his friendly aidThe knife was sheathed—the pioneer was spared;Above that humane warrior of the shadeLet marble tell the tale in lines that cannot fade.

Dark forms rose up, and brows began to lower,

While many a savage eye destruction glared;

But one came forth in that portentous hour,

Ere shaft was aimed, or dagger fully bared,

And hushed the storm. Old Houneyawus dared

His voice upraise; and by his friendly aid

The knife was sheathed—the pioneer was spared;

Above that humane warrior of the shade

Let marble tell the tale in lines that cannot fade.

All hail our early settlers! though with stormTheir sky of being was obscured and black,And Peril, in his most appalling form,Opposed their rugged march, and warned them back:They faltered not, or fainted in the trackThat led to empire; but with patience boreCold, parching thirst, and fever’s dread attack;While ancient Twilight, to return no more,From far Otsego fled to Erie’s rock-bound shore.

All hail our early settlers! though with storm

Their sky of being was obscured and black,

And Peril, in his most appalling form,

Opposed their rugged march, and warned them back:

They faltered not, or fainted in the track

That led to empire; but with patience bore

Cold, parching thirst, and fever’s dread attack;

While ancient Twilight, to return no more,

From far Otsego fled to Erie’s rock-bound shore.

They toiled, though Hunger with his wasted mien,Stalked through their infant settlements, and nightLured from the gloomy cavern, gaunt and lean,Droves of disturbing wolves, that hated light,Some wan and trembling mourner to affrightWith their dismaying howls, around the placeWhere coldly still, and newly hid from sight,Earth folded loved ones in her damp embrace,Without recording tomb their forest mounds to grace.

They toiled, though Hunger with his wasted mien,

Stalked through their infant settlements, and night

Lured from the gloomy cavern, gaunt and lean,

Droves of disturbing wolves, that hated light,

Some wan and trembling mourner to affright

With their dismaying howls, around the place

Where coldly still, and newly hid from sight,

Earth folded loved ones in her damp embrace,

Without recording tomb their forest mounds to grace.

From clearing rude, and dismal swamp undrained,Fumes of decaying vegetation rose;While the fell genius of distemper reigned,And filled the newly-opening realm with woes;Brave manhood smiting—though his lusty blowsTall ranks of warrior oaks in dust had bowed,And robbing widowed beauty of her rose,Or weaving, while the voice of wail was loud,Round childhood, early lost, the drapery of the shroud.

From clearing rude, and dismal swamp undrained,

Fumes of decaying vegetation rose;

While the fell genius of distemper reigned,

And filled the newly-opening realm with woes;

Brave manhood smiting—though his lusty blows

Tall ranks of warrior oaks in dust had bowed,

And robbing widowed beauty of her rose,

Or weaving, while the voice of wail was loud,

Round childhood, early lost, the drapery of the shroud.

Born in the lap of plenty and of wealth,Mindless, too oft, are children of the sireWho purchased at the fearful price of health,And even life, their heritage. The lyreShould call forth music from its proudest wireIn praise of men who brave, to bless their kind,Tempest, the sword, foul pestilence and fire;Their names in grateful hearts should be enshrined,When crumbled are their bones—their ashes on the wind:

Born in the lap of plenty and of wealth,

Mindless, too oft, are children of the sire

Who purchased at the fearful price of health,

And even life, their heritage. The lyre

Should call forth music from its proudest wire

In praise of men who brave, to bless their kind,

Tempest, the sword, foul pestilence and fire;

Their names in grateful hearts should be enshrined,

When crumbled are their bones—their ashes on the wind:

And those who left the venerated breast,And soil of proud New England, to reclaimOur smiling El Dorado of the WestFrom centuries of gloom, and haunts of gameChange to Arcadian lovelines, and tameThe virgin rudeness of the shaded mould,Should not be unremembered:—on the sameEternal page where Fame, in lines of gold,Hathpilgrim virtuetraced, their names should be enrolled.

And those who left the venerated breast,

And soil of proud New England, to reclaim

Our smiling El Dorado of the West

From centuries of gloom, and haunts of game

Change to Arcadian lovelines, and tame

The virgin rudeness of the shaded mould,

Should not be unremembered:—on the same

Eternal page where Fame, in lines of gold,

Hathpilgrim virtuetraced, their names should be enrolled.

[A]Dictus et Amphion, Thebanæ conditor arcis,Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blandaDucere quo vellet.Hor. de. Art. Poet.

[A]

Dictus et Amphion, Thebanæ conditor arcis,Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blandaDucere quo vellet.Hor. de. Art. Poet.

Dictus et Amphion, Thebanæ conditor arcis,

Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda

Ducere quo vellet.Hor. de. Art. Poet.

[B]Allusion to De Nouville’s invasion, in 1687, of the Genesee valley.

[B]

Allusion to De Nouville’s invasion, in 1687, of the Genesee valley.

[C]Rochester.

[C]

Rochester.

[D]A title assumed by the Iriquois, or Five Nations, meaning “men who surpass all others.”

[D]

A title assumed by the Iriquois, or Five Nations, meaning “men who surpass all others.”

(1) “And named thee Genesee,” &c.

The word Genesee is of Seneca origin, signifying “Pleasant Valley,” or “Valley of Pleasant Waters.”

(2) “Since Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm.”

It may seem strange to many of the millions who are now reveling in the comforts and prosperity which the last half century has diffused through western New York, that the course of Oliver Phelps and his associates should have been then considered so hazardous, that the whole neighborhood of Granville, Mass., their native town, assembled to bid them adieu—a final adieu, as many thought; for it seemed a desperate chance that any of that intrepid band should ever return from their enterprise through a region to which the Indian title had not been extinguished. The wilderness was penetrated as far as Canandaigua Lake, and I am indebted to an old number of the New York American for the description that follows, of a treaty held on its banks with the Senecas by Phelps and his companions.

“Two days had passed away in negotiation for a cession of their land. The contract was supposed to be nearly completed, when Red Jacket arose. With the grace and dignity of a Roman senator, he drew his blanket around him, and with a piercing eye surveyed the multitude. All was hushed. Nothing interfered to break the silence, save the rustling of the tree-tops under whose shade they were gathered.“Rising gradually with his subject, he depicted the primitive simplicity and happiness of his nation, and the wrongs they had sustained from the usurpations of the white man, with such a bold but faithful pencil, that his Indian auditors were soon roused to vengeance, or melted into tears. Appalled and terrified, the white men cast a cheerless gaze upon the hordes around them. A nod from the chiefs might be the onset of destruction. At that portentous moment Houneyawus, known among the whites as Farmer’s Brother, interposed.”

“Rising gradually with his subject, he depicted the primitive simplicity and happiness of his nation, and the wrongs they had sustained from the usurpations of the white man, with such a bold but faithful pencil, that his Indian auditors were soon roused to vengeance, or melted into tears. Appalled and terrified, the white men cast a cheerless gaze upon the hordes around them. A nod from the chiefs might be the onset of destruction. At that portentous moment Houneyawus, known among the whites as Farmer’s Brother, interposed.”

Drawn by Ch. Bodmer Engdby Rawdon, Wright & HatchMandan WomenEngraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

Drawn by Ch. Bodmer Engdby Rawdon, Wright & Hatch

MANDAN INDIANS—LOVER’S LEAP.

We present our readers this month with two beautiful American plates. The Mandan Indians is one of a series of the spirited pictures of Bodmer, who, in a visit through the west and south-west, made sketches from nature of the most striking scenes, and of incidents in Indian life and warfare. We have still on hand several very fine pictures by this artist; and we think we hazard nothing in saying, that, for artistic effect and skill, these engravings are far superior to any thing that is met with in the Magazines. The dance of the Mandan women was taken, as represented, from a group, by Mr. Bodmer.

Our other engraving, is one of the fine series of Georgia views that we are running through the Magazine; and the “Lover’s Leap” is another evidence of the charming bits of scenery with which that state abounds. We have now in the hands of artists, sketches of scenery in Virginia, North Carolina, Ohio, and other states, and purpose in coming volumes, to present to the readers of Graham, views of every state in the Union, engraved in a style to do credit to the country and the work. The American character of the embellishments and literature of Graham, are rallying around the work thousands of true friends yearly.

FRANK BEVERLY.

———

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

———

Late in the evening of the last day of September, A. D. 18—, a stage stopped at a small inn, and deposited two trunks, with their two owners: then rattled on to its final stopping-place, six miles further.

The two trunks with their two owners were shown into the best sleeping-room the house afforded, and left with a “dim, religious light” for company. The light showed them (the trunk’s owners, not the trunks) to be men—good-looking and young. Their conversation proved them to be cousins, and on their way to Beverly Park, the home of the handsomer of the two, whom the less handsome addressed as Frank.

“But, Ned, speaking of pictures, and furniture,” continued Frank, interrupting himself in his description of Beverly Park and its picture gallery, “you never have seen Clara. Three years ago she bid fair to be a beauty. To-morrow will prove whether time has or has not fulfilled his promise. Three years ago she was a fairy thing of sweet fifteen. I say, Ned, did you ever see a more horrid place than this inn?”

“Yes, many.”

Frank laughed. “Any way,” said he, “you must acknowledge it is a most dismal apology for a ‘house of entertainment for man and beast:’ I wonder if his godship, Mr. Morpheus, ever deigns to visit it. I feel wonderfully like making the trial. What say you, Ned, shall we court him to wrap us in his mantle of oblivion?”

“With all my heart.”

The friends resigned themselves to sleep. Blessed be the man who first inventedsleeping. There is poetry in sleep: there is music in it.

Have you never watched the young child, with its fair hair reposing so quietly in clustering curls around its cherub, happy face? Its low, soft-breathing—one little dimpled hand grasping a toy—one fair, rounded arm pillowing its young head. The little rosy mouth in a half smile—smiling to the fairies that come whispering to its heart? This is poetry. Were you never in a stage-coach with an old man for one of its passengers, clad in the greasiest snuff-colored coat and vest imaginable; and bearing upon them any quantity of dull brass buttons—a round-crowned, dirty white beaver upon his red-haired Medusa-like head: he himself fast “locked in the arms ofomnibus,” and snoring loud enough to awake the seven sleepers?Thisis music.

Morning came. The landlord was duly paid, and the cousins proceeded on their way to Beverly Park.

“Three years seems a long time to be away from one’s home, eh! Ned?” said Frank, after they had ridden a long way in silence. “I hope you will like my sister Clara.”

“I do not doubt that I shall, if she is any thing like her brother.”

“Thank you. These are fine old elms, are they not? I like elm trees; I like them in the moonlight, when the silver-tipped shadows flit among their dark green leaves; they bring to mind old ruined castles. I can fancy ivy-clad turrets, and the soft eyes of fairy maidens gazing from them. Their eyes, as they gleam forth from amid the night-colored boughs, look dreamy and fitful. I see them twine, with snowy, shadowy arms the dark green ivy amid their coal-black tresses. I love elm trees thus bathed in moonlight, they remind me of all the wild things I have ever read, thought or dreamed.”

“Have a care, Frank, or some one of these same moonlight nights your imagination will carry you offvi et armis.”

“Never fear, Ed. But here is my home. My father had taste, had he not?”

“All around is the perfection of taste. Your father must have spent much of his time in planning such a Paradise.”

Francis made no reply; but with all the impetuosity of his ardent nature rushed into the house. When Edward, left to the guidance of a servant, entered the hall, he found a fair-haired girl clasped to his cousin’s heart—a mild-eyed matron, he knew was Frank’s mother, so strongly did she resemble him, looking love and joy upon him.

That was a happy family assembled atBeverly Park. Within a week from the arrival of its heir, the many chambers of the old Hall were nearly filled with friends and relatives of theBeverlys, who had come to spend the winter with them. So mirth was the order of the day at Beverly Park.

“Cousin Ed,” said Frank, one sunny morning, “you and Clara seem so happy in each other, and have so much to say, there is not room for me to put in a word: I see I amun de trop. Mamma is reading, I cannot talk with her; Kate and George are at that everlasting chess-board; the Miss Linwoods and the rest of our party are out riding, so poor I have nothing to do, nor no one to talk with.”

“A sad case, brother mine,” said Clara, laughing.

“I’ll be revenged some way. I’ll go out on an exploring expedition, all alone.Au revoir!” . . . .

Upon the grass-green banks of a flower-fringed, dancing stream, a little child, of four bright summer suns, was playing with the pebbles at its edge. She had the “curlingest” little head of gold-brownhair in the world. Her form was faultless: her eyes—warm, soft hazel.

As the child threw the shining pebbles into the water, and laughed with delight to see the bubbles and dimples she created, the step of a man sounded on the mossy sward.

The child looked up but evinced no fear.

“Come here, pretty one.”

The child came bounding toward him, and peered up into his face so winningly, that he caught her up in his arms, and kissed her young brown eyes, and fair round cheek, until she put her little hand upon his mouth and told him he was naughty.

“What is your name, little one?”

“Nina: What is yours?”

“Frank,” replied the other smiling. “What is your mother’s name, pretty Nina?”

“Mamma. What is yours?”

“What is her other name beside mamma?”

“Papa calls her Agnes,” lisped the child.

“Agneth,” said the man; “and what, pretty one, is thy father’s name?”

“Tell me the name of yours first.”

“I have no papa, little one.”

“No papa!”

“None, little Nina; he is dead.”

“Dead! What does that mean?”

“Nina, where do you live?”

“My papa’s name is William: now tell me what dead means.”

“You could not understand me, dear child, if I were to tell you; show me where you live and I will come and explain it all for you.”

“Over there we live,” and the child pointed to a cottage half hid among the trees. It seemed a perfect love of a cottage. Frank feltirresistibly tempted to go and see “Agneth;” but he merely kissed the little Nina good-by and put her down. The child went to her pebbles and Frank turned toward his home. He had gone but a few steps on his homeward path, when a slight scream caused him to look around, his little friend in attempting to cross the small bridge of planks, had slipped and fallen into the brook. An instant more and Frank was on the way toward Nina’s home, with Nina in his arms.

The little girl was wet and frightened, but did not seem hurt. She nestled tremblingly in his bosom, making no complaint, save a low sob that came less and less frequent.

“There is my mamma!” exclaimed she, as Frank entered the garden gate.

Nina sprang from his arms and ran up to her mother. Frank thought he had never seen so beautiful a creature; she did not seem older than his sister Clara.

“See, mamma!” eagerly said the little Nina. “Here is Frank. I fell into the brook and he took me out. Wasn’t he a nice Frank? You must love him, mamma.”

The mother rested her eyes, full of gratitude upon the young man: her eyes, so dark and earnest, spoke to his soul. He felt a new life spring up within him; a life he had only dreamed of till then. Her eyes were of that peculiar shade of hazel, neither light nor dark, sometimes both, at times almost blue: a ring of heaven enclosing a world of earthly love.

Agnes led the way into the cottage, and asked Frank, with a voice as sweet as her eyes were beautiful, to follow her. She left him in the drawing-room, taking with her the little Nina.

Frank had time to admire the rooms, as he stood drying his clothes by the cheerful grate; the days had then begun to be somewhat chilly. All around bespoke the most elegant simplicity, the utmost refinement. The eye of the young man was delighted as it wandered around the room—books, music, flowers—all was softness and ease. Frank was enchanted. Still more was he enchanted when, all radiant, the sweet mistress of the cottage entered. A thousand smiles of joy beamed from every part of her face. “She brightened all over,” like Moore’s Nourmahal. Her face was of that strictly classic mould, so beautiful even unaccompanied by expression. Expression was her chief attraction: the color came and left her face as shadows do beside a bright fire. Soul was in all she did.Hersoul was like a blazing mass of pearls—bright and soft. Frank was completely charmed. She thanked him so prettily for rescuing her child—was afraid he would take cold—were his clothes perfectly dry?

“Perfectly,” replied Frank.

They glided from one topic of conversation to another, scarcely knowing they were talking, with so little constraint did their words flow. What she said came so from her heart. Frank had heard the same things uttered, but there was an indefinable charm accompanied her every word, however commonplace the subject was.

Music came up at length. Both her piano and harp were brought into requisition. Agnes played andsang well. Frank was an enthusiastic lover of music, and just what and all he loved did she play. Neversang so sweet a voice as hers.

Music! dear Music! What nurse like thee will soothe the world-worn, weary soul? When we are sad and sullen, what will bring us to ourselves—tohopeagain—like music? Soft, wild music. Bellini music!

Agnes played, Frank listened. Agnes talked, Frank listened—his heart beat a young whirlwind. Time flew by unheeded—unmarked.

Francis recollected himself before it was quite midnight, and rose to go.

“I am so sorry William is not at home; you would like him. He is very much like you. He went this morning to the city, and will not be home till to-morrow.”

“William!”

“Yes. My husband.”

“True. I had forgotten.”

“But you will come again?”

Frank smiled abon soir, and went home feeling as he never felt before. He did not own to himself he was inlove, but hedidownshewas amostlovely creation.

Clara rallied him next morning on his silence.

“You seem but moody, brother mine; what change has clouded the spirit of your dream?”

“A spirit of beauty that ministered to my dreams last night.”

“In what shape did it come?”

“In the guise of a mermaid I suspect. Frank is very fond of such mysterious beings.” Edward laughed as he said it. Frank thought there was a little mischief in his cousin’s eye.

“I don’t envy him his visitant,” said Cousin George. “Mermaids are cold creatures, I doubt if they have hearts.”

Frank tried hard to enjoy the party at Beverly Hall, but his thoughts would wander to the cottage, and the afternoon found him again by the side of Agnes.

Some part of every day at length saw him at the cottage; the little Nina learned to welcome him with a wild cry of delight.

He always found some good excuse for going. Agnes was to sing him some new song, from some new opera—or he had promised Nina a ride on his pony—or he had not finished a discussion with the father upon some political question.

Agnes had said right when she told Frank he would like her husband: hedidlike him, and the husband liked Frank, and was as glad to see him as was either Agnes or Nina.

Little did the husband and wife dream of the chain fastened and tightening around his heart—gnawing to that very heart’s core. He was in a dream—a nightmare. He would have given worlds to have been able to keep away from the cottage, from seeing Agnes, but the more he resisted the fascination the less could he overcome it, and the more often did he find himself at the cottage.

Agnes had too pure a heart, and loved her husband too entirely, to dream even that Frank had other feelings for her than those of friendship. The husband was unsuspecting—he knew not, could not know, how all in all his bright Agnes was to the heart of Frank.

The husband and wife loved each other so truly there was no room for doubt in the heart of either.

The winter months had nearly passed. Each day the little fairy Nina grew more interesting and lovely: and then she loved Frank so—hemustgo and see her. The pretty Nina.

“How remarkably fond your brother seems of solitary rambles,” said Miss Linwood to Clara one day.

“Very,” quietly responded Clara.

“He is a very singular young man: he has grown so melancholy and reserved, so different from what he used to be. Don’t you think so, Clara?”

Claradidthink her brother had altered. He looked so pale and seemed so sad. Something must be the matter with him.

Somethingwasthe matter with him undoubtedly. At home he was gloomy, silent, abstracted. He lived only in the light of the brown eyes at the cottage. He loved without owning to himself he loved. And toher! He would sooner have torn out his tongue than to have sullied her pure ear with a whisper of the maddening love that devoured his soul.

The cousins seemed to have changed characters. Edward chatted and laughed with his lively cousin Clara from morning to night. Frank was silent and thoughtful.

The gay party at the Hall wondered not a little at the repeated absences of Frank.

Edward declared his cousin had found some sweet simplicity of a being at whose shrine to worship.

“I would be willing to wager my happiness for a year to come, that youarein love, brother mine,” said Clara, one day when the inmates of the Hall were assembled in the library. “You are not the same brother Frank you were last autumn. I shall have to call you Francis, for you are notfrank.”

Frank smiled, made some gay repartee—half acknowledged, in a laughing way, Clara was right.

The party grew more merry, and Francis, from being very low-spirited, became the merriest there. Sparkling words fell from his lips, and sparkling glances fell from his eyes, in uncontrolled profusion.

“Let me take your hand, Francis,” said Clara. “Did you know I was a seer? No! then listen.”

The laughter-loving girl took his hand, and putting on anawfullook, she began—“Where grow the tall elms greenest, lies hid a vine-covered cottage. Ha! you start, brother mine. I am right! That we will take for granted. We will also take for granted that the said cottage is a paragon of a cottage. Within—ah! there’s the charm. What! blushing, Frank! Am I not a good diviner? Let me see—oh! she is beautiful! A Peri come down on earth to live. A fairy—for naught but a fairy—no mortal maiden could be fashioned fair enough to suit myperfectionistof a brother. Here is a line I do not quite comprehend. Ah! I see—there is some difficulty: it only proves what the great bard said—‘The course of true love’—you know the rest. The fairy maiden does not look kindly on you. See! these lines cross one another: but the cross line is short; after that all is clear. Her eyes will yet look love on you. Her home will yet be in your heart. So, courage, brother!”

All were now eager to hear their fortunes, but the capricious girl turned to the piano; before she had half finished her song she abruptly asked,⁠—

“Mamma, what is love?”

“Love, my dear?—why it is a principle inherent within us. The feeling I have for you is love. God is love, and all his creation is ruled by the laws of love.”

“Cousin Edward, what isyourdefinition of love?”

“Love,” said Edward, looking into the depths of her laughing blue eyes, “love is love.”

“Good!—that will do for you. So now, Frank, it is your turn Francis—brother.”

“What, Clara?”

“Where are you wandering?”

“To the vine-covered cottage you were telling me of.”

“Well, come back from there, and tell me what love is.”

“Love? Love is the devil! An angel of light—madness—gladness! Gladness in the presence of the loved one, and⁠—”

“And madness away from the dear one. Is that it? Yes, youarein love.”

Miss Linwood was appealed to forheropinion of what love was.

“Never having experienced the mysterious influence of the blind deity,” said she, “I feel myself totally unprepared to give an opinion on the all important subject.”

Miss Laura Linwood giggled and said nothing.

Mr. Ralph Linwood gave it as his belief that love was animal magnetism. Much more he said by way of illustration; hardly worth repeating however.

Kate and George agreed with Edward, viz., thatlove was love.

Another cousin, little Lilla, they called her, a sister of Kate’s—a child—a very pretty one, too, said that love was the son of Venus, and that he was named Cupid—for her Heathen Mythology said so; and that he always kept a bow and arrow to shoot into the hearts of mortals.

The child was right.

One maintained that love was friendship continued, the allegory of a metaphor.

“Love is like a dizziness, confound it, ’t wont let a fellow go about his business,” said George.

And so the merry party kept rattling on;—nonsense, to be sure—but what is this world good for without some nonsense?

The group at length became divided—the conversation less general. Edward and Clara sat over on a lounge by the window, talking with each other in a very animated strain. The rest cut up in small cliques were equally full of life. Frank alone seemed sad. His buoyant spirits had deserted him. He rose to go.

“What, off again, my brother?”

“Yes, I am going in search of that cottage you described. I am impatient to see the lovely fairy it contains.”

“Then you never have seen her? Say not no,” said Clara, shaking the fore-finger of her little hand at him.

Frank was off. He mounted his horse, and as though he were on his way to his last ride.

“I have come to say, good-by,” said he, on entering the conservatory at the cottage, where Agnes was tying up her flowers.

“What! are you going? Where?”

“To—to Lapland.”

“Lapland!”

“Yes! to see if I cannot freeze the burning weight at my heart.”

Agnes looked surprised. The truth half flashed upon her, and when she saw how wretched Frank looked, a thousand little things he had done and said that she thought nothing of at the time, came suddenly to her mind, as though to corroborate her suspicions.

“No, it cannot be,” said she to herself, blushing at having eventhoughtshe was beloved by Frank. She warmly expressed her regrets for the departure of her friend. And the little Nina—she hardly knew what to make of it. She crept up to Francis, and climbing upon his knee, hid her face in his bosom, to hide her own tears.

“Is good Frank going to leave his poor Nina? Naughty Frank.”

“Yes, pretty one,” said he, fondly passing his hand through her clustering curls. “Give me one of these sunny ringlets, Nina; I will keep it always.”

Quicker than thought the child sprang down, and ran to her mother. “Mamma, where are your scissors? Frank wants one of my curls.”

The mother gave her the scissors. Nina, selecting the prettiest curl she could find, off it came.

“Here,” said she, handing it to Francis. “Now give me one of your nice curls, and I will keep it forever.”

Frank let her cut off the lock that pleased her best. The child actually screamed with delight; and dancing round the room with true childish glee, she held it up for her mother to admire, and said she would “show it to papa as soon as he came home.”

Francis Beverly went. . . . .

Twelve or thirteen years after, a solitary equestrian was seen to enter the tangled avenue leading to Beverly Park.

He was fine-looking, very. There was a calm, almost subdued look about him; yet the great blue eyes that looked out upon the world through their long, dark lashes, told of passions deep and strong. The brow above them was clear, open, and broad. A mass of chestnut curls clustered around his brow, glancing out from under the thick folds of his traveling cap. Such was the master of Beverly Park. All around the Hall looked overgrown and neglected, as though the place had long stood sadly in want of a master. . . . . .

“Do you know, Mr. Bev—”

“Call me Frank. You always did when you were a child, sweet Nina.”

“Frank,” repeated the soft voice of Nina.

“What were you going to say?”

“Oh, I have forgotten.”

“Nina, when I went away you begged some of my hair—have you it yet?”

“Why, Mr. Bev—, Frank, I mean, howdoyouthink I could keep a little lock of hair thirteen long years?”

“Then you have lost it, or thrown it by; yet I remember, yousaidyou would keep it forever.”

“I did not say I had thrown it away, or lost it, for I have done neither. I had it imprisoned right away in this little locket, and have worn it around my neck ever since, for fear of breaking the promise I made.”

“That was the only reason of your wearing it?”

“Certainly, if I except a strong childish liking I had for ‘Frank.’ ”

“Your hair has grown darker, dear Nina. See! I have worn this bright tress upon my heart ever since you gave it to me. I would, dearest Nina, its owner would makeherhome there. Nina⁠—”

Just then the door opened and Agnes entered. Thirteen years had trodden lightly over her head. She was scarce altered from the bright Agnes of his first love-dream.

The inmates of the cottage had warmly welcomed Frank, after his long absence. Since his return he had gradually gone more and more often to the cottage, until he had almost become its inmate. The charmnowwas not Agnes, or rather itwasAgnes—asecondAgnes. Francis could hardly persuade himself that the gentle, playful Nina, was not the Agnes he once loved so madly. The wild, unsettled years that had passed; the thirteen restless years of wandering through foreign lands in search of happiness—of oblivion, seemed like a troubled dream to him. He lived again in the present—in the sunshine of Nina’s warm, brown eyes. He was happy in the present, with the sunny-hearted Nina beside him, playing for him, singing for him, laughing for him. Frank told her he was going to have her laugh set to music by the fairies, and have it sung by the brightest birds of Eden.

The afternoon was warm and dreamy; a soft haze shrouded the air; the softest breeze floated through the thick summer foliage.

Nina was mounted upon her coal-black Zephyr—a mostzepheriallittle piece of horse-flesh, fleet as the wind. Frank was by her side.

“Which way to-day, dear Nina?”

“Which ever way Zephyr takes.”

Zephyr took the road to Beverly Park. The Hall had been refitted, and looked itself again. The two rode through the park and grounds, viewing the improvements that had been made, alighting at length before the great door of the Hall.

“Stay, sweet Nina; there is one spot I wish to show you, you never have seen it. It was not completed till yesterday.”

Frank led her through the garden to the most poetic little arbor ever Eastern dame sighed in. Recal to your mind the most beautiful poetry you ever read or dreamed of—your beau-ideal of poetry—whether it be Byron’s,Shelley’s, Shakspeare’s, your own, or Mother Goose’s, and the little poem of an arbor stands in its beauty before you.

Nina’s delight was rapturous. After exhausting all the known adjectives in its praise, Nina sat quietly down within it, Francis by her side, and talked with him about music, and flowers, and poetry, and all the bright things in nature. She was playful and enthusiastic by turns. Every thing by fits, and nothing long.

Frank took her hand at last—her little, soft, warm hand—and calling up a serious, tender look⁠—

“Nina,” said he, “I have traveled the world over, ay, more than once; I have seen many, very many beautiful beings; but never one like thee, sweet Nina. I will notsaythou art the most beautiful, but Iwillsay, thou art the most necessary to my existence, to my whole nature, of all earth contains. I love thee.DearestNina, may I call thee mine?”

“Whew! The girl and her fleet Zephyr were gone.”

“Gone!—well—”

“Well what, good Sprite?”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, my very good Sprite. What then?”

“I may be allowed to criticise?”

“Certainly.”

“I do not like your story. It is not—”

“No!”

“It is neither well expressed, nor well arranged, nor at all satisfactory. Thesequel! Were they, Frank and Nina, married? What’s a story without a wedding?”

“The sequel thou shalt have; the wedding too. Theyweremarried, just three weeks after the arbor scene—Frank and Nina.”

“What became of Edward and Clara?”

“They became one, shortly after Frank started on his thirteen years pilgrimage.”

“Frank’s mother?”

“Went to live with Edward and Clara. She died at a happy old age, blessed with good children, and good grand—”

“Kate and George?”

“Were united in the holy bands of wedlock.”

“The Miss Linwoods?”

“MissLinwood, never having made up her mind on ‘the all-important subject,’ remained instatu quo. Miss Laura Linwood eloped with a younger son’s younger son.”

“Was Edward a Beverly?”

“Yes.”

“What was Nina’s name? Ninawhat, before she became a Beverly?”

“Nina—I have forgotten what.”

“Strange.”

“Any thing more, good Sprite?”

“Much more; you seem to forget the great importance of a moral.”

“Not in the least, good natured Sprite. The moral is, doing right is its own exceeding great reward.”

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