People may talk about young girls' heads being turned, but for my part, I think there are no heads so easily turned as old ones. Vanity, when it is fresh, like wine, is not as strong and intoxicating as when it grows old.
Pauline enjoyed her triumphs like a girl, in all the effervescence of youthful spirits, thinking less of her beauty and more of her pleasure than her mother, who sat and followed her with her eyes, watching every movement, and absorbed almost to the exclusion of every other perception, in the surpassing loveliness of her daughter, and the admiration that flashed from every eye that turned upon her. And let not wise ones say that this was folly, and Mrs. Grey a weak woman for yielding to it, for it is human nature, which is too strong to be ruled by saws, be they ever so wise. The heart will spring to beauty, be it where it may, and no human being alive to poetry, can view God's fairest creation in its full perfection, and not feel a throb of pleasure. It is not wisdom, but an absence of ideality, of taste, of the highest of perceptions, the love of the beautiful, that can let any one look unmoved upon a young and beautiful woman. Who would not blush for themselves, and deny that they had walked through the halls of the Vatican without delight? And will the same person rave about the sculptured marble, and yet gaze coldly on the living, breathing model? No! and if it is high treason not to worship the one, it is false to human nature not to love the other; and the man, woman, or child, who affects to under-value beauty, only proclaims the want in their own mental constitution. To be without an eye for beauty, is as to be without an ear for music, to be wanting in the refinement of the higher and more delicate organization of our nature.
Mr. Grey was not a man who usually took much pleasure in society, but his grave face lighted up as with a glance of sunshine, when he caught a glimpse of his beautiful child, as the crowd opened from time to time on the dancers in the thronged rooms, where, night after night, he was now condemned to pass his evenings; and when he approached her to tell her that the carriage was waiting, and her mother had sent to summon her to her side, he could not restrain his smiles when the young men crowded round to remind Pauline, one of a waltz, another of a polka, and pleading with Mr. Grey for more engagements than she could have fulfilled if they had staid all night; and his paternal pride had its share of gratification in the homage that even his presence could scarcely restrain.
Among the group of idlers ever hovering round Pauline, was one who scarcely left her side, a Mr. Wentworth, a young man, and rather good looking. He seemed mightily taken with Pauline, and she smiled her brightest when she turned to him—but that she did when any one spoke to her—for she was in such a gale of spirits, she smiled on all who crossed her path.
"Who is that young gentleman dancing with your daughter, Mrs. Grey?" asked a lady.
"I don't know any thing about him but his name, which is Wentworth," replied Mrs. Grey. "Mrs. Henderson introduced him to me at her own house,and I introduced him to Pauline. That's all I know about him."
"Then I should say," replied the other, smiling, "that it was time you knew something more, for he has evidently lost his heart to your daughter."
"Oh, I don't know that," replied Mrs. Grey, smiling in her turn, but carelessly, as if it was not a matter of much consequence if Pauline did break a few hearts more or less.
"There's no doubt about his admiration," continued the lady; "so I warn you in time, Mrs. Grey."
Mrs. Grey only smiled again. She did not think the warning worth much. Mr. Wentworth might be in love with Pauline—she dared say he was—indeed, she had no doubt of it. But what then? She could not be responsible for all the young men who fell in love with Pauline. It was very natural; and, to tell the honest truth, it rather pleased Mrs. Grey to see it. Not that she had the most distant idea that Pauline could ever feel any interest in any of the young men she with such quiet complacency thought hopelessly in love with her; but poor human nature is never weaker than on such subjects, and mothers look on amused, and may be, indignant with other mothers for allowing such things, till it comes to their turn, and then maternal vanity speaks louder than worldly wisdom, or any thing else; and so Mrs. Grey saw Mr. Wentworth's devotions with a quiet smile, and never thought it worth while to ask any questions about him. "He would not do," she saw that at a glance. As to what would, or who would, she had not yet made up her mind; but as Mr. Wentworth's pretensions did not seem of any decided stamp at all, she never thought there was any possibility of his being dangerous.
"I wonder Mrs. Grey allows that young Wentworth to be so attentive to her daughter," Mrs. Remson said. "He's a dissipated young man, they say."
"I am sorry to see that wild fellow, Wentworth, so much with that young beauty, Miss Grey," said another.
"Yes, I am surprised at her parents encouraging it," said a third, "for they must see it."
"What kind of a young man is he?" asked Mrs. Graham.
"One that I should be sorry to see attentive to a daughter of mine," replied a gentleman; but none of this reached Mrs. Grey's ears. No one told her Mr. Wentworth was wild or dissipated. He was too attentive, and they might get themselves in trouble, and be obliged to give authority, &c., for what they said—and what authority had they? a rumor—a vague report—an impression. Who knew, or ever knows, any thing more positive about a young man, except, indeed, young men—and they don't choose to tell.
And so the thing went on, and people talked, and wondered, and found fault, and everybody but Mr. and Mrs. Grey, whom it most concerned, knew a great deal; and they, though they had eyes, saw not; and ears had they, but heard not; and understandings, and heeded not—deaf and blind, as parents always are, until too late.
The thunderbolt fell at last, however. Mr. Wentworth, in form, asked Mr. Grey's consent to address Pauline, which Mr. Grey very decidedly refused, looking upon the young man as very presumptuous even to ask it; whereupon Mr. Wentworth informed the father that he was authorized by his daughter to address him on the subject, and her happiness being involved as well as his own, he trusted Mr. Grey would re-consider his proposal, and incline more favorably to his suit.
Amazement was Mr. Grey's only feeling on first hearing this announcement. He could scarcely believe his ears, much less take in the subject-matter in all its bearings.
Again, however, he refused his consent, and forbade Mr. Wentworth to think of his daughter.
He immediately communicated the conversation to his wife, who was not less surprised than himself, but who relieved him excessively by saying at once that there must be some misunderstanding on the young man's part, for Pauline, she knew, took no interest in him whatever. That is, Mrs. Grey took it for granted that Pauline must see him with her eyes, and did not hesitate to answer for the fact.
She went at once to Pauline's room, where she found her lying on the sofa, a book open in her hand, but evidently lost in a world of dreamy and pleasant revery. With very little circumlocution, for Mrs. Grey was too much excited to choose her words carefully, she repeated to Pauline her conversation with her father; whereupon Pauline rose, and sitting up, her color changing, but her eye clear and bright, said,
"Surely, mother, you knew it all."
"Knew what, Pauline?"
"That Mr. Wentworth was attached to me, and that I—I—"
"Surely, Pauline," exclaimed Mrs. Grey, hastily, "you are not interested in him."
"Yes," answered Pauline, roused by her mother's tone and manner to something of her old spirit, and looking at her fully and clearly, all diffidence having now vanished in the opposition she saw before her, "I am—I love him, love him with my whole soul."
"Pauline, my child, are you mad!" almost shrieked Mrs. Grey, shocked almost past the power of endurance by her daughter's tones and words.
"Iam not mad, no mother," said Pauline, with an emphasis, as if she thought her mother might be. "And why do you speak thus to me? You introduced Mr. Wentworth yourself to me; you first invited him here—and why, mother, do you affect this surprise now?" and Pauline's color deepened, and her voice quivered as she thought, with a sense of her mother's inconsistency and injustice.
"Iintroduced him to you, Pauline! Yes, I believe I did—but what of that? Do you suppose—no, Pauline, you are a girl of too much sense to suppose that I must be willing you should marry every man I introduce or invite to the house."
"What are your objections to Mr. Wentworth?" asked Pauline, firmly.
"My objections, Pauline! My child, you drive me almost mad!" said Mrs. Grey, her daughter's manner forcing on her more and more the conviction of the earnestness of her present fancy—for Mrs. Grey could not think it more. "Why, Pauline, I have every objection to him. What pretensions has he that should entitle him to dream of you, Pauline? You, my child, with your talents and beauty, and acquirements, are not surely going to throw yourself away upon this young man, who is every way inferior to you."
"Mother," said Pauline, with energy, "you don't know him."
Mrs. Grey was silenced. She did not know him. There was that in his countenance, air, and manner, although what might be called rather a handsome young man, that is unmistakable to a practiced eye—traces of a common mind, a something that had satisfied Mrs. Grey "he would not do," when she had dismissed him from her mind. But what had she to say to Pauline now?
She talked of her disappointment—of her hopes—her expectations; but Pauline said she was not ambitious, and wanted none of these things.
Mrs. Grey was in despair. Pauline grew more and more resolute. Her eye flashed, and her color rose, and the brow was bent, as when she was a child. She and her mother talked long, and even warmly; and Mrs. Grey returned to her husband, leaving Pauline in a state of great excitement.
Mr. Grey was much disturbed by what his wife told him; but still, though agitated, he was not as distressed as she was. The thing must not and should not be—there he was firm—though he was pained, exceedingly pained, that Pauline should be unhappy about it.
He looked upon her grief as of course a temporary feeling, but still, even for her temporary sorrow he grieved exceedingly.
He wrote that evening to Mr. Wentworth, desiring him to discontinue his visits, as he could not sanction his attachment, nor consent to a continuance of his attentions.
The letter was dispatched, and both parents felt better for the step. They considered the thing as finally at an end; and though Pauline might rebel a little at not having been consulted; yet it was done, and they seemed to think it could not be undone.
Much they knew about the matter. A letter from the young lover to Pauline herself, blew all these wise conclusions to the four winds of heaven.
She protested—and with some show of reason—that her father and mother had no right to dismiss Mr. Wentworth in this summary way; that they had encouraged—certainly permitted his attentions; that her mother had introduced him herself—for she harped upon that string—and she poured forth such a torrent of words and tears at the same time, that Mr. Grey finally said,
"Well, Pauline, to satisfy you, I will make inquiries relative to Mr. Wentworth's character and standing, and should the report be favorable, and your attachment lasting, I do not know that we should have any right to refuse our consent, although it's not a match, my child, that we can like. But on the other hand, Pauline, should I find him unworthy of you, as I am inclined to believe he is, you, on your part, must submit to what is inevitable, for I never will give my consent to your marrying a man whose character is not irreproachable."
Partially appeased, Pauline retired to her room, where Mrs. Grey spent the rest of the day in trying to convince Pauline that even if Mr. Wentworth were respectable in point of character, he was not in mind, manner, or appearance, at all her equal. That, in fact, he was a very common sort of a person, which was the truth; but strange though the fact might be, and there was no more accounting for it than denying it, Pauline was desperately in love with this very same very common young man; and talk as Mrs. Grey would, she could not change her feelings, or make her see him with her eyes.
She could only wait the result of Mr. Grey's investigations; and most devoutly she hoped they might prove unfavorable. The idea of his being respectable enough for them to be forced to a consent, drove her almost wild. Was this, then, to be the end of all her visions for her beautiful Pauline!
She could only trust to his being a scamp as her only hope of escape.
[Conclusion in our next.
When as our good ship courts the gale,To swim once more the ocean,The lessening land wakes in my heartA sad but sweet emotion:For, though I love the broad blue sea,My heart's still true to thee, my love,My heart's still true to thee!And when, far out upon the main,We plough the midnight billow,I gaze upon the stars, that shineAnd smile above thy pillow.And though far out upon the sea,My heart's still true to thee, my love,My heart's still true to thee!But when as homeward bound we speed,The swift sea-bird outflying,With throbbing heart I watch the land,Its blue hills far descrying;Impatient, now, to leave the sea.And fold thee to my heart, my love!My heart's still true to thee!
When as our good ship courts the gale,To swim once more the ocean,The lessening land wakes in my heartA sad but sweet emotion:For, though I love the broad blue sea,My heart's still true to thee, my love,My heart's still true to thee!
And when, far out upon the main,We plough the midnight billow,I gaze upon the stars, that shineAnd smile above thy pillow.And though far out upon the sea,My heart's still true to thee, my love,My heart's still true to thee!
But when as homeward bound we speed,The swift sea-bird outflying,With throbbing heart I watch the land,Its blue hills far descrying;Impatient, now, to leave the sea.And fold thee to my heart, my love!My heart's still true to thee!
This plate is believed to be one of the most admirable and faithful specimens of portraiture ever presented, through the press, to the public. We know that it is derived from sources to be relied upon; and the reputation of the eminent artist who has executed it is evidence that, with such ample materials, his task could not have been illy performed.
The events connected with the present war have excited so high a degree of interest in the life and character of Gen. Scott, that the country has been flooded with biographies good, bad, and indifferent. It would not, therefore, be desirable that we should enter into a detailed account of the events of a public career long and eventful, and every result of which has been honorable to the country.
Gen. Scott was born in 1786, in Virginia. He was educated, for a time, at William and Mary College, and pursued the study of the law, until military propensities separated him from his profession. In 1808, Jefferson appointed him a captain in the army of the United States; in 1812 he received the commission of lieutenant-colonel, and took post on the Canada frontier. In October of that year he greatly distinguished himself in the battle of Queenstown Heights. His courage was manifested by the most extraordinary daring throughout the entire and unequal contest; but his small force was compelled to surrender with the honors of war. The whole affair reflected credit upon his diminutive force, and upon the young hero who led them. His imprisonment was not without dangers that afforded opportunities of displaying his lofty courage and chivalrous humanity.
Having been exchanged in May, 1813, he rejoined the army on the frontier as adjutant-general. He led the advanced guard, or forlorn hope, at the capture of Fort George, displaying extraordinary gallantry, and, though wounded, was the first to enter, and raise the American flag. His conduct upon this occasion elicited the highest praise. In July of the same year, Scott was promoted to the command of a double regiment. He was actively engaged in all the subsequent efforts of that and the following campaign, and in the intervals of service, was employed in instructing the officers in their duties, and in drilling the recruits. His eminent services secured him, in March, 1814, the rank of brigadier general—and he joined General Brown, then marching to the Niagara frontier. On the 3d of July, Scott leading the van, the Americans crossed the river, and captured Fort Erie. On the 4th he moved toward Chippewa, in advance of the army, driving the British before him. The 5th witnessed the severe and well-contested battle of Chippewa. This battle was fought within hearing of the roar of Niagara, silenced for a time, as was the earthquake at Cannæ, by the stormier passions of human conflict. It was a contest between divided brethren of the same gallant race; the advantages in the battle were all against our country; the glories in the result were all with her. Circumstances rendered, in the absence of Gen. Brown, Scott, the hero of the field; and profound has been and is the gratitude that rewards him.
The 25th of the same month witnessed the still more memorable conflict of Niagara. It is not our purpose to describe the battle; suffice it to say that it was a contest between warriors worthy of each other's steel. Each army, and the flower of the British veterans were present, struggled for many hours, and foremost in every daring was found Gen. Scott. We need not tell the American reader that we triumphed; but Scott, though upon the field throughout the fight, and then, as always, in advance, had two horses killed under him, was wounded in the side, and at length disabled by a musket-ball through the shoulder. After a doubtful and tedious illness he recovered. He received from Congress, from the state legislatures, and from the people, the amplest evidences of gratitude and admiration.
After the close of the war, Gen. Scott visited Europe, by order of government, upon public business; and on his return took command of the seaboard. From this time till the Black Hawk War nothing of public interest occurred to demand his services. He embarked with a thousand troops to participate in that war, in July of 1832; but his operations were checked by the cholera. The pestilence smote his army, and he did not reach the field before the war was closed. During the prevalence of the pestilence he performed in his army every duty among the sick that could be expected from a brave, humane, and good man, winning, and worthy the title, of the warrior of humanity. He afterward acted prominently in effecting the pacification of the warring tribes of the North West, and received the official commendation of Secretary Cass.
Gen. Scott was ordered the same year to the Southern Department; and during the nullification excitement, is said to have acted, under his orders, with great energy and prudence. In 1836 he was ordered to Florida, to command the army engaged against the Creeks and Seminoles. He spared no effort, and manifested much of enterprise and energy; but circumstances, which no skill could have surmounted, rendered his exertions ineffectual. His failure was made the subject of inquiry by court martial, and he was by the court not merely acquitted, but applauded. In 1837, he was ordered to the northern frontier, to meet and avert the evil effects of the Canadian rebellion. It is admitted, that his efforts were vigorous, wise, and successful, and manifested great energy and prudence. In 1838, Gen. Scott was intrusted by the government with the removal to the West of the Cherokees. This duty was performed with great humanity and ability, and elicited strong expressions of gratitude from them, and of praise from the country.
From this duty, completed, he was called to the northern frontier. His course there was conciliatoryand wise; and doubtless had some effect to prevent a conflict with Great Britain.
General Scott
On the commencement of the Mexican war, circumstances prevented General Scott from assuming the immediate command of the invading force. He was subsequently ordered to the seat of the war; and after a series of operations, admitted to be the most brilliant in point of science known to modern warfare, he won what were supposed to be impregnable, the castle and the town of Vera Cruz. This triumph was announced on the 29th of March. The siege occupied fifteen days, and was attended with little loss on the side of the Americans. On the 17th of April, Scott, advancing upon Mexico, issued an order for the attack of Cerro Gordo—in which every event that was ordered and foreseen seems now to be prophecy; and on the next day he carried that Thermopylæ of Mexico. The battle was one of the most brilliant in the American annals. The orders of Scott, previously given, secure the glory of the triumph for himself and his army.
On the 19th, Jalapa was occupied, and on the 22d Perote. In these triumphs the army acquired great quantities of munitions. The city of Puebla was occupied on the 15th of May: Ten thousand prisoners, seven hundred cannon, ten thousand stand of arms, and thirty thousand shells and shot were, in the course of these operations, the fruits of American skill and valor. But even these achievements were thrown into the shade by the glorious triumphs in the vicinity of Mexico. The bloody contests at the intrenchments of Contreras, the fortifications of Cherubusco and the castle of Chapultepec, and finally the capture of Mexico, are of so recent occurrence, and so familiar in all their details to the public, that we do not deem it necessary to narrate them. Cut off for fifty days from all communications with Vera Cruz, the veteran Scott won, with his feeble and greatly diminished force, and against defenses deemed impregnable, triumphs that have thrown immortal glory around the arms of his country.
Thus segregated, shut out from the hope of home as completely as were the soldiers of Cortez when he burned his ships, this little band advanced to dangers such as were never before encountered and overcome. Science guided and protected the daring invasion; and true American hearts, at every bristling danger, supported it, with an ardent courage and a calm fortitude scarcely equaled in the wars of nations. On the 15th of August, General Scott, by a masterly movement, turned the strong works of the Penon and Mexicalzingo, on which the enemy had labored and relied. On the 17th the spires of Mexico were in sight. The attack upon Contreras took place. It was one of the most brilliant achievements of the American arms. San Antonio was also carried; and San Pablo assailed, and, after a contest of two hours, won. In this battle the general added another to his former scars, being wounded in the leg. The terrible conflict of Cherubusco succeeded; and again American valor proved invincible. This placed our force at the gates of Mexico. The contest was one against four, the four having every advantage that military science and superiority of position could confer. Having overcome every enemy that dared to dispute his path, he spared the city of Mexico. The entire campaign is most honorable to the American character and to the reputation of him who led it. The impetuosity of his campaigns in the war of 1812 seemed mingled with and subdued by the results of a profound study of the science of war, in this contest. He dared boldly, and executed cautiously, courageously and successfully. Erring in nothing, and failing in nothing, he encountered dangers, and passed through scenes that belong to romance, but which his iron intellect rendered a substantial reality.
O, scorn not thy brother,Though poor he may be,He's bound to anotherAnd bright world with thee.Should sorrow assail him,Give heed to his sighs,Should strength ever fail him,O, help him to rise!The pathway we're roaming,Mid flow'rets may lie,But soon will life's gloaming,Come dark'ning our sky.Then seek not to smotherKind feelings in thee,And scorn not thy brother,Though poor he may be!Go, cheer those who languishTheir dead hopes among.In whose hearts stern anguishThe harp hath unstrung!They'll soon in anotherBright land roam with thee,So scorn not thy brother,Though poor he may be!
O, scorn not thy brother,Though poor he may be,He's bound to anotherAnd bright world with thee.Should sorrow assail him,Give heed to his sighs,Should strength ever fail him,O, help him to rise!
The pathway we're roaming,Mid flow'rets may lie,But soon will life's gloaming,Come dark'ning our sky.Then seek not to smotherKind feelings in thee,And scorn not thy brother,Though poor he may be!
Go, cheer those who languishTheir dead hopes among.In whose hearts stern anguishThe harp hath unstrung!They'll soon in anotherBright land roam with thee,So scorn not thy brother,Though poor he may be!
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Don't you re-mem-ber sweet Al-ice, Ben Bolt—Sweet Al-ice whose hair was so brown—Who wept with de-light when you gave her a smile,And trem-bled with fear at your frown?In the old church yard in the val-ley, Ben Bolt,In a cor-ner ob-scure and a-lone,They have fit-ted a slab of the gran-ite so gray;And Al-ice lies un-der the stone.
Don't you re-mem-ber sweet Al-ice, Ben Bolt—Sweet Al-ice whose hair was so brown—Who wept with de-light when you gave her a smile,And trem-bled with fear at your frown?In the old church yard in the val-ley, Ben Bolt,In a cor-ner ob-scure and a-lone,They have fit-ted a slab of the gran-ite so gray;And Al-ice lies un-der the stone.
Under the Hickory tree, Ben Bolt,Which stood at the foot of the hill,Together we've lain in the noonday shade,And listened to Appleton's mill.The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,The rafters have tumbled in,And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze,Has followed the olden din.
Under the Hickory tree, Ben Bolt,Which stood at the foot of the hill,Together we've lain in the noonday shade,And listened to Appleton's mill.The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,The rafters have tumbled in,And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze,Has followed the olden din.
Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,At the edge of the pathless wood,And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,Which nigh by the door step stood?The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,The tree you would seek in vain;And where once the lords of the forest waved,Grow grass and the golden grain.
Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,At the edge of the pathless wood,And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,Which nigh by the door step stood?The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,The tree you would seek in vain;And where once the lords of the forest waved,Grow grass and the golden grain.
And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,With the master so cruel and grim,And the shaded nook in the running brook,Where the children went to swim?Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,The spring of the brook is dry,And of all the boys that were school-mates then,There are only you and I.
And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,With the master so cruel and grim,And the shaded nook in the running brook,Where the children went to swim?Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,The spring of the brook is dry,And of all the boys that were school-mates then,There are only you and I.
There is change in the things that I loved, Ben Bolt,They have changed from the old to the new;But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth,There never was change in you.Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,Since first we were friends, yet I hailThy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth—Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.
There is change in the things that I loved, Ben Bolt,They have changed from the old to the new;But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth,There never was change in you.Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,Since first we were friends, yet I hailThy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth—Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.
]
Eternal Fame! thy great rewards,Throughout all time, shall beThe right of those old master-bardsOf Greece and Italy;And of fair Albion's favored isle,Where Poesy's celestial smileHath shone for ages, gilding brightHer rocky cliffs, and ancient towers,And cheering this new world of oursWith a reflected light.Yet, though there be no path untrodBy that immortal race—Who walked with Nature, as with God,And saw her, face to face—No living truth by them unsung—No thought that hath not found a tongueIn some strong lyre of olden time;Must every tuneful lute be stillThat may not give a world the thrillOf their great harp sublime?Oh, not while beating hearts rejoiceIn Music's simplest tone,And hear in Nature's every voiceAn echo to their own!Not till these scorn the little rillThat runs rejoicing from the hill,Or the soft, melancholy glideOf some deep stream, through glen and glade,Because 'tis not the thunder madeBy ocean's heaving tide!The hallowed lilies of the fieldIn glory are arrayed,And timid, blue-eyed violets yieldTheir fragrance to the shade;Nor do the way-side flowers concealThose modest charms that sometimes stealUpon the weary traveler's eyesLike angels, spreading for his feetA carpet, filled with odors sweet,And decked with heavenly dyes.Thus let the affluent Soul of Song—That all with flowers adorns—Strew life's uneven path along,And hide its thousand thorns:Oh, many a sad and weary heart,That treads a noiseless way apart,Has blessed the humble poet's name,For fellowship, refined and free,In meek wild-flowers of poesy,That asked no higher fame!And pleasant as the water-fallTo one by deserts bound—Making the air all musicalWith cool, inviting sound—Is oft some unpretending strainOf rural song, to him whose brainIs fevered in the sordid strifeThat Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man,While moving on, in caravan,Across the sands of Life.Yet, not for these alone he sings;The poet's breast is stirredAs by the spirit that takes wingsAnd carols in the bird!He thinks not of a future name,Nor whence his inspiration cameNor whither goes his warbled song;As Joy itself delights in joy—His soul finds life in its employ,And grows by utterance strong.
Eternal Fame! thy great rewards,Throughout all time, shall beThe right of those old master-bardsOf Greece and Italy;And of fair Albion's favored isle,Where Poesy's celestial smileHath shone for ages, gilding brightHer rocky cliffs, and ancient towers,And cheering this new world of oursWith a reflected light.
Yet, though there be no path untrodBy that immortal race—Who walked with Nature, as with God,And saw her, face to face—No living truth by them unsung—No thought that hath not found a tongueIn some strong lyre of olden time;Must every tuneful lute be stillThat may not give a world the thrillOf their great harp sublime?
Oh, not while beating hearts rejoiceIn Music's simplest tone,And hear in Nature's every voiceAn echo to their own!Not till these scorn the little rillThat runs rejoicing from the hill,Or the soft, melancholy glideOf some deep stream, through glen and glade,Because 'tis not the thunder madeBy ocean's heaving tide!
The hallowed lilies of the fieldIn glory are arrayed,And timid, blue-eyed violets yieldTheir fragrance to the shade;Nor do the way-side flowers concealThose modest charms that sometimes stealUpon the weary traveler's eyesLike angels, spreading for his feetA carpet, filled with odors sweet,And decked with heavenly dyes.
Thus let the affluent Soul of Song—That all with flowers adorns—Strew life's uneven path along,And hide its thousand thorns:Oh, many a sad and weary heart,That treads a noiseless way apart,Has blessed the humble poet's name,For fellowship, refined and free,In meek wild-flowers of poesy,That asked no higher fame!
And pleasant as the water-fallTo one by deserts bound—Making the air all musicalWith cool, inviting sound—Is oft some unpretending strainOf rural song, to him whose brainIs fevered in the sordid strifeThat Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man,While moving on, in caravan,Across the sands of Life.
Yet, not for these alone he sings;The poet's breast is stirredAs by the spirit that takes wingsAnd carols in the bird!He thinks not of a future name,Nor whence his inspiration cameNor whither goes his warbled song;As Joy itself delights in joy—His soul finds life in its employ,And grows by utterance strong.
And now, farewell—and if the warm tear startUnbidden to your eye, oh! do not blushTo own it, for it speaks the gen'rous heart,Full to o'erflowing with the fervent gushOf its sweet waters. Hark! I hear the rushOf many feet, and dark-browed Mem'ry bringsHer tales of by-gone pleasure but to crushThe reed already bending—now, there singsThe syren voice of Hope—her of the rainbow wings.Ah! well-a-day! Ceased is the witching strain—Fled are they all—and back the senses turnTo this dark hour of anguish and of pain—Of rending heart-chords—agony too sternFor words to picture it—of thoughts that burnAnd wither up the heart. I need not tellWhat now I feel, or if my bosom yearnWith love for you at parting—there's a spellTo conjure up despair in that wild word—Farewell
And now, farewell—and if the warm tear startUnbidden to your eye, oh! do not blushTo own it, for it speaks the gen'rous heart,Full to o'erflowing with the fervent gushOf its sweet waters. Hark! I hear the rushOf many feet, and dark-browed Mem'ry bringsHer tales of by-gone pleasure but to crushThe reed already bending—now, there singsThe syren voice of Hope—her of the rainbow wings.
Ah! well-a-day! Ceased is the witching strain—Fled are they all—and back the senses turnTo this dark hour of anguish and of pain—Of rending heart-chords—agony too sternFor words to picture it—of thoughts that burnAnd wither up the heart. I need not tellWhat now I feel, or if my bosom yearnWith love for you at parting—there's a spellTo conjure up despair in that wild word—Farewell
Historical and Select Memoirs of the Empress Josephine, (Marie Rose Tacher de la Pagerie,) First Wife of Napoleon Bonaparte. By M'lle. M. A. Le Normand, Authoress "Des Souvenirs Prophetiques," &c. Translated from the French by Jacob M. Howard, Esq. Philada.: Carey & Hart.
Historical and Select Memoirs of the Empress Josephine, (Marie Rose Tacher de la Pagerie,) First Wife of Napoleon Bonaparte. By M'lle. M. A. Le Normand, Authoress "Des Souvenirs Prophetiques," &c. Translated from the French by Jacob M. Howard, Esq. Philada.: Carey & Hart.
The larger portion of this work is made up of the account given by Josephine herself of the events of her life; and that part contributed by M'lle. Le Normand, completes a biography of the gifted, the fortunate and unfortunate queen of Napoleon. The Memoirs of Josephine sparkle with French sprightliness, and abound with French sentiment. Her style is eminently graceful, and the turn of thought such as we would expect from the most accomplished and fascinating woman of her times. The narrative is neither very copious nor very regular; but all that is told is of the deepest interest. It abounds in domestic anecdotes of the great usurper, and reports conversations between him and his wife, in which, by the way, her speeches rival, in prolixity, those given us by Livy. Many of her views of Bonaparte and herself are novel and striking, and calculated, if relied upon, to change opinions now generally entertained as truths. In relation to herself, her tone is one of almost unvarying self-eulogium; and the amiable and excellent qualities which she is known to have possessed need no better chronicler. She was of the opinion that her abilities and services, which were eminent and various, secured Napoleon's advancement at every step of his rapid career from obscurity to the imperial throne; and that the loss of her influence and counsels was the necessary harbinger of his downfall.
For the movements that secured him the First Consulship, she claims almost exclusive credit. That she was an artful politician, and used, with great effect, the graces of mind, manner, and person, with which she was singularly endowed, to promote the interests of her husband, is certain; but it may be doubted whether his mighty genius ever leaned for support upon the political skill and counsel of a woman—even though that woman were Josephine. She, like her wonderful husband, seems to have cherished a superstitious reliance upon destiny—a weakness singularly inconsistent with their general character. The story of the early prediction that she would become a queen is given with an amusing simplicity and earnestness. The prophecy is as follows:
"You will be married to a man of a fair complexion, destined to be the husband of another of your family. The young lady whose place you are called to fill, will not live long. A young Creole, whom you love, does not cease to think of you; you will never marry him, and will make vain attempts to save his life; but his end will be unhappy. Your star promises you two marriages. Your first husband will be a man born in Martinique, but he will reside in Europe and wear a sword; he will enjoy some moments of good fortune. A sad legal proceeding will separate you from him, and after many great troubles, which are to befall the kingdom of theFranks, he will perish tragically, and leave you a widow with two helpless children. Your second husband will be of an olive complexion, of European birth; without fortune, yet he will become famous; he will fill the world with his glory, and will subject a great many nations to his power. You will then become aneminent woman, and possess a supreme dignity; but many people will forget your kindnesses. After having astonished the world,you will die miserable. The country in which what I foretell must happen, forms a part ofCeltic Gaul; and more than once, in the midst of your prosperity, you will regret the happy and peaceful life you led in the colony. At the moment you shall quit it, (but not forever,) a prodigy will appear in the air;—this will be the first harbinger of your astonishing destiny."
Any fortune-teller might tell, and no doubt, if she thought it would flatter, would tell, a beautiful young girl that her destiny was to be a queen; but there is in this prediction a minuteness of detail, that cannot be accounted for on the ground of accidental coincidence. It is a brief history of her life. Unless we are prepared to believe that an ignorant old mulatto woman was gifted by divine Providence with supernatural power, constituted a second Witch of Endor, and able by "examining the ball of Josephine's left thumb with great attention," to discover the minute particulars of her future life, we must discredit the absurdity. A prediction believed sometimes effects its own fulfillment; and Josephine, whose ambition seems to have been most ardent, may have been inspired with romantic hopes by the foolish promise of an ignorant impostor, that she would rise to great eminence, and have been stimulated to greater exertions to realize those hopes. This may have urged her to intimacy with the corrupt and immoral Directory, with whom a beautiful and accomplished woman could not fail to be a favorite; may have secured her marriage to a very young and ardent man, who all believed must rise to eminence; and may have even induced her to excite her husband to the policy which secured a crown. But to believe that a prediction, giving all the leading events of the lives of several different persons, and those persons actors in scenes so wonderful, would be a folly equally weak and blasphemous. The same superstition is frequently betrayed in these volumes; and we have as many dreams and portents as ever disturbed the sleeping and waking hours of the wife of the first Napoleon, Caliphurnia.
The pages of these memoirs afford us the harshest and most repulsive views of Napoleon's character that we have yet seen. His affectionate consort was undoubtedly discerning, and used her keenness of perception with proper diligence to discover all her husband's faults. We have never shared in the excessive and extraordinary admiration with which the character of this man-hater and earth-spoiler is regarded in this land of liberty; but it seems to us that the portraiture before us would be deemed unjust coming from his foes, and is at least singular when traced by the hand of the affectionate and gentle Josephine. The praise awarded him is cold, formal and stinted; but the censure is interjected among her details with a freedom that we could not have anticipated. That she should have resented his heartless repudiation of the companion of all his struggles and fortunes, is natural, and perhaps just; but that she should have revenged the wrong, if indeed that be the motive, by depreciating him seems out of character with the Josephine of our imaginations. She describes him as vain, cruel, often weak, and at times abjectly cowardly. She dwells with great fullness upon his crimes, and passes rapidly and coldly over the many great and good things he achieved for France. In some instancespositive misrepresentations are resorted to, calculated to blacken his character. Thus, in relation to the disaster at the bridge on the Elster, she says:
"I likewise learned that my husband has passed the only bridge by which he could make good his retreat; but in order to prevent pursuit by the foreign army, he had ordered it to be blown up at the very moment it was covered with thousands of Frenchmen, who were endeavoring to fly. By means of thismurderous manœuvrehe abandoned a part of his army on the bank of the stream."
Now this is a most inhuman calumny, and one that sounds strangely coming from a French woman, and that woman the wife of the unfortunate Napoleon. Bonaparte's strongest and ablest decryer, Alison, admits that the destruction of the bridge was an accident, resulting from the mistake of a corporal, who supposed the retreating French upon the bridge were the pursuing allies, and fired the train. It is seldom that we expect to find extraordinary instances of conjugal affection upon thrones; and we are strongly disposed to believe that the love of Josephine for her husband has been exaggerated. According to her own account, she had many previous draughts made upon her capital stock of love; and she describes her marriage with Napoleon as one induced by the representations of Barras and Mad. Tallien of the advantages to be derived from it. She thus characterizes her feelings toward Bonaparte just before marriage. "I discovered in him a tone of assurance and exaggerated pretension, which injured him greatly in my estimation. The more I studied his character, the more I discovered the oddities for which I was at a loss to account; and at length he inspired me with so much aversion that I ceased to frequent the house of Mad. Chat*** Ren***, where he spent his evenings." Notwithstanding the excessive affection professed, a large portion of the period of their connection seems to have been embroiled and troubled. Yet there can be no doubt that she devoted herself assiduously and faithfully to the promotion and protection of the greatness which she shared; and, at the close of her career, though she caressed his conquerors, she died uttering the warmest expressions of affection for him, even in the presence of his foe. The death-scene, as described by M'lle. Le Normand, is truly touching. Her last tears fell upon the portrait of Napoleon.
The whole story is full of romance, and will be read with great interest. The translator has performed his task with eminent ability; and the volumes are printed in a style highly creditable to the publishers.