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Southern Whig
From the American Monthly for July.
STANZAS.
BY GREENVILLE MELLEN.
Next Melancholy', veiled in cloak and weeds
Murmured his sullen story. ’Twas of one
Who, ’mid the cloister’s shade and pattering beads,
His course of mad misanthropy begun ;
The sunlight or the shadow of the world
Brooded alike on him; he saw no hope
In all its day or darkness had unfurled,
And the black Future was a starless cope :
He woke to penance still, and when he slept
Dark dreams his pillow thronged, and fear about him
crept.
He passed into the desert from his cell,
Hating the face of man, and pale with scorn,
Spurning the iron bed and matin bell
That racked his slumbers and awaked his morn ;
Crushed as those tortured spirits that went out
From towering capitals, whose gates of old
Open'd on deserts where the ocean shout
Os the thronged city far and faintly rolled;
And as they closed, a solitude was round
The exile, as if driven to earth's unpeopled bound.
There, by his fountain well and rocky cave,
With Nature for communion, he abode.
Hoping no other Future but the grave,
Where Thought should cease to try or ills corrode.
Prayer gave him no response, for the dire God
He worshipped sat in vengeance in the sky,
Making Life chaos at his monarch nod,
And Man a victim for eternity—
In misery’s abode, where praise was dumb,
And white-robed Mercy through its night could never
come!
Religion found no temple in his hear’,
But all its dull and dark idolatry
Was of that sullen nature but a part,
'Which led him from earth's fellowship to fly ;
Like him of old, who on the pillar's height
Counted his years of loneliness and gloom,
And found, as earth grew shadowy on his sight,
His cloudy column but a living tomb !
So his deserted soul, malignant still,
Reared round the hydra heads he could not crush or ,
kill.
What hopes had such a spirit ?—it had passed *
Beyond the boundary of human things;
But though the gloom itself had round it cast,
It flitted like a bird on palsied wings;
He leagued him with Despair, and forth ho trode
With steps whose path he reck’d not, writhing yet
Beneath the ceaseless and afflictive goad
Os hopes he could not, though he would, forget;
Till, with a shriek, he leapt the maddening leap j
Into the black Hereafter’s spectre-compassed deep. ,
——'SgS—— t
The Eady of Carogne.
11 was a grand and stately building, that cas- t
tie of Argentcuil, where once resided the gen- ,
tie lady of Carogne; where she lived long in. f
her beauty and her youth, a faithful wife to her j
brave lord, and was loved and looked up to by 6
her maidens and her menials. The knight of
Carogne had been for a while absent upon an s
enterprise beyond sea: but, alas! it was not
for the advancement of his honor, that he had ,
departed from the marches of Perche, and from ,
the fair and sorrowful Aline. There was a ,
tall, narrow tower, which stood out from the ,
front wall of the castle, and rose far above the
loftiest roofs of the ancient pile. On the sum- (
rnit of that tower the noble lady was used to (
stand for hours, watching for her lord’s ap- ,
proach, and looking with anxious eyes far over j
the distant country; and, if aught like the fi
gure of him whom she sought appeared, and
gathered as it approached a nearer resemblance
to her lord’s person, how quickly the trance of
her stillness was broken ! how every feature
I and every limb woke into expression, while
eagerness and joy, that was half indulged, dart
ed like a sunbeam into her eyes, and the crim
son blood rushed over her pale cheeks, and
glowed in her parted lips.
Then most carelessly her soft white arms
were flung over the rough parapet, and her
tender bosom pressed against the cold stones
with heavings of tumultuous delight. Now the
i knight of Carogne looked in vain, as he rode
along, for her well-known form. Anxiously
he strained his sight, but she stood not as usu
al on the high tower. Aline, had received the
messenger that told of his approach, but she
left not the hail till her husband had arrived.
With slow and trembling steps she traversed
it,and sometimes she stopped and leaned against
the wall, in the thoughtfulness of sorrow.—
There was no color on her wan check, save
the flitting tints which were thrown from the
stained glass of the cas< merits towards the west,
and her eyes were seldom raised from the veil
ings of their lids. The glad shouts of her do
mestics told her tha f the knight was at hand,
and the lady Aline hastened to meet him. The
joyous knight sought to clasp her in his em
brace, but silently she glided from his arms,
and when he raised her tenderly from the
ground, the life seemed to have parted from her
1 feeble frame. He bore her into the open air,
' and she revived.
“ Thou art not well, my ow n Aline,” said the
I knight, clasping her tenderly to his bosom.
“ I do suffer, in the sickness of my heart,”
she replied. “I am not altogether well, my
dearest lord : forgive my weakness, and believe
' how joyed lam to sec thee. Yes,” she con
tinned, “ overjoyed, although 1 weep,”
He would have kissed away her tears ; but
, Aline gently withdrew herself from his arms,
and said,
i “ Not yet, my husband, not yet. I have a
vow upon me. Ask nothing now. Thou wert
ever kind, and tenderly indulgent to thy wife :
—bear with her seeming coldness now. En
ter again the hall, refresh yourself, and let me
lean upon your arm as you go in.”
There wore guests at the castle that day,
who had come to meet with the knight ofCa
rogne, and the lady Aline strove to call up some
: ofher wonted dignity as she sat beside her
husband at the banquet. Yet looked she ra
ther like one in a dreary dream, as she smiled
so sorrowfully at the lively discourse of her
husband and his friends, and took the cup which
all had courteously kissed to her health, ere they
drank from it.
i The sleeping-chamber of the knight and la
, dy adjoined a little oratory, where the young
and faithful pair were wont to kneel beside each
. other, ere they went to rest, and to pray in a
mild and thankful spirit to their God. When
the knight went up that evening to his bed
, chamber, he found not his wife there—she
' was kneeling in her prayer.closet, her pale
hands uplifted, and her lips moving in earnest
supplication. The knight lay down, but often
did he raise bis head to look for the coming of
his wife. She came not, till he had oft-times
tenderly besought her, and then Aline slowly
entered, and knelt down by her husband’s side.
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.” defer Son.
The knight started as the first sound of her
voice fell upon his ear, there was so deep a sor
row in its tone.
“ Let me kneel here,” she said. “I am not
wont to kneel but to our blessed Lord, and now
I only kneel before Him— beseeching him to
witness to the truth of every word I speak.—
My husband, do not seek to raise me—take lit
tle notice of me with your eyes—let your ears
only regard me. Nay, do not touch me yet.”
she added, as he held forth his arms toward her,
“ I cannot have the strength to speak, if you
do; and I have need of more than woman’s,
and so you will soon confess. Five evenings
since, I was sitting in my greenwood bower.
It was the quiet eventide, and I had dismissed
my maidens, that I might indulge in many
thoughts—blissful they were, for I thought of
my dear lord ; and melancholy withal, because
thou wort absent. Thou knowest there is a
low wall enclosing the small greensward court
to which my apartments open—low is it on
the side next the court, yet it rises high above
the moat surrounding the castle —so that 1 have
sat in my bower, and walked on that terrace
walk, fearless at all hours. The sun was sink
ing slowly in the sky, and the shadows deep
ened when they fell; yeti heeded nothing, till
it seemed to me as if a man’s figure rose above
the wall. I did not stir, but fixed my eyes
earnestly on the intruder. Once he gazed fear
fully about him, and then passed quickly to the
place where I sat.
“‘I am in danger—l am pursued,’ he cried,
with a fearful and smothered voice—‘ I must
speak to thee alone.’
“ ‘ I am alone,’ was ray reply.
“ ‘ I would risk no chance of being discov
ered here,’ he said, ‘noble kinswoman, my life
is in danger ; wilt thou save me ? I know the
knight of Carogne is absent, but wilt thou re
fuse me V
“All this time, as he besought me, the squire
Jaques le Grys (for it w r as he) almost grovelled
at my feet, and strove to seize my hands, as if
imploring for his life. I knew not w hat to do.
Methought that once his eyes shrank beneath
my steady gaze, but instantly he spake with
greater energy.
“ ‘ What woud’st thou have me do ? Where
could I shelter thee?’ I said at length to him,
scarce knowing what I did say. -He caught
me by the wrist, and looking me full in the face,
muttered with a voice, which seemeth yet in
mine ear,
‘•‘The dungeon.’
“ He led the way with stealthy pace —no ear
heard us, no eye beheld us.”
Thq lady faltered as she spoke—she clung
for support to the bed, and bit her nether lip,
which quivered with the agony ofher feelings ;
then turning her face farther from the gaze of
the knight, she spoke as if every breathing of
her voice was torn from her bosom.
“There is a tale which thou hast read to
me,” she said, “the story of a young and gen
tie lady’s woes. A matron she was, and fa
mous in old Rome She was like me, a faith
ful wife, faithful and happy, but not always—
you did not chide me, when I wept at her sad
story.”
Again the lady paused; but her busband
speaking not during her silence, she said,
“Thou art waiting for the name of that Ro
man lady, whose woes resemble mine; know
ing her name, you will know my shame too
well—Lucrece, the wife of one lord Collati
nus.”
The lady of Carogne said no more, but bow
cd her face upon her bosom, and one blush of
deepest scarlet spread over that face and bo
som. Neither did the knight reply; but he
lay breathless, it seemed* in the stillness of his
wrath : his eyes were wide open, but he stared
upon her, like one under the spell of some hor.
rid drcam. The sweatbeads started from his
brow, and the poor lady wiped them away, her
tears falling all the while. She could not—
as she passed her hand over his broad forehead
—she could not bear to turn from him ; and so
she stood beside him, with her fingers parting )
away his thick hair, and sometimes pressing
her soft, cold palm upon his burning templesT
Soon his chest began to heave violently, and
the deep, long sighs burst from him, and the
large tears gushed from his eyes. He rose up,
and clasped his poor, dishonored wife to his
bosom. It was break of day, ere their confer
ence was finished; and then the poor ladv,
who had resolutely, but quietly, refused to lie
down by her husband’s side, lay at his feet and
slept. Never did the knight hang with more
admiring fondness over her lovely face, than
when he now gazed upon it, and felt himself a
heart-broken and dishonored man.
It was noon ere the lady of Carogne awoke, ’
and though thoughts of agony darted across
her mind with the waking of her memory, she
struggled in her prayers for the mastery over
her wretchedness—and she prevailed. Her
shame was known to her husband, and now
she shrank not from the notice of the whole
world. To clear his honor, she resolved to
expose herselfto indignity and public disgrace.
Secret her wrongs had been, but they had torn
her from the husband ofher youth, and she
felt it her du'y tn publish abroad the story of
her griefs, and the name of the wretch who
dishonored her.
“Summon together,” she said to the knight
of Carogne, “summon, with all haste, my friends
kinsmen, and bear me along with them to the
earl of Alencon, your liege lord. Tell to him
what I have suffered, and let him call me, if
he will, to his presence-. Let him confront me
with that wretch. Thou shalt hear him con- i
fess his guilt and entreat for pardon. The bill
of our divorce shall be so given; and another
lady of Carogne. of spotless chastity, and faith
ful as I have been, shalt thou bring back to this
castle. I will henceforth seek no spouse but
thy memory!
'1 he knight of Carogneand the squire Jaques
de Grys, were both of the laud and household
ot the earl of Alencon; and the squire was in
constant attendance on the earl, his lord, and
well beloved by him. '1 he knight was aware
of tins and ho determined to lose no time in fol
lowing that part of his lady’s advice which he
approved: he. therefore, setoff for the castle
oi the earl; but he left the lady Aline in tho pro
tection ofher kinsmen, whom he called togeth
er at her desire. Accompanied by a few of
his nearest friends, the knight obtained an au
dience of his lord ; Tint he seemed to speak in
vain when he recited his wife’s dishonor, so
perfect was his affection and confidence in the
squire Jaques. He commanded that the ladv
should herself appear l in person to accuse, if
she would dare to do so, his beloved squire.—
As I have before related, the young and tender
lady of Carogne, since the night she revealed
her shame, had shiken off all futile, timidity,
and possessed herself through tho power of
God, with a wondrous composure, and dignitv
of mien and manner. The dishonor which
had boon done to her body, and tho weakness
ofthe mere woman, had been forgotten tunid
ATHEYS, GEORGIA. SATURDAY, JULY 15, 1837..
the deep and solemn feelings which now occu
died her soul. She came into the presence of
the earl of Alencon, led but not supported, by
her aged father, and she sat down with the
quiet dignity of one who appeared there rather
to command than to be questioned and judged.
As soon ns she had raised her veil from her fair,
sad face, the meekness and purity of expression
which adorned her loveliness of feature, and
the graceful delicacy which dwelt in all her
gentle movements, touched the heart of every
person who beheld her, so that many wonder
ed within themselves, and believed not that
such a pure and delicate being was a defi ed,
though an unwilling adulteress.
XV hen she was called upon by the earl of
Alencon to speak, the lady stood up, and a faint
blush came over her chock, but passed instant
ly away. “It is not mine own dishonor,” she
said with a slow, clear voice, “ which has
brought me hither; but I have a husbend whose
honor has worn nostain till now, and for whose
sake I come forth from the privacy, in which I
would fain hide myself and my shatre forever;
I come into the presence of men, and under
the eye of God, to proclaim myself a pollution
to my husband’s bed—a disgrace to his house
and name—and all through the brutal violence
ofthe squire Jaques le Grys. I accuse him
by name as the ravisher ol my weak and un
willing person. Here do I stand in the pre
sence of the lord of Alencon and this noble com
pany, to declare the time and manner—to re
count, if need be, every particular, of this most
devilish and atrocious deed. Let Jaques le
Grys be called to answer for'himself, for I do
not see him here,” she continued, aftershe had
gazed enquiringly around her.
“Bid Jaques le Grys to come hither!” said
Alencon to one of the attendants.
Most unlike a guilty person appeared Jaques
le Grys, as he entered the hall, bearing him
self with a cheerful carelessness towards all
but the lord of Alencon, and tne lady of Carogne.
To them he bowed with every expression of
courteous respect; and then stood modestly,
yet manfully, before the earl as if waiting his
commands- No one spoke for some seconds,
and when the knight of Carogne was about to
break the reigning silence, the squire interrupt
ed him, to ask one who stood near, for what
purpose so many were assembled together;
remarking, with a smiling look, that he had but
an hour since returned from off a journey, and
that no such meeting had keen mentioned be
fore his departure. “Thou canst inform me,
perchance ?” he said to the knight of Carogne.
“ I think thou wert about to speak, and 1 must
crave thy pardon for preventing thee. Now I
do bethink me, thou hast been across the seas,
good knight—permit me most heartily to wel
come thy return. Ah, it may be to celebrate
thy coming, that my noble master hath called
together all this goodly company. It shames
me to appear so late to bid thee welcome—fair
lady of Carogne, I must turn to thee.”
“ Silence, loose catiff!” shouted the furious
knight as he strode to the centre of the hall, his
face burning, and his eyes flashing with rage.
“ My lord of Alencon, I demand your interfer
ence to stop at once this parleying.”
Silence was commanded by the earl, who
gravely rebuked the intemperate warmth of the
knight, and then called the lady of Carogne to
bring forward her accusation against Jaques
1c Grys.
At the first appearance of her ravisher. the
poor lady had felt as if the sickly chills of death
were creeping through her frame. Her hus
band’s violence aroused her; and, as her self
possession returned, she smiled within herself
at her own weakness. With a look of fear
less composure she raised her eyes, and push
ed back the hair from her brow, while the elo
quence of truth and virtue spoke in her words.
But the squire was not to be confounded; by
turns he affected to be surprised, indignant,
nay, amused by the strangeness ofthe accusa
tion brought against him. With apparent at
tention he then listened to the detail which the
I lady was obliged to give ; he listened but for a
short time, for at last he seemed unable to re
strain himself.
“ This must proceed no farther,” he said so
lemnly. “My most noble lord,” be added “ I
beseech you to interfere. I should treat this
charge with the contempt it deserves, were my
own character alone concerned ; but the rela
tion in which 1 stand to yourself, the office
which I hold near your person, call upon me
to come forward and to challenge the strictest
enquiry, as to this mqst valorous adventure
which is charged upon me. My lord of Alen
con, there is a question which I must ask of
thee. Canst thou reeal the day when thy no-,
.ble cousin and his bride were entertained in
state within this castle?”
The earl thought for a momen* and named
the fourth of April.
“And on that day,” replied tho squire, “ I
was at the castle of Argentcuil! So we are
told. Let me ask again*—who was in attend
ance on thy person on the fourth of April?”
The earl answered without hesitation, “ thou
wert, Jaques, most certainly; and now that I
remember me, thou wert by my side during the
. whole of that day, saving lor the space, I should
flunk, of three hours. Was not tins the case 1
About three hours?”
“It Was, my lord,” replied Jaques.
“ Account, then, for the way in which those
three hours were employed, and we must be
satisfied.”
The squire colored deeply as he bowed, and
then entreated to be excused replying to that
I question ; but he begged to remak that the dis
tance from the carl’s castle to that of Argen
teuil was about three-and-twenty miles. He
desired to know ifhis entrance to the castle of
the knight had been observed by any one—if
the lady of Carogne had no witness to support
her assertions?
Aline now calmly reminded the car' of the
question he had put to the squire—in what
manner these three hours had been employed ?
I Deeper still Was the color that mounted over
the countenance of Jaques le Grys. He drew
near to his master, and murmured a few words
in an under tone. The earl paused awhile,
and then said,“yes, it will be the surer way of
discovering flic truth. One intrigue may per
chance conlound the other.'’
He commanded three ofthe noblest gentle
men present to go to the lodgings ofßerina
Lurano, and to conduct her immediately to his
presence. They returned within ten minutes,
accompanied by the wanton Italian, and she
confessed with an assumed reluctiuice, that
three hours, on the fourth day of April, had
been passed by the squire, Jaques le Grys, in
her society. Would it have been supposed,
that with little farther investigation, with no
other evidence but that of Benna Lunaro, an
Italian courtesan, Alencon declared his squire
innocent of tho crime with which he had been
charged !
The lady of Carogne had not spoken while
the Italian remained in the huff, She waited
i- till the earl had announced his judgment, and
,f then she rose with the same self-possession
y which had distinguished her, and turning to the
e company, thus addressed them :
r “It was for justice that I came hither, and
. now I will depart, for I may seek justice here
■, no longer. My lord of Alencon, listen to these
i my Words, for I would speak thus plainly even
j in thy presence. I have :ot been justly dealt
r with, and this yoUr spirit will tell you if you
/• ask it faithfully. Before I leave you. I would
. call these facts to your remembrance. I have
t dwelt within your notice since m.y early youth.
, My father’s name hath ever been revered, and
while I lived with him and my sainted mother,
f I was unblamed by you, and by the world,
t My honored father has come hither leading his
. child with his own hand. Would he have
• done this were I the loose, shameless wretch
j you take me for? With my husband I have
• lived happy, and in the sweetest confidence of
i heart: I never hai e deceived him. You know
[ that had I pleased, 1 might now have seemed
; an undefiled wife; he would have kept his se-
• cret, perchance, as closely as he keeps it now.
i But here I stand and openly proclaim my
> shame. Here I renounce my husband and my
> home; and here I solemnly repent, that Jaques
i le Grys, your squire, was indeed the brutal ra
. visher of this vile body. The time may come
whan you will give full credence Io my words.
Methinks it was almost too hard on me, fallen
. as I am, to call into my presence that bold I tai
t ian wanton, and then to hear her as a more
. faithful witness than myself. This was poor
, justice—it was unkind, unpitying, to believe
I that common wanton before wife, the hon
est and devoted wife, ofthis brave knight your
[ servant!”
When the lady had thus spoken, she turned
i away and waited not for a reply. Warned she
might be by the look of unconcern which still
remained on Alencon’s face. But as she went,
she faltered some few times, and clung to her
old father’s arm mere closely, and once she
bowed her face upon his shoulder, and an hys
teric sob was heard. She betrayed, afterwards,
no sign of agitation; but with a firm step, and
with much dignity she left, in company with
her husband and kinsmen, the castle of Alencon.
The knight of Carogne was not to be silenc
ed, though thus dismissed by the earl, his mas
ter. He well trusted and believed his wife ;
and so he went to Paris, and laid the matter
before the parliament, and appealed Jaques le
Grys, who appeared and answered to his ap
peal.
It was said that the earl of Alencon was sore
displeased at the determined conduct of the
brave knight, and oftentimes would have had
hitr slain, but that the matter was in the par
liament. But the knight of Carogne was of
great courage, and he persisted that he would
maintain his quarrel to the death ; and because
the lady could make no proof against Jaques
le Grys but by her own words, judgment was
given by the parliement that mortal battle should
be done between the knight and the squire.
And it was judged that if the former was over,
come in that battle, and yet survive, he should
lose his head, and that the lady Aline should
suffer death at the stake.
I n the place Katharine, behind the temple,
in Paris, the lists were erected. The king and
his court, the duke of Burgundy and his train,
and thousands of the Parisian populace, were
present. The two champions entered the field
armed at ull points. The knight of Carogne
was seconded by the earl of St. Paule, and
• Jaques le Grys by his lord, Alencon. Silence
■ was commanded, and the knight, proceeding to,
that part of the lists where the lady Aline was
seated in a chair covered with black, thus a«k>’
dressed her : “ Lady, by your information and*;
in your quarrel am I about to peril my li/<- ju*
battle with Jaques le Grys—you know yfie'
cause be just and true.” Her face was deajfllt
pale, and her frame, wasted by continual grref,
trembled like the frail leal of the aspen; but
she rose up and said : “ Knight, it is as I have
said—the cause is good and true.” So dis
tinct were the tones of her clear voice, that
her words were heard all over the field. —
When she had spoken, slie knelt down, and
lifting her clasped hands to heaven, regardless
of the crowd around her, she prayed aloud for
her husband’s life, and for victory to his geod
cause. The knight kissed her forehead, bless
ed her, and entered the field.
The high and fearless spirit es the lady left
her not again ; though her agony was dread
ful when she heard the rushing of their char
gers, the shivering of the spears, and the loud,
• mad clashing of their swords. Once came a
moment’s pause. The lady looked not down ;
though the deep murmur ofthe multitude went
to her heart. She saw not that her husband
was wounded, and was again sweeping fierce
ly on his enemy. The blazing of their weapons
in the sunshine darted like lightning flashes
before her eyes, and dazzled them into tears.
The ground shook beneath her feet, and the
rapid blows parted the very air that blew over
her face. Yet with all this dreadful jense of
the passing combat, her mind clung and trust
ed to one exalted hope, and that hope did not
fail her.
Another, but not a silent pause ! A general
stirring sounded throughout the crowd, and
voices from all sides burst forth, some in shout
ings of joy. Her husband’s fate was decided;
and slowly closing her eyes, she sunk down in
a swoon.
Though the attention of the spectators was
drawn to the situation of the combatants, yet
some there were who turned to the poor lady,
and by their assistance she revived. Her
husband’s form first met her sight; but neither
gashed with wounds, nor stretched breathless
and bleeding on the earth. He was standing
erect before his king* and she saw that the
king smiled upon him—Jaques le Grys was
slain, and his corse was yet lying where he fell,
lie had confessed his gUilt.
Another trial awaited Aline of Carogne, and
from it the heroic lady aid not shrink. With
her husband she left the field of combat for the
church of our lady of Paris, and there they had <
on their knees humbly and fervently offered up
their thanks and praises to the throne of grace.
They bad noW risen and Aline leaned upon her
husband’s bosom, and wept freely. She had
not ceased* when he led her to a small door,
which opened from one of the side aisles, near
the high altar, to the cloisters ofthe adjoining
convent. Oftentimes did the knight clasp more
tenderly in his arms bis young and weeping
lady; and oftentimes did he kiss, with trem
bling lips, her forehead and pale cheek, and the
one thin, little hand which lay upon bis shoul
dr. At length she lifted Up h< r head, and a
smile played upon her lip, though it scarcely
rose into her large melancholy eyes. Once
more she sank upon his bosom and their lips
met in one last kiss. Then he suffered her to
raise her head from his breast, and to withdraw
her hand frotn his grasp, and his eyes alone
followed with their earnest gaze the form which
departed from his sight—forever!
1 From the New-Yorker.
r
, STANZAS.
FROM ‘ LOOSE LEAVES OF A SAILOR'S JOURNAL.'
Says Mrs. Hernans—‘Alas for love, if thou wert all,
‘ And nought beyond, Oh Earth!”
5 Where now is Poor Jane ?—perhaps, like her infant,
» ‘a clod of the valley’—all her little gifts, tokens ofher
( affection, scattered in different parts of the world; but
gratitude for her kindness I hope I will never lose. It
was after parting from her, one very fine evening, that
• I penned the following, being I believe the only lines I
I ever wrote her.
! They met —’ twas in a foreign clime,
Beneath a tam’rind tree
Just as the moon began to climb
Above the silver sea.
The whispering of the dark green trees,
The shading of the grove,
The crimson sky, the balmy breeze,
Alftempting seemed to love.
And she was fair as boyhood's dreams,
As lovely and &s young,
And pure as mountain’s purest streams,
From Alpine sources flung.
And more—her heart had failed to hide
What she had fain concealed ;
But eyes not ruled by Woman’s pride
Her secret had revealed.
But he in early youth adored
As none had done before;
For him Life's bitterest draught was poured,
Until tho cup ran o’er.
So love's warm smile to his heart
As sunshine to the snow ;
It might destroy, but not impart
Aught of its cheerful glow.
Yet, though his heart was hard and seared
By cold deceit and wrong,
Still, not by him was coldly heard
Her mild and syren tongue.
For burning were the heart-wrung tears
That from his his dark eyes fell,
As yielding to his coward fears,
He bade that girl farewell. S.
From the Knickerbocker for May.
LINES.
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND GOING TO ETROFE.
■Spring's voice is on the breeze I
She calleth home her wild birds o’er the main,
And loud they carrol back to her again—
Swift winging o’er the seas !
Her breath had waked the flowers!
She whisp’reth forth the young leaves from their rest;
She woos the soft grass from earth’s parent breast,
With her bright sun and showers.
She hath unlocked the chain 1
The streams come dashing downward from the hills ;
An echo soundeth from a thousand rills
To the rejoicing main I
And hath she wiled thee forth,
Now, in the joyous childhood of the year,
To tell to other climes her beauties here.
Os sky, and fount, and earth ?
Thou goew —uk .ko wwl—
With white-wing’d ships o’er ocean’s foaming crest—
Thou leav’st for far-off lands the eaglets nest,
With mourning ones behind.
Kind wishes waft die on I
There is an outspread wing above the tide—
A ‘strong right hand,’ that will thee safely guide
Upon the way thou’rt gone. -ione.
Planners of Gentlemen and Ladies in Pub
lic.—So much more has naturally been obser
by travellers of American manners in sta
-1 steamboats than in private houses, that
i,all has been said, over and over again, that the
, Subject deserves. I need only testify that I
do not think that the Americans eat faster than
other people on the whole. The celerity at
hotel-tables is remarkable; but so it is in stage
coach travellers iu Enhland, who are allowed
ten minutes or a quarter of an hour for dining, i
In private houses, I was never aware of being
hurried. The cheerful,nnintermitting civility
of all gentlemen travellers, throughout the
country, is very striking to a stranger. The
degree of consideration shown to woman is,
in my opinion, greater than is rational, or
good for either party ; but the manners of the
American stage-coach travellers might afford
a valuable lesson and example to many classes
ol Europeans who have a high opinion of their
own civilization. Ido not think it rational
or fair that every gentleman, whether old or
young, sick or well, weary or untired, should,
as a matter of course, yield up the best places
in the stage to a lady passenger. I do no*
think it fair that five gentlemen should ride on
the top of the coach, (where there is no ac
commodation for holding on, and no resting
place for their feet,) for some hours of a July
day, in V irginia, that a young lady, who was
slightly delicate, might have room to lay up
her feet, and change her posture as she pleas
ed. It is obvious that, if she was not strons 1
enough to travel on common terms in the stage. 1
her family should have travelled in an extra,
or staid behind, or done any thing rather than i
allow five persons to risk their health and Sac- 1
rifice their comfort for the sake of one. What i
ever may be the good moral effects of such 1
self-renunciation on the tempers of die gentle- ’
men, the custom is very injurious to ladies, j
Their travelling manners arc any thing but 1
amiable.
While on a journey, women who appear I
well enough in their homes, present all the 1
characteristics of spoiled children. Scream- 1
mg and trembling at the apprehension of dan- i
ger are not uncommon; but there is something '
far worse in the cool selfishness with which 1
they accept the best of every thing, at any sac
rifice to others, and usually, in the South and ;
West* without a word or look of acknowledg
ment. They are like spoiled children #ben
the gentlemen are not present to be sacrificed
to them—in the inn parlor, while waiting for i
meals, orthe stage, and in the cabin of a steam- i
boat. I never saw any manner so repulsive i
ois that of many American ladies on board i
steamboats. They look as if they supposed 1
you mean to injure them, till you show to the
contrary. The suspicious side-glance, or the ■
full stare, the cold, immovable obser ation, the
bristling self-defence the moment you come 1
near, the cool pushing to get tho best place* ev- |
ery thing said and done without the least trace i
of trust or cheerfulness—these are the disa- i
greeable consequences of’ the ladies being pet- <
ted and humored us they are. The New Eng- <
land ladies, who are compelled, by their supe
rior numbers, to depend less upon the care of 1
others, arc far happier and pleasanter compan- <
ions in a journey than those of the rest of the t
country. 1
7*/ie Real Vulgarity of America.— The irai:- <
tiers of the wealthy ciasses depend, of course- <
upon the character of their objects and inter- t
cst; but they are not, on the whole, so ugreea- t
Vol. V—No. 11-
ble as those of their less opulent neighbors.
The restless ostentation of such as live for
grandeur and show, is vulgar; ns I have said,
the only vulgarity to be seen in the ceuntrv
Nothing can exceed the display of it at water.
, ing places. At Rockaway, on Long Island
’l l saw in one large room, while the cornpawy
i was waiting for dinner, a number of groups
which would have made a good year’s income
for a clever caricaturist. If any lady, with an
eye and a pencil adequate to the occasion,
would sketch the phenomena of affectation
that might be seen in one day in the piazza and
drarving-room at rockrway, she might be a
useful censor of manners. Bitt the task would
be too full of sorrow and shame for any one
with the true republican spirit; for my own
parti felt bewildered in such company. It
was as if I had been set down on a kind of de
batable land between the wholly imaginary
society of the so-called fashionable novels of
late years, and the broad sketches of citizen
life given by Madame D’Arblny. It wns like
nothing real. When I saw the young ladies
trickled out in the most expensive finery, flirt
ing over the backgammon board, tripping af
fectedly across the room, languishing with a
sventy-dollar cambric handkerchief, starting
up in ecstacy at the entrance of a baby; the
mother as busy with affectations of another
kind, and the brothers sideling hither and thith -
er, now with assiduity and now with nonchal
ance; and no one imparting the refreshment
of a natural countenance, movement, or tone,
I almost doubted whether I was awake. The
village scenes that I had witnessed rose up in
strong contrast—tho mirthful wedding, the
wagon-drives, the offering of wild-flowers to
the stranger, the nnintermitting, simple cour
tesy of each to all; and it was scarcely credi.
ble that the contrasting scenes could both be
existing in the same republic.— Miss Martin
eau.
It is seldom such poetry as the following is encounter
ed, either in foreign or domestic journals. We find it in
a recent periodical, and like many other such gems that
are doomed to survive the wreck of time, it is shrouded
in the mystery of “ an anonyme. "—Evening Star.
fame.
To die, and leave behind
Nought of surviving fame,
Os the divine, creating mind
No trace, no single name ?
To know no deed, no word.
Our memwy to restore,
But that when gone, there shall he heard
Os us no mention more.
Nay, mock not that thou hear'stme sigh ;
My friend ! this is indeed te
But to live on and on,
Among the great, the good,
Eternal station to have won
’Mid that high brotherhood;
Deep in the hearts of men
. Enshrin'd to be;
To shine a beacon to the ken
Os far posterity:—
Who would not days for ages give T
Who would not die, such life to live ?
What idle words are theirs, •
▼v IH7 uicrxis TKMUIU UUI pu Ul3 -—'
To passing pleasures, present cares,
Brief as the fleeting hours 1
So deemed not they, I ween.
The great of other days,
Whose brows still wear the living green,
Whose lamps still brightly blaze ;
So deemed' not they, who struck the lyre
With Milton’s truth, with Homer's fire.
No! from a fount divine
These restless longings come—
This hope in honor’d light te shine
Above tlie cold, dark tomb,
Oh ! when from life I part,
Let mo not wholly die;
Still with sweet song to charm the heart.
Or raise with musings high;
Still live in the remember’d line—
Oh ! might this glorious meed be mine
Eloquence of Brougham.
A late number of a foreign periodical con
tains an excellent article on Lord Brougham,
from the pen ofthe author ofthe “Great Me
tropolis.” ' The following is a vivid sketch of
his maimer when managing an important case
at the bar, and of the influence which he exer
cised over the feelings of his auditors.
“ To cases of an unimportant kind he never
could apply his mind. How striking the con
trast when he appeared in an importalit case
especially if it was involving any great princi
ple of civil or religious duty ! —On such occa
sions Brougham far exceeded iqthe talent and
energy he displayed, any who has practised at
the bar for the last quarter of a century. He
usually rose in a cahn and collected manner
enunciated a few sentences in a subdued tone,
expressive of the sense he entertained of the
importance of the task he had undertaken, and
solicited the indulgence of the jury, while he
trespassed on their attention for a short time.
He then proceeded, in slow accents, and in
measured sentences, to develope the generali
ties ofthe case, gradually rising in auimatian
in ma ner and increasing the loudness of his
voice and the rapidity ol his utterance, until he J
arrived at the most, important parts of his sub-jF
ject. The first indication he usually gave of
having reached those points in his spi'lUfll ”
which he intended to apply all the energies of
his mind, was that of pulling his gown further
up on his shoulders, and putting his tall gaunt
figure into as erect and commanding a posture
as he could assume without endangering his e
equilibrium. Then came his vehement gesti-,
culation*—-the rapid movemert of his right arm,
with an occasional wafture of his left hand,
and the turning and twisting of his body in eve.
ry variety of form. His eye, which before
was destitute of fire, and his features, which
were composed and placid as those of a marble
statue, were now pressed as auxiliaries into ths
service of his client. His eyes flashed with
the fire of one whose bosom heaved with tu
multuous emotions, and tho whole expression
of his face Was that of a man whose mind was
worked up to the utmost intensity of feeling.
And this was ’•eally the case with Brougham
wheneveathe interest of his clients was identi
fied with some great principle. His princi
ples, unlike those of barristers in general, were
really a part of his nature. In vindicating or
asserting them, therefore, in the person of his
client he was in point of fact, repelling some
outrage which had been offered to himself.
To have seen him in some of these was tru.
ly a spectacle worthy of the name. It was
only on such occasions that any accurate esti
mate could be formed of the vast recourses of
his mind. He then poured from his lips stratus
ofthe loftiest ordero eloquence. Ideat<JJuW
ed idea, principle succieled prince/ —illus-
tration accompanied illustrat" i h ti rapidi.
ty which was asto usW One momeut he