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TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE.
(Original |sortnj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE APPROACH OF SUMMER.
BV \V. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.
Now, glowing through green leaves, and bearing
flowers,
Fresh blooming, borrowed front a thousand
bowers,
Where Nature (ills her lap with fruits, and
gleams,
The carpet of the prairies, stars and streams, —
( oiiti forth, all wantoning in joyous dreams.
With eye that laughs in beauty, golden hair,
furling and floating o’er a neck as fair
As the young moon, when in the dusky vale.
She lifts her virgin crescent, soft and pale,—
Tito flush’d and levelling Summer. At her
glance,
Sinks the old wizard. Winter, into trance,
N o more the mighty potentate, who shook
Ills icy sceptre over field and brook,
But. tottering into apathy, that goes.
Soulless and sad, to polar home of snows;
The realm usurped made glad in his decline.
Mad,- free to bourgeon in its flower and vine;
The steel-bourn! waters rescued where he lay.
And leaping, flashing, to the smiles of day.
With all it-“ little billows out at play;—
Birds gladsome singing round the cottage tree,
Vn 1 hope and heart, for once, at liberty,
Minging in joyous anthems which make air.
All musical with love, that might he pray'r.
Give the heart freedom ! Let the soul take wing
With the soft promise of this golden Spring;
From book and study, forth; —uplift the eye.
To the blue beauties in the morning sky;
Forget that Toil hath had his task decreed,
The daily labour, for the daily need:
(rive Hope new charm in respite front its chain,
Thought fresher impulse in unlabouring brain;
No duty rules that Drudgery shall not find,
Some moments grateful to the unfetter’d mind ;
The heart’s sweet Sabbath must not be denied,
Now. when boon Nature smiles on all beside!
Where the winds play,—whore great green
branches wave,
And lilies sweetly whisper to the wave, —
Forth with the Sun. with heart that sings within,
In sense of joy that hath no taint of sin;
A song of Summer bom, that feels, instinct,
How near with Earth the soul of man is link'd,
And thus through earth with heaven, that still
foreshows,
In bright, sweet symbols, how the future glows,
Huff IVeshly, gladsomely and purely, Bliss,
May yet, in man’s true life, atone for this!
Spirit-* of holiest gift have been at range,
O'er stream and forest, to effect this change;—
What potent spells, what breath of balm, they
brought,
By which the magic of this birth was wrought;—
How did they whisper on this bankside, where
Lurk’d all the hooded flowers, in shame and fear;
Hush’d through long months of winter, while
the sway
Os that cold tyrant threaten’d still his prey,
Till that warm whisper to the clod which hid.
Brought each sweet virgin to unclose her lid,
And won the nun-like daisy front her cell,
In sweet obedience to the grateful spell,—
Bio-sing the shrine that sheltered her so well!
What legions of bright angels, far and wide,
Have sped, that Earth should waken up in pride;
A single breath, one short sweet night—the
moon
lit April only watching through its noon, —
And, with tin’ dawn, how wondrous was the
show,
That hailed the sun t'roni thousand plains below;
With song,—though faint how sweet. —and
scents so rare,
As if the flowers were wedded to the air,
That nothing did but drink of the delight.
With wings diffused in never-resting flight,
As conscious, in the rapture of such taste,
Os no fatigue, in all that world of w r aste.
Oh ‘ with a range as wide as his, we speed
To each fair empire of the newly freed;
With hearts as free as any of the race,
That glow and gladden in the sun's embrace.
How spreads the various picture as we go,
H Its greenly stretch aloft, and vales below;
flii mountain wears no more the brow of age,
Vnd Nature flies her gloomy hermitage.
Now desolate no longer,—to abide,
M .th bird-* and blossoms, by the brooklet's side;
How prattle the glad w aters, as she brings,
Her gayest buds to nurture at their springs:
Pleased with the song of kindred which declares.
Her joy in these, and all her beauties theirs.
Banks, on each side, slope down with fringe of
green,
l ii kiss the silvery waves that sing between,
Sing with lit chaunt to the cathedral trees.
1 hrough which,still sleepless,trolls the thought
less breeze,
With music most like that of swarming bees!
I he song is still an echo to the toil, —
The heart is tutor’d when the sinew’s moil;
Mere song were something vicious,—hut the
strain,
That tells of solace for the limbs and brain, —
Which call for respite for due service done.
In fields of meet succession with the sun, —
This brings a healthful nurture, and, if right
file duty done, we look for the delight.
The charm that still beguiles us at the close
Ot the day labour, freshening its repose,
Is the sweet nourishment for strength anew,
The future toil, or conquest, to pursue.
Thus sings the earth at seasons, —thus w’e hear,
1 ne bird and insect joyous far and near;
A choral hymn the nation’s toil preludes,
And the glad creature frolics ere it broods.
Foil ot’ a sweet and w’ise intelligence,
*ot simply fashioned for the idiot’s sense,
T he voices that w’e hear from plain and grove,
fhev speak in gladness, but they breathe of
love,
And love is the great duty which implies
Toil for tiie drudge and study for the wise ;
Both earnest ever in the fond pursuit,
shat, in its very tillage, brings its fruit!
I auh ha 9 a labour in her womb below!—
1 he watchful ear may catch the murmuring flow,
‘'! mingling strifes and sounds, —the strifes of
toil,
y* ’hose who sing and serve, for those who moil.
* he mighty mother, with mysterious art,
Hath fashion’d well each agent in her mart;
’ ar *ous in product, as in office, still,
Haeh, without murmur, follows at her will;
\° void unfilled beneath her searching eye,
• N ’° fialiri unwatched, of water, earth, or sky;—
‘ here runs the lizard o’er the freshest flowers,
As death gives shadow to our sunniest hours; —
1 tiere, the gay butterfly, on varied wing,
Pursues the insect that it cannot sting;—
There goes the coiling serpent, with raised crest,
a moult mm ml mmm m mmmm a j m Am in mmm. Am m mm al nm mmu.
And warning rattle, to his slimy nest, —
Vex’d by pursuit, he slowly wins his way,
Nor seems unwilling to prolong his stay,—
Too closely press’d, he would not shun the strife,
And he who takes, must battle for. his life.
Turn where the dove, —meet contrast!—with
his mate
Just won, delighted with his new estate,
Lingers beside the p ith, a fearless thing.
Nor claims the succor of his idle wing.
Nature endows him with the season's sense,
Where all is breathing hope and confidence, —
And, heedful of her interests, man decrees
His safety front the fowler. Thu;- we seize
Our sweetest lessons of preserving good,
From the dumb nature and unthinking mood.—
For it were base to wrong the faith implied,
Which seeks our steps nor hurries once aside.
Though life is dearer now, so full of love.
And fear is the fir.-t instinct of the dove!
(Original (T’nJcs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
EGBERT AND IDA:
OR, THE LOVE TESTS.
UY T. ADDISON RICHARDS.
PRELUDE.
“Methinks, Sir Knight, that yon
silver orh looks smilingly upon us, this
lair night. Note how she seemeth to
precede us in our path, yet ever shed
deth her softest radiance upon the grey
turrets of you aged towers. Iler
grateful guidance augereth a kindly
welcome, reminding me of the joyful
watch-dog. who. scenting in the keen
air the approaching steps of returning
friends, dasheth forth, with gladsome
bound, to lead the wearied wanderer
home.”
‘ Thy words, fair youth, spring from
a heart replete with the buoyancy and
unstained gladness of early years; that
golden age, when the pure soul, fresh
from the hands of the Great Architect,
yet unsoiled with the false world’s sear
ing wear, and still glittering in its pris
tine lustre,frankly and gladly receiveth
and cherisheth the glowing reflections
of all the specious pictures which gay
fancy painteth. As thy days speed on
amidst the sad experiences of a bitter
life, treachery, disappointment and sor
row will set their dark impress upon
the bright enamel of the heart, and
ever leave upon the once pure canvass,
dark shadows, which speak through all
the glittering, but treacherous visions,
which the imagination may ever after
draw. After all the mighty tomes
which sages and philosophers have
penned, touching the mystic sources of
human happiness, methinks that they
have yet overlooked its simple name.
Ask the most untutored heart the name
of the; marvellous fountain, will not the
answer be—Hope? This is the magi
cal wand which maketh the pure stream
to gush forth; but, alas! like the charm
ed rods in the wondrous tales of the
Genii, every stroke upon the rugged
rock of life reduceth its length and de
creaseth its force, until at last it is
spent, itinl Hope thus vanished, where
then is happiness ? In the “rasp of the.
more ardent and confident, those best
fitted to enjoy its gifts, it ever shrinketh
the fastest; but, sooner or later, every
one awaketh to the cruel knowledge
that his wand is spent and that his fee
ble hand closeth only upon empty air.”
“ Nay, noble sir! check not my spir
its with such chilly forebodings. Trust
rather that,even with thyself, the bright
sun will soon dispel the darksome sha
dows. Dost thou not see life through
a false medium ? with wilfully distorted
vision, suffering a mere drop of acid to
embitter the vast ocean of sweets, gaz
ing as through the stained glass, which
obscureth the brilliancy of the mighty
sun. and which, though ever so insigni
ficant in its own proportions, yet, when
held too near the eye, completely hideth
the day-god’s gorgeous beams, and over
all the immense field of fair nature,
eastetli its false and sombre hue! Cher
ish, Sir Knight, a more liberal and more
manly philosophy. Banish not fair
Truth from the earth, because forsooth
foul Falsehood lurketh there! Hast
thou been deceived? Are there not
others who will not betray thee? Thou
hast, but now, escaped from death upon
the cold battle-field, from which hosts
of thy noble companions in arms may
never more arise! Dost thou not trust
me , and do I not love thee as brother
loveth brother, noble Sir ?”
“Heaven grant, Sir Page, that thou
mayest, as now, be ever hopeful, ever
confident ? Think not, though, to win
me from my wo! Thou wouldest rea
son well wert thou speaking to the
mind; but Reason never was the heart’s
vernacular. The soul comprehendeth
not the cold and philosophic idioms of
her speech. Canst thou replace upon
the rose petal, the dew-drop too hastily
brushed away ? the soft down upon the
luscious fruit, too rudely handled?—
Canst thou restore to their original rest,
the light sands which the conflicting
waves have cast abroad o’er land and
sea ? Canst thou re-unite the scattered
waters when exhaled in air? Canst
thou bring back the winged soul to its
fleshly home! Then canst thou heal
the diseased mind, the stricken soul,
and to the heart betrayed, restore its
hope and faith!”
“Deep-seated must thy sorrow be,
Sir Knight; for ever since the happy
day, our paths by chance together lay;
some changeful months from now —it
has not ceased to cloud thy brow : ail
grief from all respect must claim, but
woe like thine from friend like me,
demands the truest sympathy! But
despair not. noble Knight; as with the
new-born day springs light —so the
griefs to-day we feel, to-morrow’s sun
will surely heal! But thy pardon, no
ble Sir! So light a heart have 1 to
night,that spite my thought ‘twill break
forth in gladsome song and vent itself
in numbers. In the interest, too, of
our converse, we have quickened our
pace too rudely for thy feeble powers,
already overtasked by the journey of
the day. I see thou art wearied; and
our gallant steeds, too, claim our gen
tlest indulgence. The night is yet
young, and yonder banks, shaded by
those thickly interwoven cypresses, in
viteth us to repose.”
“ Most kindly thought, Sir Page.
This slight engratinure hath stolen from
me much good blood and strength A
little rest will perhaps give me new
force. I would too, ere we reach yon
frowning battlements, confide to thee
the sad talc, which, in repaval of thy
goodness, I have often promised. It
will relieve my mind to speak, and my
heart to feel, thy truthful sympathy;
and should 1 never reach those castle
halls, where live my heirs, thou wilt be
my hand and my heart executor.”
“Thy confidence is most welcome,
noble Sir; and yet 1 would not thou
should’st at this time over-task thyself.
See! here’s the bank! And pleasant
too it is! A fitting spot, methinks,
for confidence! It seemeth to have a
voice, that could it speak, would whis
per many sad and joyous tales! Thy
hand, Sir—the other on my shoulder—
gently —now —ah! Sit thee there, Sir
Knight,where the gentle moon may kiss
thy too, too pallid brow.”
“Thanks, young Sir: more thanks
than thy service may seem to ask. As
thou, but now, appearedst to think, this
fairy hillock hath its associations —
bright memories that thou dreamedst
not of. Most strange is it that thou
shouldst, of all spots, have chosen this!
And now thou seathest thyself thus by
my side, leaning thus upon thv hand. 1
seem to dream of other days and other
scenes. Thy very words, too, and thy
voice—at least so my fancy whispereth
—but aid the sweet illusion; only thy
hand is gloved, as thy person is clad in
stem mail: and thy face—never have 1
seen it! And yet, now that lam
about to bestow upon thee a confidence
to which I never deemed that living
soul would listen, and which 1 fain
would have veiled from my own heart,
’t would seem that disguise should not
live between us!”
“My vow, Sir Knight! my vow!
This very evening will absolve me—a
few short hours—and wouldst thou,
to save such brief patience, have it
I broken!”
“Ah! yes! thy vow! Nay, keep it,
though more sacred ones have been less
lightly held! What mattereth it in
what mould thy features have been
cast ? 1 have seen thy soul, and there,
alone, are truthful pictures to be found.
Now call thy best patience forth, young
Sir. My tale doth not boast in length
or interest. Tis one of the heart, and
not of stirring incident. This soft
night air hath given me new life, while
all around inviteth to the trust thou
hast so kindly consented to receive.
But let me tell my tale.”
STORY.
“Although my care-worn brow might
hint of riper years, yet hath it been fan
ned by the zephyrs of but twenty-five
fair springs, or perhaps more fitting
would be my speech, should 1 say,
chilled with the icy frosts of but five
and twenty winters, for with that som
bre season my years may best claim
kindred. I was born in obscurity, and,
during my childish days, nurtured un
der the humblest roof, and in the man
ner of the poorest serf, upon the land.
This quiet life might have been happy,
but that, being by nature of a proud
and aspiring temperament, my spirit
soon learned to chafe against the iron
bands which held me down—a slave.
1 grew moody and dissatisfied with my
humble position in life. Existence be
came a burden to me. Whole days
and weeks were passed in solitary
rambles in the dense wild-woods, where
1 mused upon my lot with a feeling of
disdain and disgust, and in the flights of
my exuberant fancy, pictured a hun
dred wild ways of breaking the cursed
spell of conventionalism, and tyrant
custom which chained me to the base
earth.”
“As the days of boyhood sped on,
circumstances attracted towards me
the favourable notice of the Lord of
yon proud castle—the noble Earl of
Egerton. His attention was first drawn
by a circumstance, even then, strangely
indicative of the haughty feelings which
have ever so greatly ruled my actions.
A quickness of thought, a redundance
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1850.
and grace of fancy, and a precocious
maturity of demeanour and judgment,
rapidly increased the noble Earl’s es
teem for the poor boy, and induced
him, ere long, generously to place him
in his household, with the character
and appointments of a page.”
“Thus situated, more in harmony
with my natural tastes and my trea
sured services, my young brow lost its
heavy clouds, and during the passage
of several glad years, l was again a
happy, light hearted boy. At that plea
sant period, 1 enjoyed, with a keen and
ever ready appetite, all the merry pas
times and pleasures befitting the spring
time of life. With a mind deeply
avaricious of knowledge, 1 made won
derful progress in every subject which
came within the grasp of my mental
arm; while in all the prized physical
accomplishments of the time, 1 soon
rivalled even the gentry and the youth
ful nobles of the land. My pride,
which was ever more of the defensive
than offensive, while it did not lead me
arrogantly to forget my humble origin
and my lowly mates, yet taught me
the full merit of my attainments and
my gifts, in my association with those
by birth and position above me; and
who might, very naturally, be disposed
to look upon me slightingly or scorn
fully. Thus I was ever ready and able
as proudly to give back the proud
glance of the young patricians, and as
bitterly to retort their bitter jests. 1
could tune the lyre to the delight of
the gav damsels of the castle, or break
a liince with the veteran Knight from
the Holy Land. My j: trogress increased
the regard, indeed, 1 may say, the love,
of my noble patron; for his protection
and care of me were almost paternal.
“ The world regarded me as the hap
piest and most favoured of youth, as
indeed 1 ought to have thought myself;
but my unhappy ambition ever made
me see a great and impassable gulf be
tween my condition and what 1 regard
ed as happiness. This terrible gulf—
this canker gnawing at my peace—was
the bitter consciousness of depen dance.
I recollected, amidst my haughtiest tri
umphs, that 1 was but the base-born
son of a serf, and that everything of
which I could boast must be laid to the
bounty ot another. If I ever sought
to banish these memories, there were
always envious and ignoble lips to
whisper in my ear the damning truths.
“in these dark hours 1 had one. and
but one, certain source of solace ; one
nevsr-faiiing fount of gladness—the
tearful sympathy of my young com
panion, the only and idolized daughter
of my generous lord. * * * *
Pardon my emotion, young Sir—many
bitter hours and days and months have
lied—darkly fled—since 1 last breathed
the gentle name of Ida, even to my
own sad heart. Although she was
some years my junior, her mind and
heart were ripe companions for my
own. With a woman’s intuitive per
ception, she quickly probed the secret
of my sorrow, and without seeming to
possess the knowledge, sought, in a
thousand ways, to make me forget it.
In society, she treated none with more
frank and respectful courtesy than she
bestowed upon myself. She ever seem
ed as pleased with my homage as that
of the noblest of her numerous wor
shippers. In all topics of discussion,
she made a final appeal to my judg
ment. When alone with her, I was
treated as a brother, and often did she
sacrifice her pleasures, that she might
not leave me with myself and my own
gloomy thoughts. We strolled to
gether in the soft moonlight ; she sang
with me as I tuned my lyre to the gay
melodies of the Troubadours. Face to
face we conned the same page, and
mused in sympathy upon the heroic
feats of our chivalrous age. Can you
wonder, young sir, how all this danger
ous companionship would end! The
soft pressure of the hand, when meet
ing and parting, insensibly became a
pressure of the lips. Love was oftener
the theme of converse, until, in due
course of time, and without any formal
interchange of vows, Ida Egerton was
my plighted bride!
“Now, indeed, the days flew swiftly
and joyously. My cup of bliss was
full, even to the forgetfulness of my
hereditary causes of gloom! Alas!
fatal Lethe! Ida had now sprung into
the full bloom and freshness of woman
hood. Suitors, the noblest of the land,
thronged her father’s halls. It was
time, by the custom of the country,
that her hand should be bestow
ed in marriage. Our youthful loves
were unknown or wofully unrecognized.
It was during one of our happy- ram
bles, at this period, that Ida tremblingly
revealed to me that her father had ap
prized her of his desire to wed her to
the young Lord of Wharton, the only
son of the noble head of that haughty
house. The old Earl had in youth been
the sworn friend and associate of my
Ida's father, and a union of the families
had been long before mutually pledged.
At this period the Earl of Wharton
was in exile under the stern displeasure
of the King; but efforts, which it was
hoped would prove successful, were
making by his friends to reinstate him
in the royal favour. This desired issue
was alone awaited before the fearful
ceremony, which would forever tear
from me the only joy my heart cher
ished.
••It was then that my fatal pride re
turned. 1 could not drag my idol from
her exalted pedestal. I could not wed
her to ignominy; for l felt that 1 could
he happy but in contributing to her
joy. I resolved, therefore, to sacrifice
my hopes and bend to the stern decrees
of Fate. I declared iny purpose to
her. 1 told her that I was unworthy of
her love; that to unite her destiny to
mine, would be to embrace poverty,
contempt and shame. 1 told her that
my heart should ever remain true to
my vows, while l gave her back her
own and left her free! The poor girl
wept and would not be thus rudely cast
away. She vowed to love me forever,
as then, despite my cruel desertion.
Then was it, that amidst the ever in
truding dreams which 1 cherished of
winning a brilliant renown and yet re
claiming her love, the thought of test
ing the strength of her passion seized
my brain and fixed my resolution to
resign my claim upon her heart. I
made this dangerous sacrifice the more
readily, from the assurance which my
egotism gave me, that Ida would await
the brilliant future towards which my
own ambition pointed. “It was a bold
venture, an unreasonable exaction,”
thou wilt say, my young friend! True:
but I had deep faith in Ida's truth and
constancy, and my love craved much —
very much! ‘Where,’ thou wilt ask,
‘is the woman to be found who will
conquer in such a trial ? Who is the
paragon V She alone, l answer, whose
love 1 would stoop to take! Ah ! thou
callest me ‘dreamer! Be it so—but
let that pass!
“The only field, of course, upon
which 1 could hope to win fame and
fortune, was the battle-tield. Alas!
then and still, in the bloody conflicts
which desolate our fatal country, the
opportunities for the display of prowess
in arms, were and are, but too abund
ant. With the aid, still, of the Lord
of Egerton. I prepared to join the royal
forces at the head of a small body of i
the retainers of the castle. Some time
was necessarily lost in my preparations
for the camp. I was thrown, as usual, j
into the society of the Lad v Ida. We
met still as brother and sister. Al
though 1 st rove to keep my resolution,
the heart of each still spoke in a thous
and ways. ()ur interviews became as
frequent as ever. Both were tacitly
recommitted. No renewal though, of
vows was made and Ida still was free.
“The day of my departure arrived.
I bade a kind adieu to mv friends—to 1
-
Ida, as to the rest. My last duty was \
*
a visit to the lowly abode of my poor ;
widowed mother. In all my change of
fortune, I had never failed in my duty
and love towards her. She had evi
dently been once a woman of remark
able beauty, and her manners were far
above her station. Her heart was gen
tle and loving as the dove’s. She had
never spoken to me of her past life,
yet 1 felt that it could not all have been j
spent in the quiet and monotony of a
peasant’s home. All I knew was, that
she was unhappy, and that save her
love for me, nothing bound her feeble
spirit to the world. Alas! I found her
on her dying bed!
“ -My child,’ said she, as 1 bent over
to kiss her pale lips, ‘1 have very little
more to do here. Death is upon me,
but my changeful life has been so bit
ter, that to me the messenger from
the tomb is most welcome. My
only earthly anxiety is for thee, my
son. But God has been graciously
pleased to bless thee, and to his all-wise
protection I must still leave thee. My
only legacy is, the memory of my love
and a secret hitherto withheld from
thee, which may aid in the struggle so
dear to thee, for name and honour.
May God pardon me if 1 have erred in
withholding it so long, or if I sin in
now committing it to thy care.
“So saying, she directed me to open
a closet and bring therefrom a sealed
pacquet; which, after kissing, she de
livered into my hands, with the injunc
tion not to open it until after her
death.
‘“Thou hast doubtless surmised,’she
continued, ‘that some mystery hath
enveloped the story of thy birth. In
these papers thou canst read the secret
and the name of thy father! Nay —
frown not, my son! Thou hast no
cause to blush for thy mother —she is
the wife of thy father, by the laws of
God and man! Thou resemblest him
in person; but oh! my boy, mayest
thou prove unlike him in heart! In
all thy actions, let honour and truth be
thy motto. Be frank and sincere, and
tamper not with the trusting soul, lest
the heavy guilt of the traitor rest upon
thy head and his bitter remorse be
thine. I have hitherto withheld from
thee the knowledge of the existence of
these papers, lest they might have
vainly raised hopes which never could
be realized. For though every possi
blecircumstantial proof of thy mother's
marriage is contained in that pacquet,
yet the all-important, the only legal
document, is wanting! At our last
parting, many long years ago, thy father
bore away with him. the certificate of
our union! Without this precious pa
per, thy claims upon him would have
been and yet may he idle, unless it
might he his pleasure to grant them.
That such would be the case, never has
been, nor is now probable, since he has
other family interests at heart. But
my strength fails me —the papers will
teach thee all! Only, m\ son, act
slowly and cautiously, for by such
means *****.’ Here her
voice failed, her speech grew inaudible,
and soon after, the only parent whom
I had ever known, slept her dread
sleep within my arms!
“After the performance of the unob
trusive obsequies of my loved mother,
l bethought me, for the first time, of
the papers which, in the fullness of my
grief, I had hitherto forgotten. Her
dying words had, in some measure,
prepared me for the disclosures, which
I read, nevertheless, with surprise, and
with a quickly beating and exulting
heart, I learned that my mother, in
early youth had been wooed and won
and privately wedded to a man of the
highest station in life. It was, upon
both sides, one of those mad follies of
inexperienced youth, for which after
years present so fearful an account.
That my father loved his bride, and
that with no ordinary passion, was very
evident, from the tone of the long and
tender correspondence which she had
preserved. The fear of his father’s
wrath constrained him to keep his hum
ble marriage secret, and led, soon after,
to the sacrifice of his honour, in desert
ing his trusting wife, for a union with
another. A common history, but never
less sad, for its victims, because tliov
do not suffer alone. If mv mother had
possessed either the will or the power,
to redress the wrongs, the cruel blow
less her, for a long time, utterly unable
to act; and when the first terrible bit
terness was passed, she still loved the
deserter too well, to do aught that
would give him pain. So it would
doubtless have ever been, but for her
love and duty to her cherished son.
Thy participation, young Sir, in later
events in my career, has taught thee,
that the man who thus abandoned his
wife and child, was none other than the
father of my rival, in the Jove of the
Lady Ida—the noble Earl of Wharton!
Strange perverseness of fate,which thus
denied me the very hand which had,
from childhood been destined for me,
both by my father and the parents of
Ida! Thou hast not forgotten the be
trothal of the heirs of the two houses;
and was 1 not one of those heirs!
u ln this novel position, I meditated
long and painfully upon the course
which 1 should pursue. At one mo
ment I thought to reveal all to my
generous patron, and boldly claim of
him the fulfilment, in my person of the
promise lie had exchanged with the
Lord of Wharton. This idea was aban
doned upon recollecting my inability
to prove my rights. My musings at
length terminated in a resolution to
follow my original purpose and seek
the camp, where I hoped to meet my
father, and place my claims first at his
feet. I departed then, at the head of
my brave men. Among my followers
was an old and favourite servant of my
Lord’s. The poor fellow, who loved
me much, besought me to take him
with me, and 1 could not deny his
prayer. Perhaps I was influenced a
little by the link which I felt to exist
in his presence, between myself and
Ida, for he had always been her espe
cial attendant. He was the same faith
ful fellow who has followed me in all
the dangers through which I have pass
ed, and who, at this moment, is be
stowing, yonder, such jealous care upon
our jaded steeds. But I need not speak
of Ploughton, thou hast so well made
his acquaintance, that 1 fear me he loves
thee even more than he does his master.
“It was soon after my arrival in the
camp, that fortune, more gracious to
me than usual, my young friend, hap
pily threw thee in my way, and laid
the foundations of the friendship which
1 trust may ever last.’’
“Doubt it not, my Lord!” responded
the page, who, until now, had been so
absorbed in the story of his companion,
that he had not interrupted it, by a sin
gle word.
“Thou already knowest,” resumed
the elder, “my successes in arms.—
Thou hast seen me receive my spurs
from his Majesty’s own royal hand.
(Concluded in our next.)
“Why does the cook make more
noise than the bell?” “Because one
makes a din, but the other a dinner .”
No. 1 Fastman —“You consider your
self a fine blade , I dare say, but I cut
you, sir.” No. 2 Ditto. —“l always
considered you a sharper, sir.”
THIRD VOLUME-NO. T AVHOLE NO. 107,
(glimjuaa of Mm ®uka.
CUSTOM HOUSE PORTRAITS.
From “ Hawthorn's Scarlet letter.” just published h>
Tickuor, Reetl &: Fields.
THE INsFeCTOR.
The lather of the Custom House—
the patriarch, not only of this little j
squad of ollicials, but, 1 am bold, to
say, of the respectable body of tide
waiters all over the United States—was
a certain permanent Inspector. He
might truly be termed a legitimate son
of the revenue system, dyed in the \
wool, or rather, born in the purple ;
since his sire, a Revolutionary colonel,
and formerly collector of the port, had
created an office for him, and appointed
him to fill it. at a period of the early
ages which few living men can now re
member. This Inspector, when 1 first i
knew him, was a man of fourscore
years, or thereabouts, and certainly one
of the most wonderful specimens of
winter-green that you would be likely
to discover in a lifetime's search. With
his tlorid cheek, his compact iigure,
smartly arrayed in a bright-buttoned
blue coat, his brisk and vigorous step,
and his hale and hearty aspect, alto
gether, he seemed—not young, indeed
—but a kind of new contrivance of
Mother Nature in the shape of man,
whom age and infirmity had no busi
ness to touch. His voice and laugh,
which perpetually reechoed through the
Custom-House, had nothing of the
tremulous quaver and cackle of an old
mans utterance; they came strutting
out of his lungs, like the crow of a cock,
or the blast of a clarion. Looking at
him merely as an animal, —and there
was very little else to look at, —he was
a most satisfactory object, from the
thorough healthfulness and wholesome
ness of his system, and his capacity, at
that extreme age, to enjoy all, or near
ly all, the delights which he had ever
aimed at, or conceived of. The care
less security of his life in the Custom-
House, on a regular income, and with
but slight and infrequent apprehen
sions of removal, had no doubt con
tributed to make time pass lightly over
him. The original and more potent
causes, however, lay in the rare perfec
tion of his animal nature, the moderate
proportion of intellect, and the very
trifling admixture of moral and spiritu
al ingredients : these latter qualities, in
deed, being in barely enough measure
to keep the old gentleman from walk
ing on all-fours, lie possessed no pow
er of thought, no depth of feeling, no
troublesome sensibilities; nothing, in
short, but a few commonplace instincts,
which, aided by the cheerful temper
that grew inevitably out of his physi
cal well-being, did duty very respecta
bly', and to general acceptance, in lieu
of a heart. He bad been the husband
of three wives, all long since dead ; the
fatherof twenty children, most of whom,
at every age of childhood or maturity,
had likewise returned to dust. Here,
one would suppose, might have been
sorrow enough to imbue the sunniest
disposition, through and through, with a j
sable tinge. Not so with our old In- j
speetor ! One brief sigh sufficed to car- j
ry r off the entire burden of these dis- !
mal reminiscences. The next moment, |
he was as ready for sport as any 1111-
breeehed infant; far readier than the i
Collector’s junior clerk, who, at nineteen
years, was much the elder and graver
man of the two.
I used to watch and study this pa
triarchal personage with, I think, live
lier curiosity than any other form of j
humanity’ there presented to my no
tice. He was, in truth, a rare phenom
enon; so perfect in one point of view;
so shallow, so delusive, so impalpable,
sueli an absolute nonenity, in every
other. My conclusion was that he had
no soul, no heart, no mind ; nothing, as
I have already said, but instincts; and
yet, withal, so cunningly had the few
materials of his character been put to
gether, that there was no painful per
ception of deficiency , but, on my part,
an entire contentment with what I found
in him. It might be difficult —and it
was so —to conceive how he should ex
ist hereafter, so earthly and sensuous
did he seem; but surelv his existence
here, admitting that it was to termi
nate with his last breath, had been not
unkindly given ; with no higher moral
responsibilities than the beasts of the
field, but with a larger scope of enjoy
ment than theirs, and with all theirbless
ed immunity from the dreariness and
duskiness of age.
One point, in which he had vastly
theadvantage over his four-footed breth
ren, was his ability to recollect the
good dinners which it had made no
small portion of the happiness of his
life to eat. His gourmandism was a
highly agreeable trait; and to hear
| him talk of roast-meat was as appetiz
| ing as a pickle or an oyster. As he
; possessed no higher attribute, and nei
ther sacrificed nor vitiated any spiritual
! endowment by devoting all his energies
; and ingenuities to subserve the delight
and profit of his maw, it always pleasd
and satisfied me to hear him expatiate
i on fish, poultry, and butcher's meat,
and the most eligible methods of pre
! paring them for the table. His reini-
I niscences of good cheer, however an
, cient the date of the actual banquet,
; seemed to bring the savor of pig or
| turkey under one's very nostrils. —
There were flavours on his palate, that
* had lingered there not less than sixty
i or seventy years, and were still appa
rently as fresh as that of the mutton
chop which he had just devoured for his
breakfast. I have heard him smack his
j lips over dinners, every guest at which,
j except himself, had long been food for
worms. It was marvellous to observe
’ how the ghosts of bygone meals were
j continually rising up before him ; not
in anger or retribution, but as if grate
ful for his former appreciation, and
seeking to repudiate an endless series
of enjoyment, at once shadowy and sen
sual. A tender-loin of beef, a hind
quarter of veal, a spare-rib of pork, a
particular chicken, or a remarkably
praiseworthy turkey, which had per
haps adorned his board in the days of
I the elder Adams, would be remember-
!ed ; while all the subsequent experi
i enee of our race, and aU the events
that brightened or darkened his indi
vidual career, had gone over him with
j as little permanent effect as the passing
! breeze. Hie chief tragic event of the
I old man’s life, so far as I could judge,
was his mishap with a certain goose.
| which lived and died some twenty or
forty years ago ; a goose of most prom
ising ligure,but which, at talde.provedso
inveterately tough that the carving-knife
would make no impression on its car
! cass; and it could only be divided with
an axe and handsaw.
THE COLLECTOR
There is one likenesss. without which
inv gallerv of Custom-House portraits
would be strangely incomplete ; but
which my comparatively few opportu
nities for observation enable me to
sketch only in the merest out line. It
is that of the Collector, our gallant old
j General, who, after his brilliant milita
r\ service, subsequently to which he
i had ruled over a wild \\ esteri territo
ry. had come hither, twenty years be
fore. to spend the decline of his varied
and honourable life. The brave sol
dier had already numbered, nearly or
quite, his threescore years and ten. and
was pursuing the remainder of his
earthly march, burdened with infirmi
ties which even the martial music of
his own spirit-stirring recollect ions could
do little towards lightening. The step
was palsied now, that had been fore
most in the charge. It was only with
the assistance of a servant, and by lean
ing his hand heavily on the iron balus
trade, that be could slowly and pain
fully ascend the Custom-House steps,
and, with a toilsome progress across
the floor, attain bis customary chair be
side the fireplace. There he used to
sit, gazing witn a somewhat dim seren
ity of aspect at the figures that came
and went; amid the rustle of papers,
the administering of oaths, the discus
sion of business, and the casual talk of
the office; all which sounds and cir
cumstances seemed but indi itinetly to
impress his senses, and hardly to make
their way into his inner sphere of con
templation. Ilis countenance, in this
repose, was mild and kindly. If his
notice w as sought, an expresion of cour
tesy and interest gleamed out upon his
features ; proving tnat there was light
within him. and that it was only the
outward medium of the intellect) al
lamp that obstructed the ray s in th>ir
passage. The closer you penetrated to
the substance of his mind, the sounder
it appeared. When no longer called
upon to speak, or listen, either of which
operations cost him an evident effort,
his face would briefly subside into its
former not uncheerful quietude, it was
| not painful to behold this look ; for,
though dim, it had not the imbecility
of decaying age. The framework of
bis nature, originally strong and mas
sive, was not yet crumbled into ruin.
To observe and define his character,
however, under such disadvantages,
was as difficult a task as to trace out
| and build up anew, in imagination, an
j old fortress, like Ticonderoga, from a
i view of its gray and broken ruins.—
; Here and there,perchance,the walls may
i remain almostcomplete; butelsewhere
may be only a shapeless mound, cum
brous with its very strength, and over
grown, through long years of peace
| and neglect, with grass and alien weeds.
Nevertheless, looking at the old war
rior with affection, —for, slight as was
the communication between us, mv
feeling toward him, like that of all bi
peds and quadrupeds who knew him.
might not improperly be termed so, —
1 could discern the main points of his
portrait. It was marked with the no
ble and heroic qualities which showed
it to be not by a mere accident, but of
good right, that he had won a distin
guished name, i! is spirit could never,
I conceive, have beeu characterized by
; an uneasy activity : it must, at any pe
riod of his life, have required an im
pulse to set him in motion; but, once
, stirred up, with obstacles to overcome.
; and an adequate object to be attained,
it was not in the man to give out or
| fail. Ihe heat that bad formerly per
vaded his nature, and which was not
1 yet extinct, was never of the kind that
! flashes and flickers in a blaze, but, ra
ther, a deep, red glow, as of iron in a
furnace. \\ eight, solidity , firmness ;
this was the expression of his repose,
even in such decay as had crept untime
j ly over him. at the period of which 1
speak. I>ut 1 could imagine, even then,
that, under some excitement which
should go deeply into his conscious
ness, —roused by a trumpet-peal, loud
enough to awaken all of his energies
1 that were not dead, but on]\ slumber
-1 ing,—he was yet capable of‘flinging off
! his infirmities like a sick man's gown.
| dropping the staff of age to seize a bat
tle-sword, and starting up once more a
! warrior. And, in so intense a moment,
bis demeanor would have still been
calm. Such an exhibition, however,
was but to be pictured in fancy ; not
to be anticipated, nor desired. What
I saw in him—as evidently as the in
destructible ramparts of Old Ticondro
ga, already cited as ihe most appropri
ate simile—were the features of stub
born and ponderous endurance, w hich
might well have amounted to obstina
cy in his earlier days; of integrity,
that, like most of his other endow
ments, lay in a somewhat heavy mass,
and was just as unmalleable and un
manageable as a ton of iron Me; and
jof benevolence, which, fiercely a- lie
I led the bayonets on at Chippewa or
Fort Trie, l take to be of quite as gen
uine a stamp as what actuates anv or
all the polemical philanthropists of the
age. He had slain men with his own
j hand, for aught 1 know ; —certainF,
| they had fallen, like blades, of grass at
i the sweep of the scythe, before the
charge, to which his spirit imparted its
triumphant energy ;—but, be that as ii
might, there was never in his heart so
much cruelty as would have brushed
the down off’ a butterfly’s wing. 1 have
not known the man, to w hose innate
kindliness 1 w r ould more confidently
make an appeal.
Many characteristics—and those, too.