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Original snetnj.
Kortlie Southern Literary Gazette.
MARIAMNE.
by isja avinta.
I.
\ palace full of sadness,
jjo sound of mirth or gladness,
Each footstep stealthy treading,
Its softest echo dreading,
‘flic banquet halls deserted,
Each saddened face averted,
though their Lord was taken from their head;
Hut hark ! a wail—a moaning,
From the Royal-place within,
yke the broken-hearted groaning
Os a soul down-weighed by sin—
Os a soul whose peace has fled,
A voice ever crying,
And long echoes still replying—
Mariam tie —Mariamne —she is dead !”
ii.
The land is fair and smiling,
The flocks in peace do browse,
While the birds with gay carouse
The blight day are beguiling,
With sweet carols Tnong the houghs.
The sunny lulls are ringing
With tlio shepherd’s blithesome singing,
though oppression never touched his head ;
In vain doth glad creation
Cull loudly to rejoice;
The King of all the nation
Hears not the God-like voice ;
Ills light, his joy, has fled,
But desolate is crying,
The long echoes still replying—
Marianine —Mariamne —she is dead !”
hi.
Can Tyrian dyes and treasures,
Can all wealth-purchased pleasures
To the heart a solace bring ;
Can music’s melting treasures
Soothe tlie conscience of the King ?
In his palace spectres daunt him,
While the frightful thought doth haunt
him—
T brought destruction on that lovely head !”
His peace has fled forever,
He but adds unto his pain,
While lie makes the vain endeavour
To call her back again :
Hear him, while hope has fled,
lu agony still crying,
The long echoes still replying—
‘Mariamne —Mariamne —she is dead !”
IV.
Is life fore’er alloyed,
Conscience armed with scorpion sting,
A heart, of light made void,
Brooded o’er by Furies’ wing—
Is this the only meed,
The recompense indeed,
Os Jealousy destroyed
By such bloody offering?
■this the cost of smiting that dear head ?
Those groanings who can number 1
He wearies with his grief,
Hut even blessbd slumber
No more can give relief;
One vision haunts his bed
He starts, in terror crying,
‘File night echoes still replying,
Maiiamne—Mariamne —she’is dead !”
(Original €nlts.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
ILIMEK, OR THE HAPPY.
AN ARABIAN STORY.
Translated from the Italian of Soave.
BY MISS MARY BATES.
I All men desire happiness, and seek
• regardless of labour and effort. But
L how many mourn because they
I nut able to find that, which they
I w’ sought with so much anxiety and
I licence. And why is it, that among
I many who constantly and eagerly
I'dv happiness, seldom one obtains
IJ secures it ? Is it not because most
In follow a false guide, who leads
■'''‘seeking it, precisely where it is
I ‘I difficult to be found, and decoys
I hi from the true paths which would
I udiict to happiness!
I 1 doubt it not, and the following
■ though fabulous, yet concealing,
I ‘E‘i’ its transparent veil, profound
rNth, confirms me in the opinion.
, Aliinek, an Arabian Shepherd, while
R, v guarding his flock, and wandering
1 111 one pasture to another, saw one
Be beneath a mountain, a grotto cov
■ ■ with plants and creeping vines,
I felt a curiosity to explore it.
I A the entrance of the cavern, gloom
I ‘hirkness reigned, but a ray ot light
kiated its depths. Advancing, he
\ in the nook of the grotto, a
()'*. a ring, and an old papyrus.—
- dy he seized the purse, but finding
1 1(1 pty, he exclaimed —
I das! evil be to you, who have de
r Iv flattered me! Not a coin do
ntain. Go now and remain where
■i were.”
r‘ling this, he threw it disdainfully
Z ground. As the purse struck the
I 1. Aliinek heard a ringing sound
In resembled that of metal. As
-1 ‘” l, he took the purse again, and
I it full of gold. He exclaimed,
I hat is this ] What means this
l fitment ? But, whatever it may
the gold 1 will avail myself.”
I !e, i seizing the ring and papyrus,
1 ‘"'it immediately out of the grotto.
I Wwell ! oh woods,” said he,
:e I have this gold, I will enjoy
Ah! would that I were at Mec-
B die sentence was finished, he
I himself at Mecca. More than
■ u *tonished, he opened with his
r :ill g hand the paper, and read
L ~ purse whenever you wish, shall
ILg with gold, and with the ring,
a ?iiEi mwa* mwm m Mmmm o Am mm mmm. mb to mm baa mmLmm.
you will be immediately transported
wherever you desire.”
While rejoicing at this, the first de
sire which sprung up in his heart, was
curiosity to see foreign lands. This
curiosity lie determined to gratify.—
The facility of transportation from one
place to another, enabled him, in a
short time, to visit the greater part of
the world.
lie found, at first, great pleasure in
seeing different countries; in observing
dissimilar climates; in viewing the
wondrous works of art, and in remark
ing the diverse manners and customs
of nations. But after a while, this
pleasure began to diminish. However
fascinating lie found novelty at first,
the more he advanced, and the more
variety he saw, the more weary he be
came.
Nature and Art present in different
places, similar offerings, and the man
ners and customs of men, arising every
where from the same passions, present,
oil close examination, more points of
resemblance, than is at first view ima
gined. With Amilek, novelty had lost
its charms; curiosity had perished;
travelling brought him only satiety ;
and he now sought a delightful loca
tion where he might find repose.
lie selected at last, the city of Con
stantinople, where he would be able to
enjoy all the pleasures which wealth
could procure; and where the concourse
of people from different countries,
would recall to his memory the objects
of interest which he had acquired in
foreign lands. In Constantinople, he
gave himself to every diversion : he
indulged in every fancy, and revelled
in pleasure and luxury. Ere Jong, he
became tired of amusements and self
indulgence.
A constant round of pleasure is
wearying and insipid. An attempt to
vary the amusements produces still
greater satiety. Dark ennui enters the
unoccupied mind, and is its constant
companion. An illness, the consequence
of his pleasure-seeking life, convinced
Alimek, that happiness was not to be
found in self-indulgence, in indolence or
in luxury, aud he determined to seek
occupation and employment.
llis vast wealth, readily procured
him patronage and friends, his knowl
edge acquired in travelling, gave him
the reputation of wisdom. He ad
vanced from grade to grade, until he
reached the highest elevation in the
kingdom, and obtained the rank of
Grand Visier.
Speedily from every quarter, care
and labour pressed upon him ; now or
ders from the Sovereign—now throngs
of citizens left him not a moment of
liberty or repose. The capiices of the
effeminate monarch, the disquietude of
the women of the seraglio, the conspi
racies and cabals of rivals, and of the
envious, held him in constant agitation
and terror. Experience thus taught
him, that honour and power constitute
an illustrious slave.
Exhausted by the toils incident to
his exalted station, he intended to re
sign it, when news arrived at Constan
tinople, that Persia had again declared
war. He was now commissioned to go
out with a strong army, to curb the
pride of the enemy, and excited by the
desire of glory, with alacrity he under
took the expedition. Brilliant was the
result of the two first battles. lie
routed the army of the enemy, and
obliged them to withdraw from the
post they had occupied. Encomiums
and honours were showered upon him.
The name of Alimek was spoken with
applause throughout the kingdom. The
Sultan prepared to receive him in the
capital with magnificence, and with the
pomp of a superb triumph. But ad
vancing unguardedly into the enemy’s
country, his troops fell into an ambus
cade, and escaped only witli the loss of
considerable numbers.
Suddenly the scene was changed for
Alimek. Encomiums became execra
tions, and in the place of the intended
triumph, Death presented itself to him
in the golden chains! Fortunately, the
ring transported him away from danger.
He left the country, and after having
travelled in various parts of India,
bearing with him discontent and dis
gust, he at last located himself in the
city of Golconda.
A Princess reigned in this kingdom,
so beautiful, that she was reputed the
wonder of Asia. When first Aliinek
saw her, he was captivated. He im
mediately desired and obtained an in
troduction at court. The magnificence
with which he was presented, his noble
and fascinating manners —his brilliant
and versatile conversation —the style
which distinguished him —the knowl
edge lie possessed of the various coun
tries through which he had travelled;
all this attracted the attention of Seli
ma, the Princess, and induced her to
desire his acquaintance. She invited
him to remain in Golconda, an invita
tion he accepted with joy.
Feasts, hunting parties, and diver
sions were prepared on his account. —
The luxurious style in his house, and
his magnificent retinue, exhibited his
wealth and his taste. Selima, by de
grees received him to her intimate con
fidence, and seemed so deeply attached
to him, that he dared to hope for an
alliance with her; when the envy of
the courtiers, who could not brook
the reign of a stranger, conceived
against him, a calumny so black, and
presented with such an appearance of
truth to Selima, that she immediately
desired that he should be put to death.
To regain his liberty, he was obliged
to resort to his ring.
He departed with his mind filled
with grief and anger. Hope had been
suddenly extinguished, and the expec
tation of the felicity which lie had
thought to find at last, had vanished in
a moment.
He passed over various parts of Asia
without knowing where to remain; al
waysanxious and unhappy, discouraged
and discontented with himself. At last
he determined to direct his steps to
China. Alone, and occupied with sad
thoughts, wandering one day in the
solitary country, he heard the sound of
music and of rural joy, and excited by
curiosity, he turned to see whence it
came. lie soon arrived at a rustic
lodge, where, lie found a youthful group
singing, accompanied by musical in
struments, and engaged in a festive
dance.
Alimek, wondering at the enjoyment
they exhibited, accosted a silver-haired
man, whose aspect proved that the
cheerfulness of his spirit, and the vig
our ot his mind and body were not
abated by age. lie was viewing with
p.easure, the festive scene, when Alim
ek inquired the occasion of the unusual
enjoyment.
“It is nothing extraordinary,” said
the aged man, “to devote an hour to
recreation after the duties of the day
are performed.”
“You are easily compensated,” ex
claimed Alimek, “for the fatigue and
labour you endure, and for the.unhap
py life you lead.”
“I have passed more than seventy
years in this same life,” replied the old
man, “and I thank God, that 1 have
never fotu.d it unhappy; lam aware
that, to you noblemen, there seems no
enjoyment where gold and silver, and
precious stones do not glitter, but when
we enter your cities and palaces, and
see and hear the anxiety and tumult
which there reign, your riches excite
in us, more frequently compassion than
envy. Tranquility is not for you. Av
arice, ambition and rivalry snatch it
away, and where there is no tranquility,
happiness has no place. We are less
rich than you; of gold and silver, we
have little knowledge, but that which
you purchase with these metals, our
flocks and herds furnish for us, and we
are content.”
Alimek was surprised at the words
of the old man, and desiring to know
how it was possible, that in a life of
labour, happiness could be found,
which wealth and ease had failed to
bring to him, said :
“It seems strange to me that a man
compelled to live a life like yours, can
call hinaself happy.”
“Employment,,’ replied the old man,
“which to one habitually idle, appears
a heavy punishment, is our solace. 1
have passed no hours so sad as those in
which J was compelled by indisposi
tion, to cease from my accustomed em
ployment and to remain idle. Time
then passed with intolerable slowness,
and moments seemed like years. When
1 have been occupied, 1 have found my
self at the close of the day, before I
was aware of it, and without suffering
a moment from that ennui, which is so
insufferable when I am forced to re
main unemployed. This same dissat
isfaction I see painted on the faces of
idle men.”
“But the weight of fatigue,” said
Alimek, “is a burthen more insupport
able, and is an evil more serious than
idleness.”
“Labour is a great evil,” replied the
old man, “when one is constrained to
labour without necessary rest; but it
is not thus w ith us. When weary, I
tranquilly repose, and then with fresh
strength, resume my occupation. Em
ployment then is not a burthen. It is
merely a pleasant exercise. It occu
pies the mind, and calls it away from
the innumerable evils which are pro
duced by indolence. Repose, food, and
sleep are sw r eet after labour, and even
while it continues, the thought of the
fruit it will produce, is a pleasure for
us—a constant pleasure—which the rich
and luxurious know not. Every fur
row which I make in my field, reminds
me of the glad day of harvest, and
these thoughts are a rich reward for ef
fort.”
“But,” said Alimek, “the fruits which
after so much labour you gather, are,
when compared to those which the rich
enjoy w ithout fatigue, small indeed.”
“When I quench my thirst,” said the
philosopher, “at the little rivulet which
flows near me, what signifies to me all
the waters of Hoang! Should I re-
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY. APRIL 12. 1851.
pine because others are blessed by the
mighty river? If my fields and herds
yield sufficient to satisfy my wants,
why should 1 ask more ? Happiness
does not consist in the extent of our
possessions, but in knowing how tran
quilly to enjoy them ; and in our be
ing satisfied with that which Fortune
or Industry bestow’. They who luxu
riate in abundance, may be poorer than
1 am, because wants increase with the
means of gratification. Nature impo
ses but few wants and these are easily
satisfied. Indulgence and caprice cre
ate many others w hich are insatiable,
and therefore a source of bitterness
and misery. Three things are essen
tial to happiness, and you may place
implicit confidence in the testimony of
an old man, made a master by experi
ence, and by personal acquaintance
with the strife and confusion of a pub
lic life, as well as with the seclusion
and quiet ot a rural abode—three things,
1 repeat, are indispensable to happi
ness—tranquility, occupation and con
tentment. Obtain tranquility, by keep
ing hatred, envy, and discord at a dis
tance, by curbing restless passion, by
conquering, or sustaining with firmness,
the evils inseparable from human life.
Fly ennui, by flying from idleness.—
Be content in wisely enjoying the gifts
of Heaven, whether they be great or
small. Then will you be happy.”
Alimek was surprised to discover
such wisdom in this man of simple
life, and his mind was impressed with
the truth of the words of the old phi
losopher. On leaving him, Alimek re
flected long on the sentiments he had
heard, and the more he reflected, the
more he was convinced of the value of
the old man’s counsels.
“Indeed, then,” said Alimek to him
self, “this happiness, which J have so
anxiously sought, dwells in the country;
departing from a rural life, 1 have wan
dered from happiness. Ah! that se
cret which the grotto revealed to me,
and with which I was so much delight
ed! How sad it has proved. What
have I gained by the purse and the
ring?
“Wearied and displeased by my ex
tensive travels, 1 have learned from
them, the sad knowTedge of the world,
everywhere the same, but whimsically
and foolishly varied.
“Satiated with vain pleasures, which
never yielded me a moment’s satisfac
tion, 1 have been brought by them to
the borders of the grave. At court,
oppressed by a vain ambition, surroun
ded by intrigue, by anxieties and vex
ations —I saw the recompense of all
this suffering and endurance, in a pre
pared halter.
“Perfidiously treated by a woman
who seemed to love me, and who, by
her flatteries, caused me to hope—l
fled from society, and have since wan
dered, not knowing whither, finding
every place odious and insufferable to
myself. How much better it would
have been for me to have remained in
my native land, and in my primitive
habits.
“True, they were simple, but how
superior to those which the capricious
will of the world prescribes. Riches
were not mine, but how sweet it was to
dwell far from anxious cares and mo
lesting thoughts. In tending my flocks,
and in cultivating my fields, my days
w ere occupied, but how preferable were
such occupations to idleness or vexa
tious cares. Ah ! true reason does this
old man possess, and Heaven has sent
him to call me from a deceitful way to
the good path from which 1 have wan
dered.”
Thoughts like these occupied him
through the night, and at the dawn of
day, he returned to the good old man,
begging him to consent to his remain
ing with him, that at last, he might
begin to taste the happiness which, un
til now*, had ever fled fiom him.
The old philosopher with a smile,
replied —
“I am glad that our simple life,
which yesterday seemed so vapid, to
day presents attractions to you. But
you will not necessarily find happiness
in a country life, nor does happiness
dwell only in the country. In the
midst of the tumult of cities, in the
midst of opulence, she is to be found
by those who seek her aright. Hap
piness has no localities, but dwells
with those who know how to preserve
a tranquil spirit, and how to control
their ruling passions, which, uncontrol
led, are in their very nature insatiable;
with those who are contented with the
gifts Heaven has bestowed, and who
can banish idleness and folly, by use
ful and wise employment. This know
ledge obtained and carried into practice,
will secure the presence of happiness
in ajiy rank or station in life.”
“That happiness may be found in a
life different from yours, is perhaps
true,” replied Amilek, “but it would
cost me now too much to seek it else
where.”
He then gave the old philosopher an
account of his origin, and of his finding
the ring and purse in the grotto, and of
his subsequent wanderings and adven
tures. Presenting the ring and purse
to the old man, Alimek said—
“l give you these, that if it pleases
you I may ever remain with you.”
To this, the old man, with benignity,
replied —
“As you desire it, I accept these
gifts, but not to use them; may Hea
ven preserve me from so sad a thought.
1 shall keep them, only lest a time
should come, w hen wearied by the sim
plicity and frugality of a country life,
you should wish to resume your gifts.
Ilow ever wise your determination, it
seems rather precipitate, and a later
thought may lead you to repent it. —
You shall make the experiment of liv
ing with us, and if it pleases you, you
can remain ; and if it does not, I would
that nothing should prevent you from
resuming your gifts and departing.”
Aliinek was well pleased with the
friendly counsel, and the wise decision
of the old man. He dismissed from
his mind those vain thoughts, which in
a thousand forms had, until now, trou
bled him. In a life of tranquility, of
frugality, and of employment, he be
gan to experience that pure peace, and
full satisfaction to which he luid ever
been a stranger.
Time passed away, and far from
repenting of his resolution, he was
every day confirmed in it; and he
wished now to crown his felicity, by a
step which would forever prevent his
flying from his rural home. The wise
old man had a daughter, w hose beauty
and whose simplicity of mailers mu
tually adorned each other. Although
Alimek had given proofs of wisdom,
yet knowing the inconstancy of the
human heart, and distrusting the firm
ness of Alimek, he wished him still
longer to try the experiment.
At last assured that Alimek was
confirmed in the new life which he had
assumed, and believing that he had not
the most distant idea of relinquishing
it, he no longer delayed granting his
request.
And now, Alimek having obtained
that happiness which neither riches nor
honours, nor pleasures had been able
to procure, wished that the ring and
purse should be buried forever from
sight of man, that no one like himself,
might be made miserable by seeking
happiness where she was not to be
found.
<£j)t Itnrq Crller.
From Arthur’s Home Gazette.
LOVE vs_HEALTH.
BY MISS C. M. SEDGWICK.
About a mile from one of the Berk
shire villages, and separated from it by
the Housatonic, is one of the loveliest
sites in all our old country. It is on
an exhausted farm of rocky, irregular,
grazing ground, with a meadow of rich
alluvial soil. The river, which so near
ly surrounds it as to make it a penin
sular “in little,” doubles around a nar
row* tongue of land, called the “Ox
bow”—a bit of the meadow so smooth,
so fantastic in its shape, so secluded, so
adorned by its fringe of willows, cle
matises, grape-vines, and all our water
loving shrubs, that it suggests to every
one, who ever read a fairy tale, a scene
for the revels of elves and fairies. —
Yet, no Oberon—no Titania dwelt
there ; but long ago, where there are
now some ruinous remains of old
houses, and an uncouth new one, stood
the first framed house of the lower val
ley of the Housatonic. it was inhabi
ted by the last Indian who maintained
the dignity of a Chief, and from him
passed to the first Missionary to the
tribe. There Kirkland, the late hon
• oured President of Harvard College,
was born, and there his genial and gen
erous nature received its first and inef
faceable impressions. Tenants, un
known to fame, succeeded the Mission
ary.
The Indian dwelling fell to decay ;
and the property has now passed into
the hands of a poet, who, rumour says,
purposes transforming it toa villa, and
whose occupancy will give to it anew
consecration.
Just before its filial high destiny was
revealed, there dwelt there a rustic
pair, who found out, rather late in life,
that Heaven had decreed they should
wear together the conjugal yoke. That
Heaven had decreed it, no one could
doubt who saw how well it fitted, and
how well they drew together.
They had one child —a late blossom,
and cherished as such. Little Mary
Marvel would have been spoiled, but
there was nothing to spoil her. Love
is the element of life, and in an atmos
phere of love she lived. Her parents
were people of good sense—upright
and simple in their habits, with no the
ories, nor prejudices, ambitions, or cor
ruptions, to turn the child from the in
spirations of Heaven, with which she
began her innocent life.
When little Mary Marvel came to
be seven years old, it was a matter of
serious consideration how she was to
be got to the district school on “the
plain,” (the common designation of the
broad village street) full a mile from
the Marvel’s secluded residence. Mrs.
Marvel v"... far better qualified than
the teachers of the said school, to di
rect the literary training of her child.
She was a strong-minded woman, and
a reader of all the books she could
compass. But she had the inn-door
farm-work to do—cheese to make, but
ter to churn, &c. ; and after little Mary
had learned tc read and spell, she must
be sent to school for the more elaborate
processes of learning—arithmetic, geo
graphy, &c.
“Now, Julius Hasen,” said Marvel
to his only neighbour’s son, “don’t you
want to call, as you go by, days, with
your little sister, and take our Mary to
school ? I guess she won’t be a trou
ble. She could go alone; but some
how, mother and I shall feel easier—
as the river is to pass, &c., —if you are
willing.”
A kind boy was Julius; and without
hesitation, he promised to take Mar
vel’s treasure under his convoy. And,
for the two years following, whenever
the district school was in operation,
Julius might be seen conducting the
two little girls down the hill that leads
to the bridge. At the bridge they loit
ered. Its charm was felt, but indefina
ble. It was a spell upon their senses;
they would look up and down the spark
ling stream till it winded faraway from
sight, and at their own pretty faces,
that smiled again to them, and at Ju
lius skittering the stones along the
water, (a magical rustic art!) That
old bridge was a point of sight for pic
tures, lovelier than Claude painted.—
For many a year, the old lingered there
to recall the poetry of their earlier
days, lovers, to watch the rising and
setting ot many a star, and children
to play out their “noon-times” and twi
lights. Heaven forgive those who re
placed it with a dark, dirty, covered,
barn-like thing, of bad odour in every
sense ! The worst kind of barbarians,
those, who make war —not upon life,
but upon the life of life—its innocent
pleasures!
But, we loiter with the children,
when we should go on with them
through the narrow June intersecting
broad, rich meadows, and shaded by
pollard willows, which form living and
growing posts for the prettiest of our
northern fences, and round the turn by
the old Indian burying-ground. Now,
having come to “ the plain ,” they pass
the solemn precincts of the village
Church, and that burying-ground where,
since the Indian left his dead with us,
generations of their successors are al
ready lain. And now they enter the
wide village street, wide as it is, shaded
and embowered by dense maples and
wide-stretching elms; and enlivened
with neatly trimmed court-yards and
flower gardens. It was a pleasant walk,
and its sweet influences bound these
young people’s hearts together. We
are not telling a love-story, and do not
mean to intimate that this was the be
ginning of one—though we have heard
ot the seeds nature implants germina
ting at as early a period as this, and
we remember a boy of six years old
who, on being reproved by his mother
for having kept his book open at one
place, and his eye fixed on it for half
an hour, replied, with touching frank
ness —
“Mother, I can see nothing there
but Caroline Mitchell! Caroline Mitch
ell !”
Little Mary Marvel had no other
sentiment tor Julius than his sister
had. She thought him the kindest and
the best; and much as she reverenced
the village pedagogues, she thought
J ulius’ learning profounder than their’s,
for he told them stories from the Ara
bian Nights—taught them the tradi
tions of Monument Mountain—made
them learn by heart the poetry that
has immortalized them, and performed
other miracles of learning and teaching,
to which the school-master didn’t ap
proach !
Children’s judgments are formed on
singular premises, but they are usually
just conclusions. Julius was an extra
ordinary boy, and, fortunately, he was
selected, on that account, and not be
cause he was sickly and could do noth
ing else, (not uncommon grounds for
this election,) for a liberal education.
Strong of heart and strong in body, he
succeeded in every thing, and without
being a charge to his father. He went
through college—was graduated with
honour—studied law—and, when Ma
ry Marvel was about nineteen, he came
home from his residence in one of our
thriving Western cities, for a vacation
in his full legal business.
Ilis first visit was to the Marvels,
where he was received with as much
warmth as in his father’s home. As he
left the house, he said to his sister An
ne, who was with him—
“blow shockingly poor Mary is look
ing!”
“Shockingly ! Why I expected you
would say she was so pretty !”
“Pretty ! My dear Anne, the roses
on yourcheeks are worth all the beauty
that is left in her pale face. What
have they done to her? When you
were children, she was a robust, round
little thing—and so strong and cheerful
—you could hear her voice half a mile,
ringing like a bell; and now it’s ‘Hark
from the tomb a doleful sound !’—
W hen 1 last saw her —let me see—four
years ago—she was—not perhaps a
Hebe—but a wholesome-looking girl.”
“Julius!—what an expression !”
“Well, my dear, it conveys my
meaning, and, therefore, is a good ex
pression. What has been the matter ?
lias she had a fever ? Is she diseased ?”
“Julius ! No ! Is that the way the
Western people talk about young la
dies? —Mary is in poor health—rather
delicate ; but she does not look so dif
ferent from the rest of our girls—l,
you know, am an exception.”
“Thank Heaven, you are, my dear
Anne, and thank our dear sensible
mother, who understands the agents
and means of health.”
“But Mary’s mother is a sensible
woman too.”
“Not in her treatment of Mary, I
am sure. Tell me how she lives.—
What has she been about since 1 was
here?”
“Why, soon after you went away,
you know, I wrote to you that she had
goue to the School. You know
her parents are willing to do every
thing for her—and Mary was very am
bitious. They are hard students at
that school. Mary told me she stu
died from eight to ten hours a day. —
She always got sick before examina
THIRD VOLUME—NO. 50 WHOLE NO. 150.
tion, and had to send home for lots of
pills. I remember Mrs. Marvel once
sending her four boxes of Brandreth’s
at a time. But she took the first hon
ours. At the end of her first term, she
came home, looking, as you say, as if
she had a fever.”
“And they sent her back ?”
“Why, yes, certainly—term after
term —for two years. You know Ma
ry was always persevering ; and so was
her mother. And now they have their
reward. There is not a girl anywhere
who surpasses Mary for scholarship.”
“Truly, they have their reward —in-
fatuated people!” murmured Hasen.
“Have they taken any measures to re
store her health, Anne ?
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Marvel does not
permit her to do any hard work. She
does not even let he: sweep her own
room; they keep a domestic, you know;
and, last winter, she had an air-tight
stove in her room, and it was kept con
stantly warm, day and night. The
draft was opened early ; and Mrs. Mar
vel let Mary remain in bed as long as
she pleased ; and, feeling weak, she sel
dom was inclined to rise before nine or
ten.”
“Go on, Anne. What other sanita
ry measures were pursued ?”
“J ust such as we all take, when we
are ill. She doctors, if she is more
unwell than usual; and she rides out
almost every pleasant day. There is
nothing they won’t do tor her, there is
no kiud of pie or cake, sweetmeat or
custard, that Mrs. Marvel does not
make to tempt her appetite. If she
wants to go to “the plain,” Mr. Marvel
harnesses, and drives over. You know,
father would think it ridiculous to do
it for me.”
“Worse than ridiculous, Anne!—
What does the poor girl do? How
does she amuse herself ?”
“I do believe, Julius, you are inter
ested in Mary Marvel!”
“1 am. 1 was always curious as to
the different modes of suicide people
adopt. lias she any occupation —any
pleasure ?’ !
“Oh, yes; she reads forever, and
studies : she is studying German now.”
“Poor Mary!”
“What in the world makes you pity
Mary, Julius?”
“Because, Anne, she has been de
prived of nature’s best gift—defrauded
of her inheritance; a sound constitu
tion from temperate, active parents. —
One may have all the gifts, graces,
charms, accomplishments, under Heav
en, and, if they have not health, of
what use or enjoyment are they ? If
that little, frail body of Mary Marvel’s
contained all that I have enumerated,
it would be just the reverse of Pando
ra’s box—having every good, but one
curse that infected all.”
“Dear Julius, I cannot bear to hear
you talk so of Mary. I expected you
would like her so much. I—l—hoped
is fit for Heaven.”
“She may be, Anne, —I do not doubt
it; but she is very unfit for earth.—
What has her good, devoted, sensible
well-informed mother been about ? If
Mary had been taught the laws of
health, and obeyed them, it would have
been worth infinitely more to her than
all she has got at your famous board
ing-school. Ignorance of these laws is
culpable in the mothers —disastrous
fatal to the daughters. It is a disgrace
to our people. The young women
now coming on, will be as nervous, as
weak, as wretched, as their unhappy
mothers —languishing embodiments of
diseases—mementos of doctors and pill
boxes, dragging out life in air-tight
rooms, religiously struggling to perform
their duties, and dying before they
have half finished the allotted term of
life. They have no life—no true en
joyment of life !”
“What a tirade, Julius! Anyone
would think you were a cross old bache
lor!”
“On the contrary, my dear Anne, it
is because 1 am a young bachelor and
desire not to be a much older one, that
lam so earnest on this subject. I have
been travelling now l’or two months in
rail cars and steamers, and I could fill
a medical journal with cases of young
women, married and single, whom 1
have met from town and country, with
every ill that flesh is heir to. 1 have
been an involuntary auditor of their
charming little confidences of ‘chronic
headaches,’ ‘nervous feelings,’ ‘weak
backs;’ ‘neuralgia,’ and Heaven knows
what all!”
“Oh, J ulius ! Julius !”
“It is true, Anne. And their whole
care is, gentle and simple, to avoid the
air; never to walk when they can ride;
never to use cold water when they can
get warm; never to eat bread when
they get cake, and so on, and so on,
through the chapter. In the matter of
eating and drinking, and such little
garnitures as smoking and chewing, the
men are worse. Fortunately, their oc
cupations save most of them from the
invalidism of the women. You think
Mary Marvel beautiful?”
“No—not beautiful, perhaps—but
very, very pretty, and so loveable!”
“Well,” rejoined Julius, coldly, after
some hesitation, “Mary is pretty ; her
eye is beautiful ; her whole face intel
ligent, but so pale, so thin—her lips so
colourless —her hands so transparent,
that l cannot look at her with any plea
sure. I declare to you, Anne, when I
see a woman with a lively eye, a clear,
healthy skin, that shows the air of
Heaven visits it daily—it may be
roughly —if it pleases Heaven to rough
en the day—an elastic vigorous step,
and a st rong, cheerful voice, I am ready
to fall down and do her homage!”
Julius Hasen was sincere and zealous
in his theory, but he is not the first
man whose theories Love has over
thrown. “Love laughs at locksmiths,”
and mischievously mocks at the stout
est bars and bolts of resolution.
Hasen passed the summer in his na
tive town. He renewed his intimacy
with his old neighbours. He perceived
in Mary graces and qualities that made
him feel the heavenly and forget the
earthly; and, in spite of his wise,
well-considered resolution, in three
months he had impressed on her “pale
cheek” the kiss of betrothal, and slipt
on the third finger of her “transparent
hand,” the “engagement ring !”
But, we must do Julius Hasen jus
tice. When his laughing sister ral
lied him on his inconsistency, he said :
“You are right Anne; but I adhere
to my text, though l must now uphold
it as a beacon-—not as an example. 1
must sav with the Turk—‘lt was writ
ten.’”
lie was true to himself and true to
his wife; and, at the risk of shocking
our young lady readers, we must be
tray that, after the wedding-ring, Has
en’s first gift to Mary was—“ The Prin
ciples of Physiology applied to the
Preservation of Health, and the Im
provement of Physical and Moral Ed
ucation ; by Andrew Combe, M. D.”
This book (which should be studied by
every mother in the United States) he
accompanied by a solemn adjuration,
that she would study and apply it. He
did not stop here. After his marriage,
he bought two riding horses—mounted
his bride on one and himself on the
other, and thus performed the greater
part of the journey to Indiana—only
taking a rail car for convenience, or a
steamer for repose!
And, arrived at his Western home,
and with the hearty acquiesence of his
wife, who only needed to know’ the
right to pursue it, she began a physical
life in obedieuce to the laws laid dow-n
by the said oracle, Andrew Combe.
Last fall, six years since his mar
riage, he brought his w ife and two chil
dren to visit his Eastern friends. In
reply to compliments on all hands, on
his wife’s improved health and beauty,
he laughingly proposed to build, on the
site of the old Indian dwelling, a quad
rangular Teinple, dedicated to the
Four Ministers to Health —Air, Wa
ter, Exercise, and Regimen!
(Tljr musical ‘lborTii.
From the Message Bird.
BACH’S FUGUES.
BY J. S. DWIGIIT.
Os Bach, and of the Fugue, as one
of the most spontaneous and truly in
spired forms of art, w r e said somewhat
in a former number, (No. 27.) We
are prompted now r to add one more re
mark.
The Fugue is the true organ style ;
—a style which we too seldom hear in
our churches, where opera airs, songs,
random modulations, extempore fanta
sies—all digression or all ornament —
are patched up into unmeaning volun
taries, that profane the instrument and
the place —all distracting and dissipa
ting the mind, instead of filling it with
that sense of One in All, w hich is the
essence of piety. But a fugue by
Bach upon the organ would be a ser
mon in itself. No other style seems
so properly to belong to the organ,
w hich, in its structure, is not so much
an instrument,as a whole temple or ce
lestial city of harmony. It is a com
plete musical microcosm ; a beautiful,
full type of the organic unity of the
entire creation. The music it discour
ses should flow out according to that
very law of unity, that infinite spiral
series, which (we have before said)
manifests itself in the growth of the
plant, in the wavy outline of all ele
ments in motion, in the form of flame,
and throughout the whole movement of
nature. For there is Fugue in it all.
In its own place and fit environment
in the dim twilight of a solemn, vast,
many-arched cathedral, the tones which
proceed from the organ, seem to haunt
and to inhabit the the place. One lit
tle phrase of melody, as the finger of
the organist feels over the keys, awak
ens the whole multitude of tone-spirits
lurking in its thousand pipes ; and, as
if kindled from a spark, the blaze of
rhythmic harmony is all-pervading.—
One part after another repeats the lit
tle theme, and seems to seize and run
away with it, now bass, now tenor,
now soprano, and so on. In endless
fugue they chase each other round the
resounding arches, till the whole place
is instinct with the melody.
To “play a tune” upon the organ is
but a petty and incongruous underta
king. As well turn a sawmill with
Niagara. The player, if he be a mas
ter, a true priest of that mystic temple
of sound, does not in his voluntary
seem so much to dictate to the instru
ment a sentiment or fancy of his own,
as he does to invite, tempt, and draw
forth from it wondrous revelations of
the worlds of meaning implied in, and
by the laws of harmony evolved from,
any chance notes, so they contain some
hints of melody. “God is here! and
here, and here!” it seems to say from
a myriad voices. It is impersonal mu
sic. Man is silent; God speaks. The
very Law and Wisdom of the universe,
subtle and all-penetrating. Unity in
infinite Variety, becomes audible—au
dible beauty, which is Music. The or
ganist, starting with some little theme,
as if by chance, or perhaps inspiration,
gives himself up faithfully and wholly
to the laws of harmony, and they from
the peopled depths of the great organ
deduce from that theme all that there
is sublime and w'onderful in music;
just as from the simplest act of con
sciousness are deduced all inspiring
truths ; just as a pebble, or a leaf be
trays the order and the science of na
ture to the mind that reads through
outw r ard facts.
Something like this we feel in a true
organ fugue; as if the melody were
working itself out, and revealing more
and more of its infinite relations. The
effect is reliious and sublime. It does
away the thought that anything exists
by itself, or only for itself, or that
there is anything in the universe that
is (except to our superficial senses)
promiscuous, or un-related, un-harmon
ized, un-sustained in its place by a se
cret sympathy of all things. It makes
us feel the presence of the Infinite in
the Finite.
Zelter, the correspondent of Goethe,